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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e6b1e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54783 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54783) diff --git a/old/54783-0.txt b/old/54783-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5ff4428..0000000 --- a/old/54783-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7665 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mary Gresley and an Editor’s Tales, by Anthony Trollope - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Mary Gresley and an Editor’s Tales - -Author: Anthony Trollope - -Release Date: May 25, 2017 [eBook #54783] -[Most recently updated: September 27, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY GRESLEY AND AN EDITOR’S TALES *** - - - - - MARY GRESLEY - - AND - - AN EDITOR’S TALES. - - BY - - ANTHONY TROLLOPE, - - AUTHOR OF - “DOCTOR THORNE,” - “PHINEAS FINN,” - “LOTTA SCHMIDT,” - “ORLEY FARM,” - ETC. - - NEW EDITION. - - LONDON: - CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. - 1873. - - [_The right of translation is reserved._] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -MARY GRESLEY 1 - -THE TURKISH BATH 49 - -JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI 95 - -THE PANJANDRUM-- - -PART I.--HOPE 141 - -PART II.--DESPAIR 189 - -THE SPOTTED DOG-- - -PART I.--THE ATTEMPT 227 - -PART II.--THE RESULT 275 - -MRS. BRUMBY 321 - - - - -MARY GRESLEY. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MARY GRESLEY. - - -We have known many prettier girls than Mary Gresley, and many handsomer -women--but we never knew girl or woman gifted with a face which in -supplication was more suasive, in grief more sad, in mirth more merry. -It was a face that compelled sympathy, and it did so with the conviction -on the mind of the sympathiser that the girl was altogether unconscious -of her own power. In her intercourse with us there was, alas! much more -of sorrow than of mirth, and we may truly say that in her sufferings we -suffered; but still there came to us from our intercourse with her much -of delight mingled with the sorrow; and that delight arose, partly no -doubt from her woman’s charms, from the bright eye, the beseeching -mouth, the soft little hand, and the feminine grace of her unpretending -garments; but chiefly, we think, from the extreme humanity of the girl. -She had little, indeed none, of that which the world calls society, but -yet she was pre-eminently social. Her troubles were very heavy, but she -was making ever an unconscious effort to throw them aside, and to be -jocund in spite of their weight. She would even laugh at them, and at -herself as bearing them. She was a little fair-haired creature, with -broad brow and small nose and dimpled chin, with no brightness of -complexion, no luxuriance of hair, no swelling glory of bust and -shoulders; but with a pair of eyes which, as they looked at you, would -be gemmed always either with a tear or with some spark of laughter, and -with a mouth in the corners of which was ever lurking some little spark -of humour, unless when some unspoken prayer seemed to be hanging on her -lips. Of woman’s vanity she had absolutely none. Of her corporeal self, -as having charms to rivet man’s love, she thought no more than does a -dog. It was a fault with her that she lacked that quality of womanhood. -To be loved was to her all the world; unconscious desire for the -admiration of men was as strong in her as in other women; and her -instinct taught her, as such instincts do teach all women, that such -love and admiration was to be the fruit of what feminine gifts she -possessed; but the gifts on which she depended,--depending on them -without thinking on the matter,--were her softness, her trust, her -woman’s weakness, and that power of supplicating by her eye without -putting her petition into words which was absolutely irresistible. Where -is the man of fifty, who in the course of his life has not learned to -love some woman simply because it has come in his way to help her, and -to be good to her in her struggles? And if added to that source of -affection there be brightness, some spark of humour, social gifts, and a -strong flavour of that which we have ventured to call humanity, such -love may become almost a passion without the addition of much real -beauty. - -But in thus talking of love we must guard ourselves somewhat from -miscomprehension. In love with Mary Gresley, after the common sense of -the word, we never were, nor would it have become us to be so. Had such -a state of being unfortunately befallen us, we certainly should be -silent on the subject. We were married and old; she was very young, and -engaged to be married, always talking to us of her engagement as a thing -fixed as the stars. She looked upon us, no doubt,--after she had ceased -to regard us simply in our editorial capacity,--as a subsidiary old -uncle whom Providence had supplied to her, in order that, if it were -possible, the troubles of her life might be somewhat eased by assistance -to her from that special quarter. We regarded her first almost as a -child, and then as a young woman to whom we owed that sort of protecting -care which a graybeard should ever be ready to give to the weakness of -feminine adolescence. Nevertheless we were in love with her, and we -think such a state of love to be a wholesome and natural condition. We -might, indeed, have loved her grandmother,--but the love would have been -very different. Had circumstances brought us into connection with her -grandmother, we hope we should have done our duty, and had that old lady -been our friend we should, we trust, have done it with alacrity. But in -our intercourse with Mary Gresley there was more than that. She charmed -us. We learned to love the hue of that dark gray stuff frock which she -seemed always to wear. When she would sit in the low arm-chair opposite -to us, looking up into our eyes as we spoke to her words which must -often have stabbed her little heart, we were wont to caress her with -that inward undemonstrative embrace that one spirit is able to confer -upon another. We thought of her constantly, perplexing our mind for her -succour. We forgave all her faults. We exaggerated her virtues. We -exerted ourselves for her with a zeal that was perhaps fatuous. Though -we attempted sometimes to look black at her, telling her that our time -was too precious to be wasted in conversation with her, she soon learned -to know how welcome she was to us. Her glove,--which, by-the-bye, was -never tattered, though she was very poor,--was an object of regard to -us. Her grandmother’s gloves would have been as unacceptable to us as -any other morsel of old kid or cotton. Our heart bled for her. Now the -heart may suffer much for the sorrows of a male friend, but it may -hardly for such be said to bleed. We loved her, in short, as we should -not have loved her, but that she was young and gentle, and could -smile,--and, above all, but that she looked at us with those bright, -beseeching, tear-laden eyes. - -Sterne, in his latter days, when very near his end, wrote passionate -love-letters to various women, and has been called hard names by -Thackeray,--not for writing them, but because he thus showed himself to -be incapable of that sincerity which should have bound him to one love. -We do not ourselves much admire the sentimentalism of Sterne, finding -the expression of it to be mawkish, and thinking that too often he -misses the pathos for which he strives from a want of appreciation on -his own part of that which is really vigorous in language and touching -in sentiment. But we think that Thackeray has been somewhat wrong in -throwing that blame on Sterne’s heart which should have been attributed -to his taste. The love which he declared when he was old and sick and -dying,--a worn-out wreck of a man,--disgusts us, not because it was -felt, or not felt, but because it was told;--and told as though the -teller meant to offer more than that warmth of sympathy which woman’s -strength and woman’s weakness combined will ever produce in the hearts -of certain men. This is a sympathy with which neither age, nor crutches, -nor matrimony, nor position of any sort need consider itself to be -incompatible. It is unreasoning, and perhaps irrational. It gives to -outward form and grace that which only inward merit can deserve. It is -very dangerous because, unless watched, it leads to words which express -that which is not intended. But, though it may be controlled, it cannot -be killed. He, who is of his nature open to such impression, will feel -it while breath remains to him. It was that which destroyed the -character and happiness of Swift, and which made Sterne contemptible. We -do not doubt that such unreasoning sympathy, exacted by feminine -attraction, was always strong in Johnson’s heart;--but Johnson was -strong all over, and could guard himself equally from misconduct and -from ridicule. Such sympathy with women, such incapability of -withstanding the feminine magnet, was very strong with Goethe,--who -could guard himself from ridicule, but not from misconduct. To us the -child of whom we are speaking--for she was so then--was ever a child. -But she bore in her hand the power of that magnet, and we admit that the -needle within our bosom was swayed by it. Her story,--such as we have to -tell it,--was as follows. - -Mary Gresley, at the time when we first knew her, was eighteen years -old, and was the daughter of a medical practitioner, who had lived and -died in a small town in one of the northern counties. For facility in -telling our story we will call that town Cornboro. Dr. Gresley, as he -seemed to have been called, though without proper claim to the title, -had been a diligent man, and fairly successful,--except in this, that he -died before he had been able to provide for those whom he left behind -him. The widow still had her own modest fortune, amounting to some -eighty pounds a year; and that, with the furniture of her house, was her -whole wealth, when she found herself thus left with the weight of the -world upon her shoulders. There was one other daughter older than Mary, -whom we never saw, but who was always mentioned as poor Fanny. There -had been no sons, and the family consisted of the mother and the two -girls. Mary had been only fifteen when her father died, and up to that -time had been regarded quite as a child by all who had known her. Mrs. -Gresley, in the hour of her need, did as widows do in such cases. She -sought advice from her clergyman and neighbours, and was counselled to -take a lodger into her house. No lodger could be found so fitting as the -curate, and when Mary was seventeen years old she and the curate were -engaged to be married. The curate paid thirty pounds a year for his -lodgings, and on this, with their own little income, the widow and her -two daughters had managed to live. The engagement was known to them all -as soon as it had been known to Mary. The love-making, indeed, had gone -on beneath the eyes of the mother. There had been not only no deceit, no -privacy, no separate interests, but, as far as we ever knew, no question -as to prudence in the making of the engagement. The two young people had -been brought together, had loved each other, as was so natural, and had -become engaged as a matter of course. It was an event as easy to be -foretold, or at least as easy to be believed, as the pairing of two -birds. From what we heard of this curate, the Rev. Arthur Donne,--for -we never saw him,--we fancy that he was a simple, pious, commonplace -young man, imbued with a strong idea that in being made a priest he had -been invested with a nobility and with some special capacity beyond that -of other men, slight in body, weak in health, but honest, true, and -warm-hearted. Then, the engagement having been completed, there arose -the question of matrimony. The salary of the curate was a hundred a -year. The whole income of the vicar, an old man, was, after payment made -to his curate, two hundred a year. Could the curate, in such -circumstances, afford to take to himself a penniless wife of seventeen? -Mrs. Gresley was willing that the marriage should take place, and that -they should all do as best they might on their joint income. The vicar’s -wife, who seems to have been a strong-minded, sage, though somewhat hard -woman, took Mary aside, and told her that such a thing must not be. -There would come, she said, children, and destitution, and ruin. She -knew perhaps more than Mary knew when Mary told us her story, sitting -opposite to us in the low arm-chair. It was the advice of the vicar’s -wife that the engagement should be broken off; but that, if the -breaking-off of the engagement were impossible, there should be an -indefinite period of waiting. Such engagements cannot be broken off. -Young hearts will not consent to be thus torn asunder. The vicar’s wife -was too strong for them to get themselves married in her teeth, and the -period of indefinite waiting was commenced. - -And now for a moment we will go further back among Mary’s youthful days. -Child as she seemed to be, she had in very early years taken a pen in -her hand. The reader need hardly be told that had not such been the case -there would not have arisen any cause for friendship between her and us. -We are telling an Editor’s tale, and it was in our editorial capacity -that Mary first came to us. Well;--in her earliest attempts, in her very -young days, she wrote--Heaven knows what; poetry first, no doubt; then, -God help her, a tragedy; after that, when the curate-influence first -commenced, tales for the conversion of the ungodly;--and at last, before -her engagement was a fact, having tried her wing at fiction, in the form -of those false little dialogues between Tom the Saint and Bob the -Sinner, she had completed a novel in one volume. She was then seventeen, -was engaged to be married, and had completed her novel! Passing her in -the street you would almost have taken her for a child to whom you might -give an orange. - -Hitherto her work had come from ambition,--or from a feeling of -restless piety inspired by the curate. Now there arose in her young mind -the question whether such talent as she possessed might not be turned to -account for ways and means, and used to shorten, perhaps absolutely to -annihilate, that uncertain period of waiting. The first novel was seen -by “a man of letters” in her neighbourhood, who pronounced it to be very -clever;--not indeed fit as yet for publication, faulty in grammar, -faulty even in spelling,--how I loved the tear that shone in her eye as -she confessed this delinquency!--faulty of course in construction, and -faulty in character;--but still clever. The man of letters had told her -that she must begin again. - -Unfortunate man of letters in having thrust upon him so terrible a task! -In such circumstances what is the candid, honest, soft-hearted man of -letters to do? “Go, girl, and mend your stockings. Learn to make a pie. -If you work hard, it may be that some day your intellect will suffice to -you to read a book and understand it. For the writing of a book that -shall either interest or instruct a brother human being many gifts are -required. Have you just reason to believe that they have been given to -you?” That is what the candid, honest man of letters says who is not -soft-hearted;--and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it will -probably be the truth. The soft-hearted man of letters remembers that -this special case submitted to him may be the hundredth; and, unless the -blotted manuscript is conclusive against such possibility, he reconciles -it to his conscience to tune his counsel to that hope. Who can say that -he is wrong? Unless such evidence be conclusive, who can venture to -declare that this aspirant may not be the one who shall succeed? Who in -such emergency does not remember the day in which he also was one of the -hundred of whom the ninety-and-nine must fail;--and will not remember -also the many convictions on his own mind that he certainly would not be -the one appointed? The man of letters in the neighbourhood of Cornboro -to whom poor Mary’s manuscript was shown was not sufficiently -hard-hearted to make any strong attempt to deter her. He made no -reference to the easy stockings, or the wholesome pie,--pointed out the -manifest faults which he saw, and added, we do not doubt with much more -energy than he threw into his words of censure,--his comfortable -assurance that there was great promise in the work. Mary Gresley that -evening burned the manuscript, and began another, with the dictionary -close at her elbow. - -Then, during her work, there occurred two circumstances which brought -upon her,--and, indeed, upon the household to which she -belonged,--intense sorrow and greatly-increased trouble. The first of -these applied more especially to herself. The Rev. Arthur Donne did not -approve of novels,--of other novels than those dialogues between Tom and -Bob, of the falsehood of which he was unconscious,--and expressed a -desire that the writing of them should be abandoned. How far the lover -went in his attempt to enforce obedience we, of course, could not know; -but he pronounced the edict, and the edict, though not obeyed, created -tribulation. Then there came forth another edict which had to be -obeyed,--an edict from the probable successor of the late Dr. -Gresley,--ordering the poor curate to seek employment in some clime more -congenial to his state of health than that in which he was then living. -He was told that his throat and lungs and general apparatus for living -and preaching were not strong enough for those hyperborean regions, and -that he must seek a southern climate. He did do so, and, before I became -acquainted with Mary, had transferred his services to a small town in -Dorsetshire. The engagement, of course, was to be as valid as ever, -though matrimony must be postponed, more indefinitely even than -heretofore. But if Mary could write novels and sell them, then how -glorious would it be to follow her lover into Dorsetshire! The Rev. -Arthur Donne went, and the curate who came in his place was a married -man, wanting a house, and not lodgings. So Mary Gresley persevered with -her second novel, and completed it before she was eighteen. - -The literary friend in the neighbourhood,--to the chance of whose -acquaintance I was indebted for my subsequent friendship with Mary -Gresley,--found this work to be a great improvement on the first. He was -an elderly man, who had been engaged nearly all his life in the conduct -of a scientific and agricultural periodical, and was the last man whom I -should have taken as a sound critic on works of fiction;--but with -spelling, grammatical construction, and the composition of sentences he -was acquainted; and he assured Mary that her progress had been great. -Should she burn that second story? she asked him. She would if he so -recommended, and begin another the next day. Such was not his advice. - -“I have a friend in London,” said he, “who has to do with such things, -and you shall go to him. I will give you a letter.” He gave her the -fatal letter, and she came to us. - -She came up to town with her novel; but not only with her novel, for she -brought her mother with her. So great was her eloquence, so excellent -her suasive power either with her tongue or by that look of supplication -in her face, that she induced her mother to abandon her home in -Cornboro, and trust herself to London lodgings. The house was let -furnished to the new curate, and when I first heard of the Gresleys they -were living on the second floor in a small street near to the Euston -Square station. Poor Fanny, as she was called, was left in some humble -home at Cornboro, and Mary travelled up to try her fortune in the great -city. When we came to know her well we expressed our doubts as to the -wisdom of such a step. Yes; the vicar’s wife had been strong against the -move. Mary confessed as much. That lady had spoken most forcible words, -had uttered terrible predictions, had told sundry truths. But Mary had -prevailed, and the journey was made, and the lodgings were taken. - -We can now come to the day on which we first saw her. She did not write, -but came direct to us with her manuscript in her hand. “A young woman, -Sir, wants to see you,” said the clerk, in that tone to which we were so -well accustomed, and which indicated the dislike which he had learned -from us to the reception of unknown visitors. - -“Young woman! What young woman?” - -“Well, Sir; she is a very young woman;--quite a girl like.” - -“I suppose she has got a name. Who sent her? I cannot see any young -woman without knowing why. What does she want?” - -“Got a manuscript in her hand, Sir.” - -“I’ve no doubt she has, and a ton of manuscripts in drawers and -cupboards. Tell her to write. I won’t see any woman, young or old, -without knowing who she is.” - -The man retired, and soon returned with an envelope belonging to the -office, on which was written, “Miss Mary Gresley, late of Cornboro.” He -also brought me a note from “the man of letters” down in Yorkshire. “Of -what sort is she?” I asked, looking at the introduction. - -“She aint amiss as to looks,” said the clerk; “and she’s modest-like.” -Now certainly it is the fact that all female literary aspirants are not -“modest-like.” We read our friend’s letter through, while poor Mary was -standing at the counter below. How eagerly should we have run to greet -her, to save her from the gaze of the public, to welcome her at least -with a chair and the warmth of our editorial fire, had we guessed then -what were her qualities! It was not long before she knew the way up to -our sanctum without any clerk to show her, and not long before we knew -well the sound of that low but not timid knock at our door made always -with the handle of the parasol, with which her advent was heralded. We -will confess that there was always music to our ears in that light tap -from the little round wooden knob. The man of letters in Yorkshire, whom -we had known well for many years, had been never known to us with -intimacy. We had bought with him and sold with him, had talked with him, -and perhaps, walked with him; but he was not one with whom we had eaten, -or drunk, or prayed. A dull, well-instructed, honest man he was, fond of -his money, and, as we had thought, as unlikely as any man to be waked to -enthusiasm by the ambitious dreams of a young girl. But Mary had been -potent even over him, and he had written to me, saying that Miss Gresley -was a young lady of exceeding promise, in respect of whom he had a -strong presentiment that she would rise, if not to eminence, at least to -a good position as a writer. “But she is very young,” he added. Having -read this letter, we at last desired our clerk to send the lady up. - -We remember her step as she came to the door, timid enough -then,--hesitating, but yet with an assumed lightness as though she was -determined to show us that she was not ashamed of what she was doing. -She had on her head a light straw hat, such as then was very unusual in -London,--and is not now, we believe, commonly worn in the streets of the -metropolis by ladies who believe themselves to know what they are about. -But it was a hat, worn upon her head, and not a straw plate done up with -ribbons, and reaching down the incline of the forehead as far as the top -of the nose. And she was dressed in a gray stuff frock, with a little -black band round her waist. As far as our memory goes, we never saw her -in any other dress, or with other hat or bonnet on her head. “And what -can we do for you,--Miss Gresley?” we said, standing up and holding the -literary gentleman’s letter in our hand. We had almost said, “my dear,” -seeing her youth and remembering our own age. We were afterwards glad -that we had not so addressed her; though it came before long that we did -call her “my dear,”--in quite another spirit. - -She recoiled a little from the tone of our voice, but recovered herself -at once. “Mr. ---- thinks that you can do something for me. I have -written a novel, and I have brought it to you.” - -“You are very young, are you not, to have written a novel?” - -“I am young,” she said, “but perhaps older than you think. I am -eighteen.” Then for the first time there came into her eye that gleam of -a merry humour which never was allowed to dwell there long, but which -was so alluring when it showed itself. - -“That is a ripe age,” we said laughing, and then we bade her seat -herself. At once we began to pour forth that long and dull and ugly -lesson which is so common to our life, in which we tried to explain to -our unwilling pupil that of all respectable professions for young women -literature is the most uncertain, the most heart-breaking, and the most -dangerous. “You hear of the few who are remunerated,” we said; “but you -hear nothing of the thousands that fail.” - -“It is so noble!” she replied. - -“But so hopeless.” - -“There are those who succeed.” - -“Yes, indeed. Even in a lottery one must gain the prize; but they who -trust to lotteries break their hearts.” - -“But literature is not a lottery. If I am fit, I shall succeed. Mr. ---- -thinks I may succeed.” Many more words of wisdom we spoke to her, and -well do we remember her reply when we had run all our line off the reel, -and had completed our sermon. “I shall go on all the same,” she said. “I -shall try, and try again,--and again.” - -Her power over us, to a certain extent, was soon established. Of course -we promised to read the MS., and turned it over, no doubt with an -anxious countenance, to see of what kind was the writing. There is a -feminine scrawl of a nature so terrible that the task of reading it -becomes worse than the treadmill. “I know I can write well,--though I am -not quite sure about the spelling,” said Mary, as she observed the -glance of our eyes. She spoke truly. The writing was good, though the -erasures and alterations were very numerous. And then the story was -intended to fill only one volume. “I will copy it for you if you wish -it,” said Mary. “Though there are so many scratchings out, it has been -copied once.” We would not for worlds have given her such labour, and -then we promised to read the tale. We forget how it was brought about, -but she told us at that interview that her mother had obtained leave -from the pastrycook round the corner to sit there waiting till Mary -should rejoin her. “I thought it would be trouble enough for you to have -one of us here,” she said with her little laugh when I asked her why she -had not brought her mother on with her. I own that I felt that she had -been wise; and when I told her that if she would call on me again that -day week I would then have read at any rate so much of her work as would -enable me to give her my opinion, I did not invite her to bring her -mother with her. I knew that I could talk more freely to the girl -without the mother’s presence. Even when you are past fifty, and intend -only to preach a sermon, you do not wish to have a mother present. - -When she was gone we took up the roll of paper and examined it. We -looked at the division into chapters, at the various mottoes the poor -child had chosen, pronounced to ourselves the name of the story,--it was -simply the name of the heroine, an easy-going, unaffected, well-chosen -name,--and read the last page of it. On such occasions the reader of the -work begins his task almost with a conviction that the labour which he -is about to undertake will be utterly thrown away. He feels all but sure -that the matter will be bad, that it will be better for all parties, -writer, intended readers, and intended publisher, that the written -words should not be conveyed into type,--that it will be his duty after -some fashion to convey that unwelcome opinion to the writer, and that -the writer will go away incredulous, and accusing mentally the Mentor of -the moment of all manner of literary sins, among which ignorance, -jealousy, and falsehood, will, in the poor author’s imagination, be most -prominent. And yet when the writer was asking for that opinion, -declaring his especial desire that the opinion should be candid, -protesting that his present wish is to have some gauge of his own -capability, and that he has come to you believing you to be above others -able to give him that gauge,--while his petition to you was being made, -he was in every respect sincere. He had come desirous to measure -himself, and had believed that you could measure him. When coming he did -not think that you would declare him to be an Apollo. He had told -himself, no doubt, how probable it was that you would point out to him -that he was a dwarf. You find him to be an ordinary man, measuring -perhaps five feet seven, and unable to reach the standard of the -particular regiment in which he is ambitious of serving. You tell him so -in what civillest words you know, and you are at once convicted in his -mind of jealousy, ignorance, and falsehood! And yet he is perhaps a -most excellent fellow, and capable of performing the best of -service,--only in some other regiment! As we looked at Miss Gresley’s -manuscript, tumbling it through our hands, we expected even from her -some such result. She had gained two things from us already by her -outward and inward gifts, such as they were,--first that we would read -her story, and secondly that we would read it quickly; but she had not -as yet gained from us any belief that by reading it we could serve it. - -We did read it,--the most of it before we left our editorial chair on -that afternoon, so that we lost altogether the daily walk so essential -to our editorial health, and were put to the expense of a cab on our -return home. And we incurred some minimum of domestic discomfort from -the fact that we did not reach our own door till twenty minutes after -our appointed dinner hour. “I have this moment come from the office as -hard as a cab could bring me,” we said in answer to the mildest of -reproaches, explaining nothing as to the nature of the cause which had -kept us so long at our work. - -We must not allow our readers to suppose that the intensity of our -application had arisen from the overwhelming interest of the story. It -was not that the story entranced us, but that our feeling for the -writer grew as we read the story. It was simple, unaffected, and almost -painfully unsensational. It contained, as I came to perceive afterwards, -little more than a recital of what her imagination told her might too -probably be the result of her own engagement. It was the story of two -young people who became engaged and could not be married. After a course -of years the man, with many true arguments, asked to be absolved. The -woman yields with an expressed conviction that her lover is right, -settles herself down for maiden life, then breaks her heart and dies. -The character of the man was utterly untrue to nature. That of the woman -was true, but commonplace. Other interest, or other character there was -none. The dialogues between the lovers were many and tedious, and hardly -a word was spoken between them which two lovers really would have -uttered. It was clearly not a work as to which I could tell my little -friend that she might depend upon it for fame or fortune. When I had -finished it I was obliged to tell myself that I could not advise her -even to publish it. But yet I could not say that she had mistaken her -own powers or applied herself to a profession beyond her reach. There -were a grace and delicacy in her work which were charming. Occasionally -she escaped from the trammels of grammar, but only so far that it would -be a pleasure to point out to her her errors. There was not a word that -a young lady should not have written; and there were throughout the -whole evident signs of honest work. We had six days to think it over -between our completion of the task and her second visit. - -She came exactly at the hour appointed, and seated herself at once in -the arm-chair before us as soon as the young man had closed the door -behind him. There had been no great occasion for nervousness at her -first visit, and she had then, by an evident effort, overcome the -diffidence incidental to a meeting with a stranger. But now she did not -attempt to conceal her anxiety. “Well,” she said, leaning forward, and -looking up into our face, with her two hands folded together. - -Even though Truth, standing full panoplied at our elbow, had positively -demanded it, we could not have told her then to mend her stockings and -bake her pies and desert the calling that she had chosen. She was simply -irresistible, and would, we fear, have constrained us into falsehood had -the question been between falsehood and absolute reprobation of her -work. To have spoken hard, heart-breaking words to her, would have been -like striking a child when it comes to kiss you. We fear that we were -not absolutely true at first, and that by that absence of truth we made -subsequent pain more painful. “Well,” she said, looking up into our -face. “Have you read it?” We told her that we had read every word of it. -“And it is no good?” - -We fear that we began by telling her that it certainly was good,--after -a fashion, very good,--considering her youth and necessary inexperience, -very good indeed. As we said this she shook her head, and sent out a -spark or two from her eyes, intimating her conviction that excuses or -quasi praise founded on her youth would avail her nothing. “Would -anybody buy it from me?” she asked. No;--we did not think that any -publisher would pay her money for it. “Would they print it for me -without costing me anything?” Then we told her the truth as nearly as we -could. She lacked experience; and if, as she had declared to us before, -she was determined to persevere, she must try again, and must learn more -of that lesson of the world’s ways which was so necessary to those who -attempted to teach that lesson to others. “But I shall try again at -once,” she said. We shook our head, endeavouring to shake it kindly. -“Currer Bell was only a young girl when she succeeded,” she added. The -injury which Currer Bell did after this fashion was almost equal to that -perpetrated by Jack Sheppard, and yet Currer Bell was not very young -when she wrote. - -She remained with us then for above an hour;--for more than two -probably, though the time was not specially marked by us; and before her -visit was brought to a close she had told us of her engagement with the -curate. Indeed, we believe that the greater part of her little history -as hitherto narrated was made known to us on that occasion. We asked -after her mother early in the interview, and learned that she was not on -this occasion kept waiting at the pastrycook’s shop. Mary had come -alone, making use of some friendly omnibus, of which she had learned the -route. When she told us that she and her mother had come up to London -solely with the view of forwarding her views in her intended profession, -we ventured to ask whether it would not be wiser for them to return to -Cornboro, seeing how improbable it was that she would have matter fit -for the press within any short period. Then she explained that they had -calculated that they would be able to live in London for twelve months, -if they spent nothing except on absolute necessaries. The poor girl -seemed to keep back nothing from us. “We have clothes that will carry -us through, and we shall be very careful. I came in an omnibus;--but I -shall walk if you will let me come again.” Then she asked me for advice. -How was she to set about further work with the best chance of turning it -to account? - -It had been altogether the fault of that retired literary gentleman down -in the north, who had obtained what standing he had in the world of -letters by writing about guano and the cattle plague! Divested of all -responsibility, and fearing no further trouble to himself, he had -ventured to tell this girl that her work was full of promise. Promise -means probability, and in this case there was nothing beyond a remote -chance. That she and her mother should have left their little household -gods, and come up to London on such a chance, was a thing terrible to -the mind. But we felt before these two hours were over that we could not -throw her off now. We had become old friends, and there had been that -between us which gave her a positive claim upon our time. She had sat in -our arm-chair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her -hands stretched out, till we, caught by the charm of her unstudied -intimacy, had wheeled round our chair, and had placed ourselves, as -nearly as the circumstances would admit, in the same position. The -magnetism had already begun to act upon us. We soon found ourselves -taking it for granted that she was to remain in London and begin another -book. It was impossible to resist her. Before the interview was over, -we, who had been conversant with all these matters before she was born; -we, who had latterly come to regard our own editorial fault as being -chiefly that of personal harshness; we, who had repulsed aspirant -novelists by the score,--we had consented to be a party to the creation, -if not to the actual writing, of this new book! - -It was to be done after this fashion. She was to fabricate a plot, and -to bring it to us, written on two sides of a sheet of letter paper. On -the reverse sides we were to criticise this plot, and prepare -emendations. Then she was to make out skeletons of the men and women who -were afterwards to be clothed with flesh and made alive with blood, and -covered with cuticles. After that she was to arrange her proportions; -and at last, before she began to write the story, she was to describe in -detail such part of it as was to be told in each chapter. On every -advancing wavelet of the work we were to give her our written remarks. -All this we promised to do because of the quiver in her lip, and the -alternate tear and sparkle in her eye. “Now that I have found a friend, -I feel sure that I can do it,” she said, as she held our hand tightly -before she left us. - -In about a month, during which she had twice written to us and twice -been answered, she came with her plot. It was the old story, with some -additions and some change. There was matrimony instead of death at the -end, and an old aunt was brought in for the purpose of relenting and -producing an income. We added a few details, feeling as we did so that -we were the very worst of botchers. We doubt now whether the old, sad, -simple story was not the better of the two. Then, after another -lengthened interview, we sent our pupil back to create her skeletons. -When she came with the skeletons we were dear friends and learned to -call her Mary. Then it was that she first sat at our editorial table, -and wrote a love-letter to the curate. It was then mid-winter, wanting -but a few days to Christmas, and Arthur, as she called him, did not like -the cold weather. “He does not say so,” she said, “but I fear he is ill. -Don’t you think there are some people with whom everything is -unfortunate?” She wrote her letter, and had recovered her spirits before -she took her leave. - -We then proposed to her to bring her mother to dine with us on Christmas -Day. We had made a clean breast of it at home in regard to our -heart-flutterings, and had been met with a suggestion that some kindness -might with propriety be shown to the old lady as well as to the young -one. We had felt grateful to the old lady for not coming to our office -with her daughter, and had at once assented. When we made the suggestion -to Mary there came first a blush over all her face, and then there -followed the well-known smile before the blush was gone. “You’ll all be -dressed fine,” she said. We protested that not a garment would be -changed by any of the family after the decent church-going in the -morning. “Just as I am?” she asked. “Just as you are,” we said, looking -at the dear gray frock, adding some mocking assertion that no possible -combination of millinery could improve her. “And mamma will be just the -same? Then we will come,” she said. We told her an absolute falsehood, -as to some necessity which would take us in a cab to Euston Square on -the afternoon of that Christmas Day, so that we could call and bring -them both to our house without trouble or expense. “You sha’n’t do -anything of the kind,” she said. However, we swore to our -falsehood,--perceiving, as we did so, that she did not believe a word -of it; but in the matter of the cab we had our own way. - -We found the mother to be what we had expected,--a weak, ladylike, -lachrymose old lady, endowed with a profound admiration for her -daughter, and so bashful that she could not at all enjoy her -plum-pudding. We think that Mary did enjoy hers thoroughly. She made a -little speech to the mistress of the house, praising ourselves with warm -words and tearful eyes, and immediately won the heart of a new friend. -She allied herself warmly to our daughters, put up with the schoolboy -pleasantries of our sons, and before the evening was over was dressed up -as a ghost for the amusement of some neighbouring children who were -brought in to play snapdragon. Mrs. Gresley, as she drank her tea and -crumbled her bit of cake, seated on a distant sofa, was not so happy, -partly because she remembered her old gown, and partly because our wife -was a stranger to her. Mary had forgotten both circumstances before the -dinner was half over. She was the sweetest ghost that ever was seen. How -pleasant would be our ideas of departed spirits if such ghosts would -visit us frequently! - -They repeated their visits to us not unfrequently during the twelve -months; but as the whole interest attaching to our intercourse had -reference to circumstances which took place in that editorial room of -ours, it will not be necessary to refer further to the hours, very -pleasant to ourselves, which she spent with us in our domestic life. She -was ever made welcome when she came, and was known by us as a dear, -well-bred, modest, clever little girl. The novel went on. That catalogue -of the skeletons gave us more trouble than all the rest, and many were -the tears which she shed over it, and sad were the misgivings by which -she was afflicted, though never vanquished! How was it to be expected -that a girl of eighteen should portray characters such as she had never -known? In her intercourse with the curate all the intellect had been on -her side. She had loved him because it was requisite to her to love some -one; and now, as she had loved him, she was as true as steel to him. But -there had been almost nothing for her to learn from him. The plan of the -novel went on, and as it did so we became more and more despondent as to -its success. And through it all we knew how contrary it was to our own -judgment to expect, even to dream of, anything but failure. Though we -went on working with her, finding it to be quite impossible to resist -her entreaties, we did tell her from day to day that, even presuming she -were entitled to hope for ultimate success, she must go through an -apprenticeship of ten years before she could reach it. Then she would -sit silent, repressing her tears, and searching for arguments with which -to support her cause. - -“Working hard is apprenticeship,” she said to us once. - -“Yes, Mary; but the work will be more useful, and the apprenticeship -more wholesome, if you will take them for what they are worth.” - -“I shall be dead in ten years,” she said. - -“If you thought so you would not intend to marry Mr. Donne. But even -were it certain that such would be your fate, how can that alter the -state of things? The world would know nothing of that; and if it did, -would the world buy your book out of pity?” - -“I want no one to pity me,” she said; “but I want you to help me.” So we -went on helping her. At the end of four months she had not put pen to -paper on the absolute body of her projected novel; and yet she had -worked daily at it, arranging its future construction. - -During the next month, when we were in the middle of March, a gleam of -real success came to her. We had told her frankly that we would publish -nothing of hers in the periodical which we were ourselves conducting. -She had become too dear to us for us not to feel that were we to do so, -we should be doing it rather for her sake than for that of our readers. -But we did procure for her the publication of two short stories -elsewhere. For these she received twelve guineas, and it seemed to her -that she had found an El Dorado of literary wealth. I shall never forget -her ecstasy when she knew that her work would be printed, or her renewed -triumph when the first humble cheque was given into her hands. There are -those who will think that such a triumph, as connected with literature, -must be sordid. For ourselves, we are ready to acknowledge that money -payment for work done is the best and most honest test of success. We -are sure that it is so felt by young barristers and young doctors, and -we do not see why rejoicing on such realisation of long-cherished hope -should be more vile with the literary aspirant than with them. “What do -you think I’ll do first with it?” she said. We thought she meant to send -something to her lover, and we told her so. “I’ll buy mamma a bonnet to -go to church in. I didn’t tell you before, but she hasn’t been these -three Sundays because she hasn’t one fit to be seen.” I changed the -cheque for her, and she went off and bought the bonnet. - -Though I was successful for her in regard to the two stories, I could -not go beyond that. We could have filled pages of periodicals with her -writing had we been willing that she should work without remuneration. -She herself was anxious for such work, thinking that it would lead to -something better. But we opposed it, and, indeed, would not permit it, -believing that work so done can be serviceable to none but those who -accept it that pages may be filled without cost. - -During the whole winter, while she was thus working, she was in a state -of alarm about her lover. Her hope was ever that when warm weather came -he would again be well and strong. We know nothing sadder than such hope -founded on such source. For does not the winter follow the summer, and -then again comes the killing spring? At this time she used to read us -passages from his letters, in which he seemed to speak of little but his -own health. - -In her literary ambition he never seemed to have taken part since she -had declared her intention of writing profane novels. As regarded him, -his sole merit to us seemed to be in his truth to her. He told her that -in his opinion they two were as much joined together as though the -service of the Church had bound them; but even in saying that he spoke -ever of himself and not of her. Well;--May came, dangerous, doubtful, -deceitful May, and he was worse. Then, for the first time, the dread -word, consumption, passed her lips. It had already passed ours, -mentally, a score of times. We asked her what she herself would wish to -do. Would she desire to go down to Dorsetshire and see him? She thought -awhile, and said that she would wait a little longer. - -The novel went on, and at length, in June, she was writing the actual -words on which, as she thought, so much depended. She had really brought -the story into some shape in the arrangement of her chapters; and -sometimes even I began to hope. There were moments in which with her -hope was almost certainty. Towards the end of June Mr. Donne declared -himself to be better. He was to have a holiday in August, and then he -intended to run up to London and see his betrothed. He still gave -details, which were distressing to us, of his own symptoms; but it was -manifest that he himself was not desponding, and she was governed in her -trust or in her despair altogether by him. But when August came the -period of his visit was postponed. The heat had made him weak, and he -was to come in September. - -Early in August we ourselves went away for our annual recreation:--not -that we shoot grouse, or that we have any strong opinion that August and -September are the best months in the year for holiday-making,--but that -everybody does go in August. We ourselves are not specially fond of -August. In many places to which one goes a-touring mosquitoes bite in -that month. The heat, too, prevents one from walking. The inns are all -full, and the railways crowded. April and May are twice pleasanter -months in which to see the world and the country. But fashion is -everything, and no man or woman will stay in town in August for whom -there exists any practicability of leaving it. We went on the -10th,--just as though we had a moor, and one of the last things we did -before our departure was to read and revise the last-written chapter of -Mary’s story. - -About the end of September we returned, and up to that time the lover -had not come to London. Immediately on our return we wrote to Mary, and -the next morning she was with us. She had seated herself on her usual -chair before she spoke, and we had taken her hand asked after herself -and her mother. Then, with something of mirth in our tone, we demanded -the work which she had done since our departure. “He is dying,” she -replied. - -She did not weep as she spoke. It was not on such occasions as this that -the tears filled her eyes. But there was in her face a look of fixed and -settled misery which convinced us that she at least did not doubt the -truth of her own assertion. We muttered something as to our hope that -she was mistaken. “The doctor, there, has written to tell mamma that it -is so. Here is his letter.” The doctor’s letter was a good letter, -written with more of assurance than doctors can generally allow -themselves to express. “I fear that I am justified in telling you,” said -the doctor, “that it can only be a question of weeks.” We got up and -took her hand. There was not a word to be uttered. - -“I must go to him,” she said, after a pause. - -“Well;--yes. It will be better.” - -“But we have no money.” It must be explained now that offers of slight, -very slight, pecuniary aid had been made by us both to Mary and to her -mother on more than one occasion. These had been refused with adamantine -firmness, but always with something of mirth, or at least of humour, -attached to the refusal. The mother would simply refer to the daughter, -and Mary would declare that they could manage to see the twelvemonth -through and go back to Cornboro, without becoming absolute beggars. She -would allude to their joint wardrobe, and would confess that there would -not have been a pair of boots between them but for that twelve guineas; -and indeed she seemed to have stretched that modest incoming so as to -cover a legion of purchases. And of these things she was never ashamed -to speak. We think there must have been at least two gray frocks, -because the frock was always clean, and never absolutely shabby. Our -girls at home declared that they had seen three. Of her frock, as it -happened, she never spoke to us, but the new boots and the new gloves, -“and ever so many things that I can’t tell you about, which we really -couldn’t have gone without,” all came out of the twelve guineas. That -she had taken, not only with delight, but with triumph. But pecuniary -assistance from ourselves she had always refused. “It would be a gift,” -she would say. - -“Have it as you like.” - -“But people don’t give other people money.” - -“Don’t they? That’s all you know about the world.” - -“Yes; to beggars. We hope we needn’t come to that.” It was thus that she -always answered us, but always with something of laughter in her eye, -as though their poverty was a joke. Now, when the demand upon her was -for that which did not concern her personal comfort, which referred to a -matter felt by her to be vitally important, she declared, without a -minute’s hesitation, that she had not money for the journey. - -“Of course you can have money,” we said. “I suppose you will go at -once?” - -“Oh yes,--at once. That is, in a day or two,--after he shall have -received my letter. Why should I wait?” We sat down to write a cheque, -and she, seeing what we were doing, asked how much it was to be. -“No;--half that will do,” she said. “Mamma will not go. We have talked -it over and decided it. Yes; I know all about that. I am going to see my -lover,--my dying lover; and I have to beg for the money to take me to -him. Of course I am a young girl; but in such a condition am I to stand -upon the ceremony of being taken care of? A housemaid wouldn’t want to -be taken care of at eighteen.” We did exactly as she bade us, and then -attempted to comfort her while the young man went to get money for the -cheque. What consolation was possible? It was simply necessary to admit -with frankness that sorrow had come from which there could be no present -release. “Yes,” she said. “Time will cure it,--in a way. One dies in -time, and then of course it is all cured.” “One hears of this kind of -thing often,” she said afterwards, still leaning forward in her chair, -still with something of the old expression in her eyes,--something -almost of humour in spite of her grief; “but it is the girl who dies. -When it is the girl, there isn’t, after all, so much harm done. A man -goes about the world and can shake it off; and then, there are plenty of -girls.” We could not tell her how infinitely more important, to our -thinking, was her life than that of him whom she was going to see now -for the last time; but there did spring up within our mind a feeling, -greatly opposed to that conviction which formerly we had endeavoured to -impress upon herself,--that she was destined to make for herself a -successful career. - -She went, and remained by her lover’s bed-side for three weeks. She -wrote constantly to her mother, and once or twice to ourselves. She -never again allowed herself to entertain a gleam of hope, and she spoke -of her sorrow as a thing accomplished. In her last interview with us she -had hardly alluded to her novel, and in her letters she never mentioned -it. But she did say one word which made us guess what was coming. “You -will find me greatly changed in one thing,” she said; “so much changed -that I need never have troubled you.” The day for her return to London -was twice postponed, but at last she was brought to leave him. Stern -necessity was too strong for her. Let her pinch herself as she might, -she must live down in Dorsetshire,--and could not live on his means, -which were as narrow as her own. She left him; and on the day after her -arrival in London she walked across from Euston Square to our office. - -“Yes,” she said, “it is all over. I shall never see him again on this -side of heaven’s gates.” We do not know that we ever saw a tear in her -eyes produced by her own sorrow. She was possessed of some wonderful -strength which seemed to suffice for the bearing of any burden. Then she -paused, and we could only sit silent, with our eyes fixed upon the rug. -“I have made him a promise,” she said at last. Of course we asked her -what was the promise, though at the moment we thought that we knew. “I -will make no more attempt at novel writing.” - -“Such a promise should not have been asked,--or given,” we said -vehemently. - -“It should have been asked,--because he thought it right,” she answered. -“And of course it was given. Must he not know better than I do? Is he -not one of God’s ordained priests? In all the world is there one so -bound to obey him as I?” There was nothing to be said for it at such a -moment as that. There is no enthusiasm equal to that produced by a -death-bed parting. “I grieve greatly,” she said, “that you should have -had so much vain labour with a poor girl who can never profit by it.” - -“I don’t believe the labour will have been vain,” we answered, having -altogether changed those views of ours as to the futility of the pursuit -which she had adopted. - -“I have destroyed it all,” she said. - -“What;--burned the novel?” - -“Every scrap of it. I told him that I would do so, and that he should -know that I had done it. Every page was burned after I got home last -night, and then I wrote to him before I went to bed.” - -“Do you mean that you think it wicked that people should write novels?” -we asked. - -“He thinks it to be a misapplication of God’s gifts, and that has been -enough for me. He shall judge for me, but I will not judge for others. -And what does it matter? I do not want to write a novel now.” - -They remained in London till the end of the year for which the married -curate had taken their house, and then they returned to Cornboro. We saw -them frequently while they were still in town, and despatched them by -the train to the north just when the winter was beginning. At that time -the young clergyman was still living down in Dorsetshire, but he was -lying in his grave when Christmas came. Mary never saw him again, nor -did she attend his funeral. She wrote to us frequently then, as she did -for years afterwards. “I should have liked to have stood at his grave,” -she said; “but it was a luxury of sorrow that I wished to enjoy, and -they who cannot earn luxuries should not have them. They were going to -manage it for me here, but I knew I was right to refuse it.” Right, -indeed! As far as we knew her, she never moved a single point from what -was right. - -All these things happened many years ago. Mary Gresley, on her return to -Cornboro, apprenticed herself, as it were, to the married curate there, -and called herself, I think, a female Scripture reader. I know that she -spent her days in working hard for the religious aid of the poor around -her. From time to time we endeavoured to instigate her to literary work; -and she answered our letters by sending us wonderful little dialogues -between Tom the Saint and Bob the Sinner. We are in no humour to -criticise them now; but we can assert, that though that mode of -religious teaching is most distasteful to us, the literary merit shown -even in such works as these was very manifest. And there came to be -apparent in them a gleam of humour which would sometimes make us think -that she was sitting opposite to us and looking at us, and that she was -Tom the Saint, and that we were Bob the Sinner. We said what we could to -turn her from her chosen path, throwing into our letters all the -eloquence and all the thought of which we were masters: but our -eloquence and our thought were equally in vain. - -At last, when eight years had passed over her head after the death of -Mr. Donne, she married a missionary who was going out to some forlorn -country on the confines of African colonisation; and there she died. We -saw her on board the ship in which she sailed, and before we parted -there had come that tear into her eyes, the old look of supplication on -her lips, and the gleam of mirth across her face. We kissed her -once,--for the first and only time,--as we bade God bless her! - - - - -THE TURKISH BATH. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE TURKISH BATH. - - -It was in the month of August. The world had gone to the moors and the -Rhine, but we were still kept in town by the exigencies of our position. -We had been worked hard during the preceding year, and were not quite as -well as our best friends might have wished us;--and we resolved upon -taking a Turkish bath. This little story records the experience of one -individual man; but our readers, we hope, will, without a grudge, allow -us the use of the editorial we. We doubt whether the story could be told -at all in any other form. We resolved upon taking a Turkish bath, and at -about three o’clock in the day we strutted from the outer to the inner -room of the establishment in that light costume and with that air of -Arab dignity which are peculiar to the place. - -As everybody has not taken a Turkish bath in Jermyn Street, we will give -the shortest possible description of the position. We had entered of -course in the usual way, leaving our hat and our boots and our -“valuables” among the numerous respectable assistants who throng the -approaches; and as we had entered we had observed a stout, middle-aged -gentleman on the other side of the street, clad in vestments somewhat -the worse for wear, and to our eyes particularly noticeable by reason of -the tattered condition of his gloves. A well-to-do man may have no -gloves, or may simply carry in his hands those which appertain to him -rather as a thing of custom than for any use for which he requires them. -But a tattered glove, worn on the hand, is to our eyes the surest sign -of a futile attempt at outer respectability. It is melancholy to us -beyond expression. Our brother editors, we do not doubt, are acquainted -with the tattered glove, and have known the sadness which it produces. -If there be an editor whose heart has not been softened by the feminine -tattered glove, that editor is not our brother. In this instance the -tattered glove was worn by a man; and though the usual indication of -poor circumstances was conveyed, there was nevertheless something jaunty -in the gentleman’s step which preserved him from the desecration of -pity. We barely saw him, but still were thinking of him as we passed -into the building with the oriental letters on it, and took off our -boots, and pulled out our watch and purse. - -We were of course accommodated with two checked towels; and, having in -vain attempted to show that we were to the manner born by fastening the -larger of them satisfactorily round our own otherwise naked person, had -obtained the assistance of one of those very skilful eastern boys who -glide about the place and create envy by their familiarity with its -mysteries. With an absence of all bashfulness which soon grows upon one, -we had divested ourselves of our ordinary trappings beneath the gaze of -five or six young men lying on surrounding sofas,--among whom we -recognised young Walker of the Treasury, and hereby testify on his -behalf that he looks almost as fine a fellow without his clothes as he -does with them,--and had strutted through the doorway into the -bath-room, trailing our second towel behind us. Having observed the -matter closely in the course of perhaps half-a-dozen visits, we are -prepared to recommend that mode of entry to our young friends as being -at the same time easy and oriental. There are those who wear the second -towel as a shawl, thereby no doubt achieving a certain decency of garb; -but this is done to the utter loss of all dignity; and a feminine -appearance is produced, such as is sometimes that of a lady of fifty -looking after her maid-servants at seven o’clock in the morning and -intending to dress again before breakfast. And some there are who carry -it under the arm,--simply as a towel; but these are they who, from -English perversity, wilfully rob the institution of that picturesque -orientalism which should be its greatest charm. A few are able to wear -the article as a turban, and that no doubt should be done by all who are -competent to achieve the position. We have observed that men who can do -so enter the bath-room with an air and are received there with a respect -which no other arrangement of the towel will produce. We have tried -this; but as the turban gets over our eyes, and then falls altogether -off our brow, we have abandoned it. In regard to personal deportment, -depending partly on the step, somewhat on the eye, but chiefly on the -costume, it must be acknowledged that “the attempt and not the deed -confounds us.” It is not every man who can carry a blue towel as a -turban, and look like an Arab in the streets of Cairo, as he walks -slowly down the room in Jermyn Street with his arms crossed on his naked -breast. The attempt and not the deed does confound one shockingly. We, -therefore, recommend that the second towel should be trailed. The effect -is good, and there is no difficulty in the trailing which may not be -overcome. - -We had trailed our way into the bath-room, and had slowly walked to one -of those arm-chairs in which it is our custom on such occasions to seat -ourselves and to await sudation. There are marble couches; and if a man -be able to lie on stone for half an hour without a movement beyond that -of clapping his hands, or a sound beyond a hollow-voiced demand for -water, the effect is not bad. But he loses everything if he tosses -himself uneasily on his hard couch, and we acknowledge that our own -elbows are always in the way of our own comfort, and that our bones -become sore. We think that the marble sofas must be intended for the -younger Turks. If a man can stretch himself on stone without suffering -for the best part of an hour,--or, more bravely perhaps, without -appearing to suffer, let him remember that all is not done even then. -Very much will depend on the manner in which he claps his hands, and the -hollowness of the voice in which he calls for water. There should, we -think, be two blows of the palms. One is very weak and proclaims its own -futility. Even to dull London ears it seems at once to want the eastern -tone. We have heard three given effectively, but we think that it -requires much practice; and even when it is perfect, the result is that -of western impatience rather than of eastern gravity. No word should be -pronounced, beyond that one word,--Water. The effect should be as though -the whole mind were so devoted to the sudorific process as to admit of -no extraneous idea. There should seem to be almost an agony in the -effort,--as though the man enduring it, conscious that with success he -would come forth a god, was aware that being as yet but mortal he may -perish in the attempt. Two claps of the hand and a call for water, and -that repeated with an interval of ten minutes, are all the external -signs of life that the young Turkish bather may allow to himself while -he is stretched upon his marble couch. - -We had taken a chair,--well aware that nothing god-like could be thus -achieved, and contented to obtain the larger amount of human comfort. -The chairs are placed two and two, and a custom has grown up,--of which -we scarcely think that the origin has been eastern,--in accordance with -which friends occupying these chairs will spend their time in -conversation. The true devotee to the Turkish bath will, we think, never -speak at all; but when the speaking is low in tone, just something -between a whisper and an articulate sound, the slight murmuring hum -produced is not disagreeable. We cannot quite make up our mind whether -this use of the human voice be or be not oriental; but we think that it -adds to the mystery, and upon the whole it gratifies. Let it be -understood, however, that harsh, resonant, clearly-expressed speech is -damnable. The man who talks aloud to his friend about the trivial -affairs of life is selfish, ignorant, unpoetical,--and English in the -very worst sense of the word. Who but an ass proud of his own capacity -for braying would venture to dispel the illusions of a score of bathers -by observing aloud that the House sat till three o’clock that morning? - -But though friends may talk in low voices, a man without a friend will -hardly fall into conversation at the Turkish bath. It is said that our -countrymen are unapt to speak to each other without introduction, and -this inaptitude is certainly not decreased by the fact that two men meet -each other with nothing on but a towel a piece. Finding yourself next to -a man in such a garb you hardly know where to begin. And then there lies -upon you the weight of that necessity of maintaining a certain dignity -of deportment which has undoubtedly grown upon you since you succeeded -in freeing yourself from your socks and trousers. For ourselves we have -to admit that the difficulty is much increased by the fact that we are -short-sighted, and are obligated, by the sudorific processes and by the -shampooing and washing that are to come, to leave our spectacles behind -us. The delicious wonder of the place is no doubt increased to us, but -our incapability of discerning aught of those around us in that low -gloomy light is complete. Jones from Friday Street, or even Walker from -the Treasury, is the same to us as one of those Asiatic slaves who -administer to our comfort, and flit about the place with admirable -decorum and self-respect. On this occasion we had barely seated -ourselves, when another bather, with slow, majestic step, came to the -other chair; and, with a manner admirably adapted to the place, -stretching out his naked legs, and throwing back his naked shoulders, -seated himself beside us. We are much given to speculations on the -characters and probable circumstances of those with whom we are brought -in contact. Our editorial duties require that it should be so. How -should we cater for the public did we not observe the public in all its -moods? We thought that we could see at once that this was no ordinary -man, and we may as well aver here, at the beginning of our story, that -subsequent circumstances proved our first conceptions to be correct. -The absolute features of the gentleman we did not, indeed, see plainly. -The gloom of the place and our own deficiency of sight forbade it. But -we could discern the thorough man of the world, the traveller who had -seen many climes, the cosmopolitan to whom East and West were alike, in -every motion that he made. We confess that we were anxious for -conversation, and that we struggled within ourselves for an apt subject, -thinking how we might begin. But the apt subject did not occur to us, -and we should have passed that half-hour of repose in silence had not -our companion been more ready than ourselves. “Sir,” said he, turning -round in his seat with a peculiar and captivating grace, “I shall not, I -hope, offend or transgress any rule of politeness by speaking to a -stranger.” There was ease and dignity in his manner, and at the same -time some slight touch of humour which was very charming. I thought that -I detected just a hint of an Irish accent in his tone; but if so the -dear brogue of his country, which is always delightful to me, had been -so nearly banished by intercourse with other tongues as to leave the -matter still a suspicion,--a suspicion, or rather a hope. - -“By no means,” we answered, turning round on our left shoulder, but -missing the grace with which he had made his movement. - -“There is nothing,” said he, “to my mind so absurd as that two men -should be seated together for an hour without venturing to open their -mouths because they do not know each other. And what matter does it make -whether a man has his breeches on or is without them?” - -My hope had now become an assurance. As he named the article of clothing -which peculiarly denotes a man he gave a picturesque emphasis to the -word which was certainly Hibernian. Who does not know the dear sound? -And, as a chance companion for a few idle minutes, is there any one so -likely to prove himself agreeable as a well-informed, travelled -Irishman? - -“And yet,” said we, “men do depend much on their outward paraphernalia.” - -“Indeed and they do,” said our friend. “And why? Because they can trust -their tailors when they can’t trust themselves. Give me the man who can -make a speech without any of the accessories of the pulpit, who can -preach what sermon there is in him without a pulpit.” His words were -energetic, but his voice was just suited to the place. Had he spoken -aloud, so that others might have heard him, we should have left our -chair, and have retreated to one of the inner and hotter rooms at the -moment. His words were perfectly audible, but he spoke in a fitting -whisper. “It is a part of my creed,” he continued, “that we should never -lose even a quarter of an hour. What a strange mass of human beings one -finds in this city of London!” - -“A mighty maze, but not without a plan,” we replied. - -“Bedad,--and it’s hard enough to find the plan,” said he. It struck me -that after that he rose into a somewhat higher flight of speech, as -though he had remembered and was desirous of dropping his country. It is -the customary and perhaps the only fault of an Irishman. “Whether it be -there or not, we can expatiate free, as the poet says. How -unintelligible is London! New York or Constantinople one can -understand,--or even Paris. One knows what the world is doing in these -cities, and what men desire.” - -“What men desire is nearly the same in all cities,” we remarked,--and -not without truth as we think. - -“Is it money you mane?” he said, again relapsing. “Yes; money, no doubt, -is the grand desideratum,--the ‘to prepon,’ the ‘to kalon’ the ‘to -pan!’” Plato and Pope were evidently at his fingers’ ends. We did not -conclude from this slight evidence that he was thoroughly imbued with -the works either of the poet or the philosopher; but we hold that for -the ordinary purposes of conversation a superficial knowledge of many -things goes further than an intimacy with one or two. “Money,” continued -he, “is everything, no doubt;--rem--rem; rem, si possis recte, si -non,----; you know the rest. I don’t complain of that. I like money -myself. I know its value. I’ve had it, and,--I’m not ashamed to say it, -Sir,--I’ve been without it.” - -“Our sympathies are completely with you in reference to the latter -position,” we said,--remembering, with a humility that we hope is -natural to us, that we were not always editors. - -“What I complain of is,” said our new friend still whispering, as he -passed his hand over his arms and legs, to learn whether the temperature -of the room was producing its proper effect, “that if a man here in -London have a diamond, or a pair of boots, or any special skill at his -command, he cannot take his article to the proper mart, and obtain for -it the proper price.” - -“Can he do that in Constantinople?” we enquired. - -“Much better and more accurately than he can in London. And so he can in -Paris!” We did not believe this; but as we were thinking after what -fashion we would express our doubts, he branched off so quickly to a -matter of supply and demand with which we were specially interested, -that we lost the opportunity of arguing the general question. “A man of -letters,” he said, “a capable and an instructed man of letters, can -always get a market for his wares in Paris.” - -“A capable and instructed man of letters will do so in London,” we said, -“as soon as he has proved his claims. He must prove them in Paris before -they can be allowed.” - -“Yes;--he must prove them. By-the-bye, will you have a cheroot?” So -saying, he stretched out his hand, and took from the marble slab beside -him two cheroots which he had placed there. He then proceeded to explain -that he did not bring in his case because of the heat, but that he was -always “muni,”--that was his phrase,--with a couple, in the hope that he -might meet an acquaintance with whom to share them. I accepted his -offer, and when we had walked round the chamber to a light provided for -the purpose, we reseated ourselves. His manner of moving about the place -was so good that I felt it to be a pity that he should ever have a rag -on more than he wore at present. His tobacco, I must own, did not -appear to me to be of the first class; but then I am not in the habit of -smoking cheroots, and am no judge of the merits of the weed as grown in -the East. “Yes;--a man in Paris must prove his capability; but then how -easily he can do it, if the fact to be proved be there! And how certain -is the mart, if he have the thing to sell!” - -We immediately denied that in this respect there was any difference -between the two capitals, pointing out what we believe to be a -fact,--that in one capital as in the other, there exists, and must ever -exist, extreme difficulty in proving the possession of an art so -difficult to define as capability of writing for the press. “Nothing but -success can prove it,” we said, as we slapped our thigh with an energy -altogether unbecoming our position as a Turkish bather. - -“A man may have a talent then, and he cannot use it till he have used -it! He may possess a diamond, and cannot sell it till he have sold it! -What is a man to do who wishes to engage himself in any of the -multifarious duties of the English press? How is he to begin? In New -York I can tell such a one where to go at once. Let him show in -conversation that he is an educated man, and they will give him a trial -on the staff of any news paper;--they will let him run his venture for -the pages of any magazine. He may write his fingers off here, and not an -editor of them all will read a word that he writes.” - -Here he touched us, and we were indignant. When he spoke of the -magazines we knew that he was wrong. “With newspapers,” we said, “we -imagine it to be impossible that contributions from the outside world -should be looked at; but papers sent to the magazines,--at any rate to -some of them,--are read.” - -“I believe,” said he, “that a little farce is kept up. They keep a boy -to look at a line or two and then return the manuscript. The pages are -filled by the old stock-writers, who are sure of the market let them -send what they will,--padding-mongers who work eight hours a day, and -hardly know what they write about.” We again loudly expressed our -opinion that he was wrong, and that there did exist magazines, the -managers of which were sedulously anxious to obtain the assistance of -what he called literary capacity, wherever they could find it. Sitting -there at the Turkish bath with nothing but a towel round us, we could -not declare ourselves to a perfect stranger, and we think that as a rule -editors should be impalpable;--but we did express our opinion very -strongly. - -“And you believe,” said he, with something of scorn in his voice, “that -if a man who had been writing English for the press in other -countries,--in New York say, or in Doblin,--a man of undoubted capacity, -mind you, were to make the attempt here, in London, he would get a -hearing.” - -“Certainly he would,” said we. - -“And would any editor see him unless he came with an introduction from -some special friend?” - -We paused a moment before we answered this, because the question was to -us one having a very special meaning. Let an editor do his duty with -ever so pure a conscience, let him spend all his days and half his -nights reading manuscripts and holding the balance fairly between the -public and those who wish to feed the public, let his industry be never -so unwearied and his impartiality never so unflinching, still he will, -if possible, avoid the pain of personally repelling those to whom he is -obliged to give an unfavourable answer. But we at the Turkish bath were -quite unknown to the outer world, and might hazard an opinion, as any -stranger might have done. And we have seen very many such visitors as -those to whom our friend alluded; and may, perhaps, see many more. - -“Yes,” said we. “An editor might or might not see such a gentleman: -but, if pressed, no doubt he would. An English editor would be quite as -likely to do so as a French editor.” This we declared with energy, -having felt ourselves to be ruffled by the assertion that these things -are managed better in Paris or in New York than in London. - -“Then, Mr. ----, would you give me an interview, if I call with a little -manuscript which I have to-morrow morning?” said my Irish friend, -addressing us with a beseeching tone, and calling us by the very name by -which we are known among our neighbours and tradesmen. We felt that -everything was changed between us, and that the man had plunged a dagger -into us. - -Yes; he had plunged a dagger into us. Had we had our clothes on, had we -felt ourselves to possess at the moment our usual form of life, we think -that we could have rebuked him. As it was we could only rise from our -chair, throw away the fag end of the filthy cheroot which he had given -us, and clap our hands half-a-dozen times for the Asiatic to come and -shampoo us. But the Irishman was at our elbow. “You will let me see you -to-morrow?” he said. “My name is Molloy,--Michael Molloy. I have not a -card about me, because my things are outside there.” - -“A card would do no good at all,” we said, again clapping our hands for -the shampooer. - -“I may call, then?” said Mr. Michael Molloy. - -“Certainly;--yes, you can call if you please.” Then, having thus -ungraciously acceded to the request made to us, we sat down on the -marble bench and submitted ourselves to the black attendant. During the -whole of the following operation, while the man was pummelling our -breast and poking our ribs, and pinching our toes,--while he was washing -us down afterwards, and reducing us gradually from the warm water to the -cold,--we were thinking of Mr. Michael Molloy, and the manner in which -he had entrapped us into a confidential conversation. The scoundrel must -have plotted it from the very first, must have followed us into the -bath, and taken his seat beside us with a deliberately premeditated -scheme. He was, too, just the man whom we should not have chosen to see -with a worthless magazine article in his hand. We think that we can be -efficacious by letter, but we often feel ourselves to be weak when -brought face to face with our enemies. At that moment our anger was hot -against Mr. Molloy. And yet we were conscious of a something of pride -which mingled with our feelings. It was clear to us that Mr. Molloy was -no ordinary person; and it did in some degree gratify our feelings that -such a one should have taken so much trouble to encounter us. We had -found him to be a well-informed, pleasant gentleman; and the fact that -he was called Molloy and desired to write for the magazine over which we -presided, could not really be taken as detracting from his merits. There -had doubtless been a fraud committed on us,--a palpable fraud. The man -had extracted assurances from us by a false pretence that he did not -know us. But then the idea, on his part, that anything could be gained -by his doing so, was in itself a compliment to us. That such a man -should take so much trouble to approach us,--one who could quote Horace -and talk about the “to kalon,”--was an acknowledgment of our power. As -we returned to the outer chamber we looked round to see Mr. Molloy in -his usual garments, but he was not as yet there. We waited while we -smoked one of our own cigars, but he came not. He had, so far, gained -his aim; and, as we presumed, preferred to run the risk of too long a -course of hot air to risking his object by seeing us again on that -afternoon. At last we left the building, and are bound to confess that -our mind dwelt much on Mr. Michael Molloy during the remainder of that -evening. - -It might be that after all we should gain much by the singular mode of -introduction which the man had adopted. He was certainly clever, and if -he could write as well as he could talk his services might be of value. -Punctually at the hour named he was announced, and we did not now for -one moment think of declining the interview. Mr. Molloy had so far -succeeded in his stratagem that we could not now resort to the certainly -not unusual practice of declaring ourselves to be too closely engaged to -see any one, and of sending him word that he should confide to writing -whatever he might have to say to us. It had, too, occurred to us that, -as Mr. Molloy had paid his three shillings and sixpence for the Turkish -bath, he would not prove to be one of that class of visitors whose -appeals to tender-hearted editors are so peculiarly painful. “I am -willing to work day and night for my wife and children; and if you will -use this short paper in your next number it will save us from starvation -for a month! Yes, Sir, from,--starvation!” Who is to resist such an -appeal as that, or to resent it? But the editor knows that he is bound -in honesty to resist it altogether,--so to steel himself against it that -it shall have no effect upon him, at least, as regards the magazine -which is in his hands. And yet if the short thing be only decently -written, if it be not absurdly bad, what harm will its publication do -to anyone? If the waste,--let us call it waste,--of half-a-dozen pages -will save a family from hunger for a month, will they not be well -wasted? But yet, again, such tenderness is absolutely incompatible with -common honesty,--and equally so with common prudence. We think that our -readers will see the difficulty, and understand how an editor may wish -to avoid those interviews with tattered gloves. But my friend, Mr. -Michael Molloy, had had three and sixpence to spend on a Turkish bath, -had had money wherewith to buy,--certainly, the very vilest of cigars. -We thought of all this as Mr. Michael Molloy was ushered into our room. - -The first thing we saw was the tattered glove; and then we immediately -recognised the stout middle-aged gentleman whom we had seen on the other -side of Jermyn Street as we entered the bathing establishment. It had -never before occurred to us that the two persons were the same, not -though the impression made by the poverty-stricken appearance of the man -in the street had remained distinct upon our mind. The features of the -gentleman we had hardly even yet seen at all. Nevertheless we had known -and distinctly recognised his outward gait and mien, both with and -without his clothes. One tattered glove he now wore, and the other he -carried in his gloved hand. As we saw this we were aware at once that -all our preconception had been wrong, that that too common appeal would -be made, and that we must resist it as best we might. There was still a -certain jauntiness in his air as he addressed us. “I hope thin,” said he -as we shook hands with him, “ye’ll not take amiss the little ruse by -which we caught ye.” - -“It was a ruse then, Mr. Molloy?” - -“Divil a doubt o’ that, Mr. Editor.” - -“But you were coming to the Turkish bath independently of our visit -there?” - -“Sorrow a bath I’d’ve cum to at all, only I saw you go into the place. -I’d just three and ninepence in my pocket, and says I to myself, Mick, -me boy, it’s a good investment. There was three and sixpence for them -savages to rub me down, and threepence for the two cheroots from the -little shop round the corner. I wish they’d been better for your sake.” - -It had been a plant from beginning to end, and the “to kalon” and the -half-dozen words from Horace had all been parts of Mr. Molloy’s little -game! And how well he had played it! The outward trappings of the man as -we now saw them were poor and mean, and he was mean-looking too, because -of his trappings. But there had been nothing mean about him as he -strutted along with a blue-checked towel round his body. How well the -fellow had understood it all, and had known his own capacity! “And now -that you are here, Mr. Molloy, what can we do for you?” we said with as -pleasant a smile as we were able to assume. Of course we knew what was -to follow. Out came the roll of paper of which we had already seen the -end projecting from his breast pocket, and we were assured that we -should find the contents of it exactly the thing for our magazine. There -is no longer any diffidence in such matters,--no reticence in preferring -claims and singing one’s own praises. All that has gone by since -competitive examination has become the order of the day. No man, no -woman, no girl, no boy, hesitates now to declare his or her own -excellence and capability. “It’s just a short thing on social manners,” -said Mr. Molloy, “and if ye’ll be so good as to cast ye’r eye over it, I -think ye’ll find I’ve hit the nail on the head. ‘The Five-o’clock -Tay-table’ is what I’ve called it.” - -“Oh!--‘The Five-o’clock Tea-table.’” - -“Don’t ye like the name?” - -“About social manners, is it?” - -“Just a rap on the knuckles for some of ’em. Sharp, short, and -decisive! I don’t doubt but what ye’ll like it.” - -To declare, as though by instinct, that that was not the kind of thing -we wanted, was as much a matter of course as it is for a man buying a -horse to say that he does not like the brute’s legs or that he falls -away in his quarters. And Mr. Molloy treated our objection just as does -the horse-dealer those of his customers. He assured us with a -smile,--with a smile behind which we could see the craving eagerness of -his heart,--that his little article was just the thing for us. Our -immediate answer was of course ready. If he would leave the paper with -us, we would look at it and return it if it did not seem to suit us. - -There is a half-promise about this reply which too often produces a -false satisfaction in the breast of a beginner. With such a one it is -the second interview which is to be dreaded. But my friend Mr. Molloy -was not new to the work, and was aware that if possible he should make -further use of the occasion which he had earned for himself at so -considerable a cost. “Ye’ll read it;--will ye?” he said. - -“Oh, certainly. We’ll read it certainly.” - -“And ye’ll use it if ye can?” - -“As to that, Mr. Molloy, we can say nothing. We’ve got to look solely to -the interest of the periodical.” - -“And, sure, what can ye do better for the periodical than print a paper -like that, which there is not a lady at the West End of the town won’t -be certain to read?” - -“At any rate we’ll look at it, Mr. Molloy,” said we, standing up from -our chair. - -But still he hesitated in his going,--and did not go. “I’m a married -man, Mr. ----,” he said. We simply bowed our head at the announcement. -“I wish you could see Mrs. Molloy,” he added. We murmured something as -to the pleasure it would give us to make the acquaintance of so -estimable a lady. “There isn’t a betther woman than herself this side of -heaven, though I say it that oughtn’t,” said he. “And we’ve three young -ones.” We knew the argument that was coming;--knew it so well, and yet -were so unable to accept it as any argument! “Sit down one moment, Mr. -----,” he continued, “till I tell you a short story.” We pleaded our -engagements, averring that they were peculiarly heavy at that moment. -“Sure, and we know what that manes,” said Mr. Molloy. “It’s just,--walk -out of this as quick as you came in. It’s that what it manes.” And yet -as he spoke there was a twinkle of humour in his eye that was almost -irresistible; and we ourselves,--we could not forbear to smile. When we -smiled we knew that we were lost. “Come, now, Mr. Editor; when you think -how much it cost me to get the inthroduction, you’ll listen to me for -five minutes any way.” - -“We will listen to you,” we said, resuming our chair,--remembering as we -did so the three-and-sixpence, the two cigars, the “to kalon,” the line -from Pope, and the half line from Horace. The man had taken much trouble -with the view of placing himself where he now was. When we had been all -but naked together I had taken him to be the superior of the two, and -what were we that we should refuse him an interview simply because he -had wares to sell which we should only be too willing to buy at his -price if they were fit for our use? - -Then he told his tale. As for Paris, Constantinople, and New York, he -frankly admitted that he knew nothing of those capitals. When we -reminded him, with some ill-nature as we thought afterwards, that he had -assumed an intimacy with the current literature of the three cities, he -told us that such remarks were “just the sparkling gims of conversation -in which a man shouldn’t expect to find rale diamonds.” Of “Doblin” he -knew every street, every lane, every newspaper, every editor; but the -poverty, dependence, and general poorness of a provincial press had -crushed him, and he had boldly resolved to try a fight in the -“methropolis of litherature.” He referred us to the managers of the -“Boyne Bouncer,” the “Clontarf Chronicle,” the “Donnybrook Debater,” and -the “Echoes of Erin,” assuring us that we should find him to be as well -esteemed as known in the offices of those widely-circulated -publications. His reading he told us was unbounded, and the pen was as -ready to his hand as is the plough to the hand of the husbandman. Did we -not think it a noble ambition in him thus to throw himself into the -great “areanay,” as he called it, and try his fortune in the -“methropolis of litherature?” He paused for a reply, and we were driven -to acknowledge that whatever might be said of our friend’s prudence, his -courage was undoubted. “I’ve got it here,” said he. “I’ve got it all -here.” And he touched his right breast with the fingers of his left -hand, which still wore the tattered glove. - -He had succeeded in moving us. “Mr. Molloy,” we said, “we’ll read your -paper, and we’ll then do the best we can for you. We must tell you -fairly that we hardly like your subject, but if the writing be good you -can try your hand at something else.” - -“Sure there’s nothing under the sun I won’t write about at your -bidding.” - -“If we can be of service to you, Mr. Molloy, we will.” Then the editor -broke down, and the man spoke to the man. “I need not tell you, Mr. -Molloy, that the heart of one man of letters always warms to another.” - -“It was because I knew ye was of that sort that I followed ye in -yonder,” he said, with a tear in his eye. - -The butter-boat of benevolence was in our hand, and we proceeded to pour -out its contents freely. It is a vessel which an editor should lock up -carefully; and, should he lose the key, he will not be the worse for the -loss. We need not repeat here all the pretty things that we said to him, -explaining to him from a full heart with how much agony we were often -compelled to resist the entreaties of literary suppliants, declaring to -him how we had longed to publish tons of manuscript,--simply in order -that we might give pleasure to those who brought them to us. We told him -how accessible we were to a woman’s tear, to a man’s struggle, to a -girl’s face, and assured him of the daily wounds which were inflicted on -ourselves by the impossibility of reconciling our duties with our -sympathies. “Bedad, thin,” said Mr. Molloy, grasping our hand, “you’ll -find none of that difficulty wid me. If you’ll sympathise like a man, -I’ll work for you like a horse.” We assured him that we would, really -thinking it probable that he might do some useful work for the magazine; -and then we again stood up waiting for his departure. - -“Now I’ll tell ye a plain truth,” said he, “and ye may do just as ye -plaise about it. There isn’t an ounce of tay or a pound of mait along -with Mrs. Molloy this moment; and, what’s more, there isn’t a shilling -between us to buy it. I never begged in my life;--not yet. But if you -can advance me a sovereign on that manuscript it will save me from -taking the coat on my back to a pawnbroker’s shop for whatever it’ll -fetch there.” We paused a moment as we thought of it all, and then we -handed him the coin for which he asked us. If the manuscript should be -worthless the loss would be our own. We would not grudge a slice from -the wholesome home-made loaf after we had used the butter-boat of -benevolence. “It don’t become me,” said Mr. Molloy, “to thank you for -such a thrifle as a loan of twenty shillings; but I’ll never forget the -feeling that has made you listen to me, and that too after I had been -rather down on you at thim baths.” We gave him a kindly nod of the head, -and then he took his departure. - -“Ye’ll see me again anyways?” he said, and we promised that we would. - -We were anxious enough about the manuscript, but we could not examine it -at that moment. When our office work was done we walked home with the -roll in our pocket, speculating as we went on the probable character of -Mr. Molloy. We still believed in him,--still believed in him in spite of -the manner in which he had descended in his language, and had fallen -into a natural flow of words which alone would not have given much -promise of him as a man of letters. But a human being, in regard to his -power of production, is the reverse of a rope. He is as strong as his -strongest part, and remembering the effect which Molloy’s words had had -upon us at the Turkish bath, we still thought that there must be -something in him. If so, how pleasant would it be to us to place such a -man on his legs,--modestly on his legs, so that he might earn for his -wife and bairns that meat and tea which he had told us that they were -now lacking. An editor is always striving to place some one modestly on -his legs in literature,--on his or her,--striving, and alas! so often -failing. Here had come a man in regard to whom, as I walked home with -his manuscript in my pocket, I did feel rather sanguine. - -Of all the rubbish that I ever read in my life, that paper on the -Five-o’clock Tea-table was, I think, the worst. It was not only vulgar, -foolish, unconnected, and meaningless; but it was also ungrammatical and -unintelligible even in regard to the wording of it. The very spelling -was defective. The paper was one with which no editor, sub-editor, or -reader would have found it necessary to go beyond the first ten lines -before he would have known that to print it would have been quite out of -the question. We went through with it because of our interest in the -man; but as it was in the beginning, so it was to the end,--a farrago of -wretched nonsense, so bad that no one, without experience in such -matters, would believe it possible that even the writer should desire -the publication of it! It seemed to us to be impossible that Mr. Molloy -should ever have written a word for those Hibernian periodicals which he -had named to us. He had got our sovereign; and with that, as far as we -were concerned, there must be an end of Mr. Molloy. We doubted even -whether he would come for his own manuscript. - -But he came. He came exactly at the hour appointed, and when we looked -at his face we felt convinced that he did not doubt his own success. -There was an air of expectant triumph about him which dismayed us. It -was clear enough that he was confident that he should take away with him -the full price of his article, after deducting the sovereign which he -had borrowed. “You like it thin,” he said, before we had been able to -compose our features to a proper form for the necessary announcement. - -“Mr. Molloy,” we said, “it will not do. You must believe us that it will -not do.” - -“Not do?” - -“No, indeed. We need not explain further;--but,--but,--you had really -better turn your hand to some other occupation.” - -“Some other occupa-ation!” he exclaimed, opening wide his eyes, and -holding up both his hands. - -“Indeed we think so, Mr. Molloy.” - -“And you’ve read it?” - -“Every word of it;--on our honour.” - -“And you won’t have it?” - -“Well;--no, Mr. Molloy, certainly we cannot take it.” - -“Ye reject my article on the Five-o’clock Tay-table!” Looking into his -face as he spoke, we could not but be certain that its rejection was to -him as astonishing as would have been its acceptance to the readers of -the magazine. He put his hand up to his head and stood wondering. “I -suppose ye’d better choose your own subject for yourself,” he said, as -though by this great surrender on his own part he was getting rid of all -the difficulty on ours. - -“Mr. Molloy,” we began, “we may as well be candid with you----” - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, “I’ve taken such a liking to you -there’s nothing I won’t do to plaise ye. I’ll just put it in my pocket, -and begin another for ye as soon as the children have had their bit of -dinner.” At last we did succeed, or thought that we succeeded, in making -him understand that we regarded the case as being altogether hopeless, -and were convinced that it was beyond his powers to serve us. “And I’m -to be turned off like that,” he said, bursting into open tears as he -threw himself into a chair and hid his face upon the table. “Ah! wirra, -wirra, what’ll I do at all? Sure, and didn’t I think it was fixed as -firm between us as the Nelson monument? When ye handselled me with the -money, didn’t I think it was as good as done and done?” I begged him not -to regard the money, assuring him that he was welcome to the sovereign. -“There’s my wife’ll be brought to bed any day,” he went on to say, “and -not a ha’porth of anything ready for it! ’Deed, thin, and the world’s -hard. The world’s very hard!” And this was he who had talked to me about -Constantinople and New York at the baths, and had made me believe that -he was a well-informed, well-to-do man of the world! - -Even now we did not suspect that he was lying to us. Why he should be -such as he seemed to be was a mystery; but even yet we believed in him -after a fashion. That he was sorely disappointed and broken-hearted -because of his wife, was so evident to us, that we offered him another -sovereign, regarding it as the proper price of that butter-boat of -benevolence which we had permitted ourselves to use. But he repudiated -our offer. “I’ve never begged,” said he, “and, for myself, I’d sooner -starve. And Mary Jane would sooner starve than I should beg. It will be -best for us both to put an end to ourselves and to have done with it.” -This was very melancholy; and as he lay with his head upon the table, we -did not see how we were to induce him to leave us. - -“You’d better take the sovereign,--just for the present,” we said. - -“Niver!” said he, looking up for a moment, “niver!” And still he -continued to sob. About this period of the interview, which before it -was ended was a very long interview, we ourselves made a suggestion the -imprudence of which we afterwards acknowledged to ourselves. We offered -to go to his lodgings and see his wife and children. Though the man -could not write a good magazine article, yet he might be a very fitting -object for our own personal kindness. And the more we saw of the man, -the more we liked him,--in spite of his incapacity. “The place is so -poor,” he said, objecting to our offer. After what had passed between -us, we felt that that could be no reason against our visit, and we began -for a moment to fear that he was deceiving us. “Not yet,” he cried, “not -quite yet. I will try once again;--once again. You will let me see you -once more?” - -“And you will take the other sovereign,” we said,--trying him. He should -have had the other sovereign if he would have taken it; but we confess -that had he done so then we should have regarded him as an impostor. But -he did not take it, and left us in utter ignorance as to his true -character. - -After an interval of three days he came again, and there was exactly the -same appearance. He wore the same tattered gloves. He had not pawned his -coat. There was the same hat,--shabby when observed closely, but still -carrying a decent appearance when not minutely examined. In his face -there was no sign of want, and at moments there was a cheeriness about -him which was almost refreshing. “I’ve got a something this time that I -think ye must like,--unless you’re harder to plaise than Rhadhamanthus.” -So saying, he tendered me another roll of paper, which I at once opened, -intending to read the first page of it. The essay was entitled the -“Church of England;--a Question for the People.” It was handed to me as -having been written within the last three days; and, from its bulk, -might have afforded fair work for a fortnight to a writer accustomed to -treat of subjects of such weight. As we had expected, the first page was -unintelligible, absurd, and farcical. We began to be angry with -ourselves for having placed ourselves in such a connection with a man so -utterly unable to do that which he pretended to do. “I think I’ve hit it -off now,” said he, watching our face as we were reading. - -The reader need not be troubled with a minute narrative of the -circumstances as they occurred during the remainder of the interview. -What had happened before was repeated very closely. He wondered, he -remonstrated, he complained, and he wept. He talked of his wife and -family, and talked as though up to this last moment he had felt -confident of success. Judging from his face as he entered the room, we -did not doubt but that he had been confident. His subsequent despair was -unbounded, and we then renewed our offer to call on his wife. After some -hesitation he gave us an address in Hoxton, begging us to come after -seven in the evening if it were possible. He again declined the offer of -money, and left us, understanding that we would visit his wife on the -following evening. “You are quite sure about the manuscript?” he said as -he left us. We replied that we were quite sure. - -On the following day we dined early at our club and walked in the -evening to the address which Mr. Molloy had given us in Hoxton. It was a -fine evening in August, and our walk made us very warm. The street named -was a decent little street, decent as far as cleanliness and newness -could make it; but there was a melancholy sameness about it, and an -apparent absence of object, which would have been very depressing to our -own spirits. It led nowhither, and had been erected solely with the view -of accommodating decent people with small incomes. We at once priced the -houses in our mind at ten and sixpence a week, and believed them to be -inhabited by pianoforte-tuners, coach-builders, firemen, and -public-office messengers. There was no squalor about the place, but it -was melancholy, light-coloured and depressive. We made our way to No. -14, and finding the door open entered the passage. “Come in,” cried the -voice of our friend; and in the little front parlour we found him seated -with a child on each knee, while a winning little girl of about twelve -was sitting in a corner of the room, mending her stockings. The room -itself and the appearance of all around us were the very opposite of -what we had expected. Everything no doubt was plain,--was, in a certain -sense, poor; but nothing was poverty-stricken. The children were -decently clothed and apparently were well fed. Mr. Molloy himself, when -he saw me, had that twinkle of humour in his eye which I had before -observed, and seemed to be afflicted at the moment with none of that -extreme agony which he had exhibited more than once in our presence. -“Please, Sir, mother aint in from the hospital,--not yet,” said the -little girl, rising up from her chair; but it’s past seven and she won’t -be long. “This announcement created some surprise. We had indeed heard -that of Mrs. Molloy which might make it very expedient that she should -seek the accommodation of an hospital, but we could not understand that -in such circumstances she should be able to come home regularly at -seven o’clock in the evening. Then there was a twinkle in our friend -Molloy’s eye which almost made us think for the moment that we had been -made the subject of some, hitherto unintelligible, hoax. And yet there -had been the man at the baths in Jermyn Street, and the two manuscripts -had been in our hands, and the man had wept as no man weeps for a joke. -“You would come, you know,” said Mr. Molloy, who had now put down the -two bairns and had risen from his seat to greet us. - -“We are glad to see you so comfortable,” we replied. - -“Father is quite comfortable, Sir,” said the little girl. We looked into -Mr. Molloy’s face and saw nothing but the twinkle in the eye. We had -certainly been “done” by the most elaborate hoax that had ever been -perpetrated. We did not regret the sovereign so much as those -outpourings from the butter-boat of benevolence of which we felt that we -had been cheated. “Here’s mother,” said the girl running to the door. -Mr. Molloy stood grinning in the middle of the room with the youngest -child again in his arms. He did not seem to be in the least ashamed of -what he had done, and even at that moment conveyed to us more of liking -for his affection for the little boy than of anger for the abominable -prank that he had played us. - -That he had lied throughout was evident as soon as we saw Mrs. Molloy. -Whatever ailment might have made it necessary that she should visit the -hospital, it was not one which could interfere at all with her power of -going and returning. She was a strong hearty-looking woman of about -forty, with that mixture in her face of practical kindness with severity -in details which we often see in strong-minded women who are forced to -take upon themselves the management and government of those around them. -She courtesied, and took off her bonnet and shawl, and put a bottle into -a cupboard, as she addressed us. “Mick said as you was coming, Sir, and -I’m sure we is glad to see you;--only sorry for the trouble, Sir.” - -We were so completely in the dark that we hardly knew how to be civil to -her,--hardly knew whether we ought to be civil to her or not. “We don’t -quite understand why we’ve been brought here,” we said, endeavouring to -maintain, at any rate a tone of good-humour. He was still embracing the -little boy, but there had now come a gleam of fun across his whole -countenance, and he seemed to be almost shaking his sides with laughter. -“Your husband represented himself as being in distress,” we said -gravely. We were restrained by a certain delicacy from informing the -woman of the kind of distress to which Mr. Molloy had especially -alluded,--most falsely. - -“Lord love you, Sir,” said the woman, “just step in here.” Then she led -us into a little back room in which there was a bedstead, and an old -writing-desk or escritoire, covered with papers. Her story was soon -told. Her husband was a madman. - -“Mad!” we said, preparing for escape from what might be to us most -serious peril. - -“He wouldn’t hurt a mouse,” said Mrs. Molloy. “As for the children, he’s -that good to them, there aint a young woman in all London that’d be -better at handling ’em.” Then we heard her story, in which it appeared -to us that downright affection for the man was the predominant -characteristic. She herself was, as she told us, head day nurse at Saint -Patrick’s Hospital, going there every morning at eight, and remaining -till six or seven. For these services she received thirty shillings a -week and her board, and she spoke of herself and her husband as being -altogether removed from pecuniary distress. Indeed, while the money part -of the question was being discussed, she opened a little drawer in the -desk and handed us back our sovereign, almost without an observation. -Molloy himself had “come of decent people.” On this point she insisted -very often, and gave us to understand that he was at this moment in -receipt of a pension of a hundred a year from his family. He had been -well educated, she said, having been at Trinity College, Dublin, till he -had been forced to leave his university for some slight, but repeated -irregularity. Early in life he had proclaimed his passion for the press, -and when he and she were married absolutely was earning a living in -Dublin by some use of the scissors and paste-pot. The whole tenor of his -career I could not learn, though Mrs. Molloy would have told us -everything had time allowed. Even during the years of his sanity in -Dublin he had only been half-sane, treating all the world around him -with the effusions of his terribly fertile pen. “He’ll write all night -if I’ll let him have a candle,” said Mrs. Molloy. We asked her why she -did let him have a candle, and made some enquiry as to the family -expenditure in paper. The paper, she said, was given to him from the -office of a newspaper which she would not name, and which Molloy visited -regularly every day. “There aint a man in all London works harder,” said -Mrs. Molloy. “He is mad. I don’t say nothing against it. But there is -some of it so beautiful, I wonder they don’t print it.” This was the -only word she spoke with which we could not agree. “Ah, Sir,” said she; -“you haven’t seen his poetry!” We were obliged to tell her that seeing -poetry was the bane of our existence. - -There was an easy absence of sham about this woman, and an acceptance of -life as it had come to her, which delighted us. She complained of -nothing, and was only anxious to explain the little eccentricities of -her husband. When we alluded to some of his marvellously untrue -assertions, she stopped us at once. “He do lie,” she said. “Certainly he -do. How he makes them all out is wonderful. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” -It was evident to us that she not only loved her husband, but admired -him. She showed us heaps of manuscript with which the old drawers were -crammed; and yet that paper on the Church of England had been new work, -done expressly for us. - -When the story had been told we went back to him, and he received us -with a smile. “Good-bye, Molloy,” we said. “Good-bye to you, Sir,” he -replied, shaking hands with us. We looked at him closely, and could -hardly believe that it was the man who had sat by us at the Turkish -bath. - -He never troubled us again or came to our office, but we have often -called on him, and have found that others of our class do the same. We -have even helped to supply him with the paper which he continues to -use,--we presume for the benefit of other editors. - -[Illustration] - - - - -JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI. - - -The little story which we are about to relate refers to circumstances -which occurred some years ago, and we desire therefore, that all readers -may avoid the fault of connecting the personages of the tale,--either -the editor who suffered so much, and who behaved, we think, so well, or -the ladies with whom he was concerned,--with any editor or with any -ladies known to such readers either personally or by name. For though -the story as told is a true story, we who tell it have used such craft -in the telling, that we defy the most astute to fix the time or to -recognise the characters. It will be sufficient if the curious will -accept it as a fact that at some date since magazines became common in -the land, a certain editor, sitting in his office, came upon the -perusal of the following letter, addressed to him by name:-- - -“19, King-Charles Street, - -“1st May, 18--. - -“DEAR SIR, - - “I think that literature needs no introduction, and, judging of you - by the character which you have made for yourself in its paths, I - do not doubt but you will feel as I do. I shall therefore write to - you without reserve. I am a lady not possessing that modesty which - should make me hold a low opinion of my own talents, and equally - free from that feeling of self-belittlement which induces so many - to speak humbly while they think proudly of their own acquirements. - Though I am still young, I have written much for the press, and I - believe I may boast that I have sometimes done so successfully. - Hitherto I have kept back my name, but I hope soon to be allowed to - see it on the title-page of a book which shall not shame me. - - “My object in troubling you is to announce the fact, agreeable - enough to myself, that I have just completed a novel in three - volumes, and to suggest to you that it should make its first - appearance to the world in the pages of the magazine under your - control. I will frankly tell you that I am not myself fond of this - mode of publication; but Messrs. X., Y., Z., of Paternoster Row, - with whom you are doubtless acquainted, have assured me that such - will be the better course. In these matters one is still terribly - subject to the tyranny of the publishers, who surely of all - cormorants are the most greedy, and of all tyrants are the most - arrogant. Though I have never seen you, I know you too well to - suspect for a moment that my words will ever be repeated to my - respectable friends in the Row. - - “Shall I wait upon you with my MS.,--or will you call for it? Or - perhaps it may be better that I should send it to you. Young ladies - should not run about,--even after editors; and it might be so - probable that I should not find you at home. Messrs. X., Y., and Z. - have read the MS.,--or more probably the young man whom they keep - for the purpose has done so,--and the nod of approval has been - vouchsafed. Perhaps this may suffice; but if a second examination - be needful, the work is at your service. - -“Yours faithfully, and in hopes of friendly relations, - -“JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI. - - “I am English, though my unfortunate name will sound French in your - ears.” - -For facility in the telling of our story we will call this especial -editor Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown’s first feeling on reading the letter was -decidedly averse to the writer. But such is always the feeling of -editors to would-be contributors, though contributions are the very food -on which an editor must live. But Mr. Brown was an unmarried man, who -loved the rustle of feminine apparel, who delighted in the brightness of -a woman’s eye when it would be bright for him, and was not indifferent -to the touch of a woman’s hand. As editors go, or went then, he knew his -business, and was not wont to deluge his pages with weak feminine ware -in return for smiles and flattering speeches,--as editors have done -before now; but still he liked an adventure, and was perhaps afflicted -by some slight flaw of judgment, in consequence of which the words of -pretty women found with him something of preponderating favour. Who is -there that will think evil of him because it was so? - -He read the letter a second time, and did not send that curt, -heart-rending answer which is so common to editors,--“The editor’s -compliments and thanks, but his stock of novels is at present so great -that he cannot hope to find room for the work which has been so kindly -suggested.” - -Of King-Charles Street, Brown could not remember that he had ever heard, -and he looked it out at once in the Directory. There was a King-Charles -Street in Camden Town, at No. 19 of which street it was stated that a -Mr. Puffle resided. But this told him nothing. Josephine de Montmorenci -might reside with Mrs. Puffle in Camden Town, and yet write a good -novel,--or be a very pretty girl. And there was a something in the tone -of the letter which made him think that the writer was no ordinary -person. She wrote with confidence. She asked no favour. And then she -declared that Messrs. X., Y., Z., with whom Mr. Brown was intimate, had -read and approved her novel. Before he answered the note he would call -in the Row and ask a question or two. - -He did call, and saw Mr. Z. Mr. Z. remembered well that the MS. had been -in their house. He rather thought that X., who was out of town, had seen -Miss Montmorenci,--perhaps on more than one occasion. The novel had been -read, and,--well, Mr. Z. would not quite say approved; but it had been -thought that there was a good deal in it. “I think I remember X. telling -me that she was an uncommon pretty young woman,” said Z.,--“and there is -some mystery about her. I didn’t see her myself, but I am sure there was -a mystery.” Mr. Brown made up his mind that he would, at any rate, see -the MS. - -He felt disposed to go at once to Camden Town, but still had fears that -in doing so he might seem to make himself too common. There are so many -things of which an editor is required to think! It is almost essential -that they who are ambitious of serving under him should believe that he -is enveloped in MSS. from morning to night,--that he cannot call an hour -his own,--that he is always bringing out that periodical of his in a -frenzy of mental exertion,--that he is to be approached only with -difficulty,--and that a call from him is a visit from a god. Mr. Brown -was a Jupiter, willing enough on occasions to go a little out of his way -after some literary Leda, or even on behalf of a Danae desirous of a -price for her compositions;--but he was obliged to acknowledge to -himself that the occasion had not as yet arisen. So he wrote to the -young lady as follows:-- - -“Office of the Olympus Magazine, - -“4th May, 18--. - - “The Editor presents his compliments to Miss de Montmorenci, and - will be very happy to see her MS. Perhaps she will send it to the - above address. The Editor has seen Mr. Z., of Paternoster Row, who - speaks highly of the work. A novel, however, may be very clever and - yet hardly suit a magazine. Should it be accepted by the ‘Olympus,’ - some time must elapse before it appears. The Editor would be very - happy to see Miss de Montmorenci if it would suit her to call any - Friday between the hours of two and three.” - -When the note was written Mr. Brown felt that it was cold;--but then it -behoves an editor to be cold. A gushing editor would ruin any -publication within six months. Young women are very nice; pretty young -women are especially nice; and of all pretty young women, clever young -women who write novels are perhaps as nice as any;--but to an editor -they are dangerous. Mr. Brown was at this time about forty, and had had -his experiences. The letter was cold, but he was afraid to make it -warmer. It was sent;--and when he received the following answer, it may -fairly be said that his editorial hair stood on end: - - “DEAR MR. BROWN, - - “I hate you and your compliments. That sort of communication means - nothing, and I won’t send you my MS. unless you are more in - earnest about it. I know the way in which rolls of paper are shoved - into pigeon-holes and left there till they are musty, while the - writers’ hearts are being broken. My heart may be broken some day, - but not in that way. - - “I won’t come to you between two and three on Friday. It sounds a - great deal too like a doctor’s appointment, and I don’t think much - of you if you are only at your work one hour in the week. Indeed, I - won’t go to you at all. If an interview is necessary you can come - here. But I don’t know that it will be necessary. - - “Old X. is a fool and knows nothing about it. My own approval is to - me very much more than his. I don’t suppose he’d know the inside of - a book if he saw it. I have given the very best that is in me to my - work, and I know that it is good. Even should you say that it is - not I shall not believe you. But I don’t think you will say so, - because I believe you to be in truth a clever fellow in spite of - your ‘compliments’ and your ‘two and three o’clock on a Friday.’ - - “If you want to see my MS., say so with some earnestness, and it - shall be conveyed to you. And please to say how much I shall be - paid for it, for I am as poor as Job. And name a date. I won’t be - put off with your ‘some time must elapse.’ It shall see the light, - or, at least, a part of it, within six months. That is my - intention. And don’t talk nonsense to me about clever novels not - suiting magazines,--unless you mean that as an excuse for - publishing so many stupid ones as you do. - - “You will see that I am frank; but I really do mean what I say. I - want it to come out in the ‘Olympus;’ and if we can I shall be so - happy to come to terms with you. - -“Yours as I find you, - -“JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.” - -“Thursday--King-Charles Street.” - - - -This was an epistle to startle an editor as coming from a young lady; -but yet there was something in it that seemed to imply strength. Before -answering it Mr. Brown did a thing which he must be presumed to have -done as man and not as editor. He walked off to King-Charles Street in -Camden Town, and looked at the house. It was a nice little street, very -quiet, quite genteel, completely made up with what we vaguely call -gentlemen’s houses, with two windows to each drawing-room, and with a -balcony to some of them, the prettiest balcony in the street belonging -to No. 19, near the park, and equally removed from poverty and -splendour. Brown walked down the street, on the opposite side, towards -the park, and looked up at the house. He intended to walk at once -homewards, across the park, to his own little home in St. John’s Wood -Road; but when he had passed half a street away from the Puffle -residence, he turned to have another look, and retraced his steps. As he -passed the door it was opened, and there appeared upon the steps,--one -of the prettiest little women he had ever seen in his life. She was -dressed for walking, with that jaunty, broad, open bonnet which women -then wore, and seemed, as some women do seem, to be an amalgam of -softness, prettiness, archness, fun, and tenderness,--and she carried a -tiny blue parasol. She was fair, gray-eyed, dimpled, all alive, and -dressed so nicely and yet simply, that Mr. Brown was carried away for -the moment by a feeling that he would like to publish her novel, let it -be what it might. And he heard her speak. “Charles,” she said, “you -sha’n’t smoke.” Our editor could, of course, only pass on, and had not -an opportunity of even seeing Charles. At the corner of the street he -turned round and saw them walking the other way. Josephine was leaning -on Charles’s arm. She had, however, distinctly avowed herself to be a -young lady,--in other words, an unmarried woman. There was, no doubt, a -mystery, and Mr. Brown felt it to be incumbent on him to fathom it. His -next letter was as follows:-- - - “MY DEAR MISS DE MONTMORENCI, - - “I am sorry that you should hate me and my compliments. I had - intended to be as civil and as nice as possible. I am quite in - earnest, and you had better send the MS. As to all the questions - you ask, I cannot answer them to any purpose till I have read the - story,--which I will promise to do without subjecting it to the - pigeon-holes. If you do not like Friday, you shall come on Monday, - or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Saturday, or even on - Sunday, if you wish it;--and at any hour, only let it be fixed. - -“Yours faithfully, - -“JONATHAN BROWN.” - - “Friday.” - -In the course of the next week the novel came, with another short note, -to which was attached no ordinary beginning or ending. “I send my -treasure, and, remember, I will have it back in a week if you do not -intend to keep it. I have not £5 left in the world, and I owe my -milliner ever so much, and money at the stables where I get a horse. And -I am determined to go to Dieppe in July. All must come out of my novel. -So do be a good man. If you are I will see you.” Herein she declared -plainly her own conviction that she had so far moved the editor by her -correspondence,--for she knew nothing, of course, of that ramble of his -through King-Charles Street,--as to have raised in his bosom a desire to -see her. Indeed, she made no secret of such conviction. “Do as I wish,” -she said plainly, “and I will gratify you by a personal interview.” But -the interview was not to be granted till the novel had been accepted and -the terms fixed,--such terms, too, as it would be very improbable that -any editor could accord. - -“Not so Black as he’s Painted;”--that was the name of the novel which it -now became the duty of Mr. Brown to read. When he got it home, he found -that the writing was much worse than that of the letters. It was small, -and crowded, and carried through without those technical demarcations -which are so comfortable to printers, and so essential to readers. The -erasures were numerous, and bits of the story were written, as it were, -here and there. It was a manuscript to which Mr. Brown would not have -given a second glance, had there not been an adventure behind it. The -very sending of such a manuscript to any editor would have been an -impertinence, if it were sent by any but a pretty woman. Mr. Brown, -however, toiled over it, and did read it,--read it, or at least enough -of it to make him know what it was. The verdict which Mr. Z. had given -was quite true. No one could have called the story stupid. No mentor -experienced in such matters would have ventured on such evidence to tell -the aspirant that she had mistaken her walk in life, and had better sit -at home and darn her stockings. Out of those heaps of ambitious -manuscripts which are daily subjected to professional readers such -verdicts may safely be given in regard to four-fifths,--either that the -aspirant should darn her stockings, or that he should prune his fruit -trees. It is equally so with the works of one sex as with those of the -other. The necessity of saying so is very painful, and the actual -stocking, or the fruit tree itself, is not often named. The cowardly -professional reader indeed, unable to endure those thorns in the flesh -of which poor Thackeray spoke so feelingly, when hard-pressed for -definite answers, generally lies. He has been asked to be candid, but he -cannot bring himself to undertake a duty so onerous, so odious, and one -as to which he sees so little reason that he personally should perform -it. But in regard to these aspirations,--to which have been given so -much labour, which have produced so many hopes, offsprings which are so -dear to the poor parents,--the decision at least is easy. And there are -others in regard to which a hopeful reader finds no difficulty,--as to -which he feels assured that he is about to produce to the world the -fruit of some new-found genius. But there are doubtful cases which worry -the poor judge till he knows not how to trust his own judgment. At this -page he says, “Yes, certainly;” at the next he shakes his head as he -sits alone amidst his papers. Then he is dead against the aspirant. -Again there is improvement, and he asks himself,--where is he to find -anything that is better? As our editor read Josephine’s novel,--he had -learned to call her Josephine in that silent speech in which most of us -indulge, and which is so necessary to an editor,--he was divided between -Yes and No throughout the whole story. Once or twice he found himself -wiping his eyes, and then it was all “yes” with him. Then he found the -pages ran with a cruel heaviness, which seemed to demand decisive -editorial severity. A whole novel, too, is so great a piece of business! -There would be such difficulty were he to accept it! How much must he -cut out! How many of his own hours must he devote to the repairing of -mutilated sentences, and the remodelling of indistinct scenes! In regard -to a small piece an editor, when moved that way, can afford to be -good-natured. He can give to it the hour or so of his own work which it -may require. And if after all it be nothing--or, as will happen -sometimes, much worse than nothing,--the evil is of short duration. In -admitting such a thing he has done an injury,--but the injury is small. -It passes in the crowd, and is forgotten. The best Homer that ever -edited must sometimes nod. But a whole novel! A piece of work that would -last him perhaps for twelve months! No editor can afford to nod for so -long a period. - -But then this tale, this novel of “Not so Black as he’s Painted,” this -story of a human devil, for whose crimes no doubt some Byronic apology -was made with great elaboration by the sensational Josephine, was not -exactly bad. Our editor had wept over it. Some tender-hearted Medora, -who on behalf of her hyena-in-love had gone through miseries enough to -kill half a regiment of heroines, had dimmed the judge’s eyes with -tears. What stronger proof of excellence can an editor have? But then -there were those long pages of metaphysical twaddle, sure to elicit -scorn and neglect from old and young. They, at any rate, must be cut -out. But in the cutting of them out a very mincemeat would be made of -the story. And yet Josephine de Montmorenci, with her impudent little -letters, had already made herself so attractive! What was our editor to -do? - -He knew well the difficulty that would be before him should he once dare -to accept, and then undertake to alter. She would be as a tigress to -him,--as a tigress fighting for her young. That work of altering is so -ungracious, so precarious, so incapable of success in its performance! -The long-winded, far-fetched, high-stilted, unintelligible sentence -which you elide with so much confidence in your judgment, has been the -very apple of your author’s eye. In it she has intended to convey to the -world the fruits of her best meditation for the last twelve months. -Thinking much over many things in her solitude, she has at last invented -a truth, and there it lies. That wise men may adopt it, and candid women -admire it, is the hope, the solace, and at last almost the certainty of -her existence. She repeats the words to herself, and finds that they -will form a choice quotation to be used in coming books. It is for the -sake of that one newly-invented truth,--so she tells herself, though not -quite truly,--that she desires publication. You come,--and with a dash -of your pen you annihilate the precious gem! Is it in human nature that -you should be forgiven? Mr. Brown had had his experiences, and -understood all this well. Nevertheless he loved dearly to please a -pretty woman. - -And it must be acknowledged that the letters of Josephine were such as -to make him sure that there might be an adventure if he chose to risk -the pages of his magazine. The novel had taken him four long evenings to -read, and at the end of the fourth he sat thinking of it for an hour. -Fortune either favoured him or the reverse,--as the reader may choose to -regard the question,--in this, that there was room for the story in his -periodical if he chose to take it. He wanted a novel,--but then he did -not want feminine metaphysics. He sat thinking of it, wondering in his -mind how that little smiling, soft creature with the gray eyes, and the -dimples, and the pretty walking-dress, could have written those -interminable pages as to the questionable criminality of crime; whether -a card-sharper might not be a hero; whether a murderer might not -sacrifice his all, even the secret of his murder, for the woman he -loved; whether devil might not be saint, and saint devil. At the end of -the hour he got up from his chair, stretched himself, with his hands in -his trousers-pockets, and said aloud, though alone, that he’d be d---- -if he would. It was an act of great self-denial, a triumph of principle -over passion. - -But though he had thus decided, he was not minded to throw over -altogether either Josephine or her novel. He might still, perhaps, do -something for her if he could find her amenable to reason. Thinking -kindly of her, very anxious to know her personally, and still desirous -of seeing the adventure to the end, he wrote the following note to her -that evening:-- - -‘Cross Bank, St. John’s Wood, - -“Saturday Night. - -“MY DEAR MISS DE MONTMORENCI, - - “I knew how it would be. I cannot give you an answer about your - novel without seeing you. It so often happens that the answer can’t - be Yes or No. You said something very cruel about dear old X., but - after all he was quite right in his verdict about the book. There - is a great deal in it; but it evidently was not written to suit - the pages of a magazine. Will you come to me, or shall I come to - you;--or shall I send the MS. back, and so let there be an end of - it? You must decide. If you direct that the latter course be taken, - I will obey; but I shall do so with most sincere regret, both on - account of your undoubted aptitude for literary work, and because I - am very anxious to become acquainted with my fair correspondent. - You see I can be as frank as you are yourself. - -“Yours most faithfully, - -“JONATHAN BROWN. - - - -“My advice to you would be to give up the idea of publishing this tale -in parts, and to make terms with X., Y., and Z.,--in endeavouring to do -which I shall be most happy to be of service to you.’ - - * * * * * - -This note he posted on the following day, and when he returned home on -the next night from his club, he found three replies from the divine, -but irritable and energetic, Josephine. We will give them according to -their chronology. - -No. 1. “Monday Morning.--Let me have my MS. back,--and pray, without any -delay.--J. DE M.” - - * * * * * - -No. 2. “Monday, 2 o’clock.--How can you have been so ill-natured,--and -after keeping it twelve days?” His answer had been written within a week -of the receipt of the parcel at his office, and he had acted with a -rapidity which nothing but some tender passion would have -instigated.--“What you say about being clever, and yet not fit for a -magazine, is rubbish. I know it is rubbish. I do not wish to see you. -Why should I see a man who will do nothing to oblige me? If X., Y., Z. -choose to buy it, at once, they shall have it. But I mean to be paid for -it, and I think you have behaved very ill to me.--JOSEPHINE.” - -No. 3. “Monday Evening.--My dear Mr. Brown,--Can you wonder that I -should have lost my temper and almost my head? I have written twice -before to-day, and hardly know what I said. I cannot understand you -editing people. You are just like women;--you will and you won’t. I am -so unhappy. I had allowed myself to feel almost certain that you would -take it, and have told that cross man at the stables he should have his -money. Of course I can’t make you publish it;--but how you can put in -such yards of stupid stuff, all about nothing on earth, and then send -back a novel which you say yourself is very clever, is what I can’t -understand. I suppose it all goes by favour, and the people who write -are your uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves. I can’t -make you do it, and therefore I suppose I must take your advice about -those old hugger-muggers in Paternoster Row. But there are ever so many -things you must arrange. I must have the money at once. And I won’t put -up with just a few pounds. I have been at work upon that novel for more -than two years, and I know that it is good. I hate to be grumbled at, -and complained of, and spoken to as if a publisher were doing me the -greatest favour in the world when he is just going to pick my brains to -make money of them. I did see old X., or old Z., or old Y., and the -snuffy old fellow told me that if I worked hard I might do something -some day. I have worked harder than ever he did,--sitting there and -squeezing brains, and sucking the juice out of them like an old ghoul. I -suppose I had better see you, because of money and all that. I’ll come, -or else send some one, at about two on Wednesday. I can’t put it off -till Friday, and I must be home by three. You might as well go to X., -Y., Z., in the meantime, and let me know what they say.--J. DE M.” - -There was an unparalleled impudence in all this which affronted, -amazed, and yet in part delighted our editor. Josephine evidently -regarded him as her humble slave, who had already received such favours -as entitled her to demand from him any service which she might require -of him. “You might as well go to X., Y., Z., and let me know what they -say!” And then that direct accusation against him,--that all went by -favour with him! “I think you have behaved very ill to me!” Why,--had he -not gone out of his way, very much out of his way indeed, to do her a -service? Was he not taking on her behalf an immense trouble for which he -looked for no remuneration,--unless remuneration should come in that -adventure of which she had but a dim foreboding? All this was -unparalleled impudence. But then impudence from pretty women is only -sauciness; and such sauciness is attractive. None but a very pretty -woman who openly trusted in her prettiness would dare to write such -letters, and the girl whom he had seen on the door-step was very pretty. -As to his going to X., Y., Z., before he had seen her, that was out of -the question. That very respectable firm in the Row would certainly not -give money for a novel without considerable caution, without much -talking, and a regular understanding and bargain. As a matter of course, -they would take time to consider. X., Y., and Z. were not in a hurry to -make money to pay a milliner or to satisfy a stable-keeper, and would -have but little sympathy for such troubles;--all which it would be Mr. -Brown’s unpleasant duty to explain to Josephine de Montmorenci. - -But though this would be unpleasant, still there might be pleasure. He -could foresee that there would be a storm, with much pouting, some -violent complaint, and perhaps a deluge of tears. But it would be for -him to dry the tears and allay the storm. The young lady could do him no -harm, and must at last be driven to admit that his kindness was -disinterested. He waited, therefore, for the Wednesday, and was careful -to be at the office of his magazine at two o’clock. In the ordinary way -of his business the office would not have seen him on that day, but the -matter had now been present in his mind so long, and had been so much -considered, had assumed so large a proportion in his thoughts,--that he -regarded not at all this extra trouble. With an air of indifference he -told the lad who waited upon him as half clerk and half errand-boy, that -he expected a lady; and then he sat down, as though to compose himself -to his work. But no work was done. Letters were not even opened. His -mind was full of Josephine de Montmorenci. If all the truth is to be -told, it must be acknowledged that he did not even wear the clothes that -were common to him when he sat in his editorial chair. He had prepared -himself somewhat, and a new pair of gloves was in his hat. It might be -that circumstances would require him to accompany Josephine at least a -part of the way back to Camden Town. - -At half-past two the lady was announced,--Miss de Montmorenci; and our -editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the -very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he -had seen upon the steps of the house in King-Charles Street. He could -swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet -see the veiled face. And this was a joy to him; for, though he had not -allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that -graceful houri might or might not be his Josephine. Now she was there, -present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he -might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope -so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. It was not one of -those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be -discussed. A horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to Dieppe were the -melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy it must be. Mr. Brown -had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying -father was the motive to which appeal was made. At worst there could be -no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and -gratitude, and smiles would come. He rose from his chair, and, giving -his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat. - -“I am very glad to see you here, Miss de Montmorenci,” he said. Then the -veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half -smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear. - -“We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Brown, for all the trouble you have -taken,” she said. - -“Don’t mention it. It comes in the way of my business to take such -trouble. The annoyance is in this, that I can so seldom do what is -wanted.” - -“It is so good of you to do anything!” - -“An editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which -he produces.” This announcement Mr. Brown made, no doubt, with some -little air of assumed personal dignity. The fact was one which no -heaven-born editor ever forgets. - -“Of course, Sir. And no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their -things taken.” - -“A good many there are, certainly.” - -“And everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty. - -“No, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,” -replied the experienced editor. “But this novel of yours, perhaps, may -be published.” - -“You think so?” - -“Indeed I do. I cannot say what X., Y., and Z. may say to it. I’m afraid -they will not do more than offer half profits.” - -“And that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady -plaintively. - -“I’m afraid not.” - -“Ah! if that could be managed!” - -“I haven’t seen the publishers, and of course I can say nothing myself. -You see I’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, -and lady-loves----” - -“Ah,--that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.” - -“And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.” - -“Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!” - -“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it -again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now -about your novel.” - -“It isn’t mine, you know.” - -“Not yours?” - -“Not my own, Mr. Brown.” - -“Then whose is it?” - -Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be -offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?” - -“Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our -editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she -spoke. - -“Then who are you?” asked Mr. Brown. - -“I am her sister;--or rather her sister-in-law. My name is Mrs. Puffle.” -How could Mrs. Puffle be the sister-in-law of Miss de Montmorenci? Some -such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not -followed out to any conclusion. Relationships are complex things, and, -as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. In the -half-moment that was allowed to him Mr. Brown reflected that Mrs. Puffle -might be the sister-in-law of a Miss de Montmorenci; or, at least, half -sister-in-law. It was even possible that Mrs. Puffle, young as she -looked, might have been previously married to a de Montmorenci. Of all -that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but -endeavoured as he went on to take some comfort from the fact that -Puffle was no doubt Charles. Josephine might perhaps have no Charles. -And then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled -thing before him could hardly have written “Not so Black as he’s -Painted,” with all its metaphysics. Josephine must be made of sterner -stuff. And, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue -parasol are hardly appropriate. There should be more of stature than -Mrs. Puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. The colour of -the dress should be black, with perhaps yellow trimmings; and the hand -should not be of pearly whiteness,--as Mrs. Puffle’s no doubt was, -though the well-fitting little glove gave no absolute information on -this subject. For such an adventure the appropriate colour of the skin -would be,--we will not say sallow exactly,--but running a little that -way. The beauty should be just toned by sadness; and the blood, as it -comes and goes, should show itself, not in blushes, but in the mellow, -changing lines of the brunette. All this Mr. Brown understood very well. - -“Oh,--you are Mrs. Puffle,” said Brown, after a short but perhaps -insufficient pause. “You are Charles Puffle’s wife?” - -“Do you know Charles?” asked the lady, putting up both her little -hands. “We don’t want him to hear anything about this. You haven’t told -him?” - -“I’ve told him nothing as yet,” said Mr. Brown. - -“Pray don’t. It’s a secret. Of course he’ll know it some day. Oh, Mr. -Brown, you won’t betray us. How very odd that you should know Charles!” - -“Does he smoke as much as ever, Mrs. Puffle?” - -“How very odd that he never should have mentioned it! Is it at his -office that you see him?” - -“Well, no; not at his office. How is it that he manages to get away on -an afternoon as he does?” - -“It’s very seldom,--only two or three times in a month,--when he really -has a headache from sitting at his work. Dear me, how odd! I thought he -told me everything, and he never mentioned your name.” - -“You needn’t mention mine, Mrs. Puffle, and the secret shall be kept. -But you haven’t told me about the smoking. Is he as inveterate as ever?” - -“Of course he smokes. They all smoke. I suppose then he used always to -be doing it before he married. I don’t think men ever tell the real -truth about things, though girls always tell everything.” - -“And now about your sister’s novel?” asked Mr. Brown, who felt that he -had mystified the little woman sufficiently about her husband. - -“Well, yes. She does want to get some money so badly! And it is -clever;--isn’t it? I don’t think I ever read anything cleverer. Isn’t it -enough to take your breath away when Orlando defends himself before the -lords?” This referred to a very high flown passage which Mr. Brown had -determined to cut out when he was thinking of printing the story for the -pages of the “Olympus.” “And she will be so broken-hearted! I hope you -are not angry with her because she wrote in that way.” - -“Not in the least. I liked her letters. She wrote what she really -thought.” - -“That is so good of you! I told her that I was sure you were -good-natured, because you answered so civilly. It was a kind of -experiment of hers, you know.” - -“Oh,--an experiment!” - -“It is so hard to get at people. Isn’t it? If she’d just written, ‘Dear -Sir, I send you a manuscript,’--you never would have looked at -it:--would you?” - -“We read everything, Mrs. Puffle.” - -“But the turn for all the things comes so slowly; doesn’t it? So Polly -thought----” - -“Polly,--what did Polly think?” - -“I mean Josephine. We call her Polly just as a nickname. She was so -anxious to get you to read it at once! And now what must we do?” Mr. -Brown sat silent awhile, thinking. Why did they call Josephine de -Montmorenci Polly? But there was the fact of the MS., let the name of -the author be what it might. On one thing he was determined. He would -take no steps till he had himself seen the lady who wrote the novel. -“You’ll go to the gentlemen in Paternoster Row immediately; won’t you?” -asked Mrs. Puffle, with a pretty little beseeching look which it was -very hard to resist. - -“I think I must ask to see the authoress first,” said Mr. Brown. - -“Won’t I do?” asked Mrs. Puffle. “Josephine is so particular. I mean she -dislikes so very much to talk about her own writings and her own works.” -Mr. Brown thought of the tenor of the letters which he had received, and -found that he could not reconcile with it this character which was given -to him of Miss de Montmorenci. “She has an idea,” continued Mrs. Puffle, -“that genius should not show itself publicly. Of course, she does not -say that herself. And she does not think herself to be a genius;--though -I think it. And she is a genius. There are things in ‘Not so Black as -he’s Painted’ which nobody but Polly could have written.” - -Nevertheless Mr. Brown was firm. He explained that he could not possibly -treat with Messrs. X., Y., and Z.,--if any treating should become -possible,--without direct authority from the principal. He must have -from Miss de Montmorenci’s mouth what might be the arrangements to which -she would accede. If this could not be done he must wash his hands of -the affair. He did not doubt, he said, but that Miss de Montmorenci -might do quite as well with the publishers by herself, as she could with -any aid from him. Perhaps it would be better that she should see Mr. X. -herself. But if he, Brown, was to be honoured by any delegated -authority, he must see the author. In saying this he implied that he had -not the slightest desire to interfere further, and that he had no wish -to press himself on the lady. Mrs. Puffle, with just a tear, and then a -smile, and then a little coaxing twist of her lips, assured him that -their only hope was in him. She would carry his message to Josephine, -and he should have a further letter from that lady. “And you won’t tell -Charles that I have been here,” said Mrs. Puffle as she took her leave. - -“Certainly not. I won’t say a word of it.” - -“It is so odd that you should have known him.” - -“Don’t let him smoke too much, Mrs. Puffle.” - -“I don’t intend. I’ve brought him down to one cigar and a pipe a -day,--unless he smokes at the office.” - -“They all do that;--nearly the whole day.” - -“What; at the Post Office!” - -“That’s why I mention it. I don’t think they’re allowed at any of the -other offices, but they do what they please there. I shall keep the MS. -till I hear from Josephine herself.” Then Mrs. Puffle took her leave -with many thanks, and a grateful pressure from her pretty little hand. - -Two days after this there came the promised letter from Josephine. - - “DEAR MR. BROWN, - - “I cannot understand why you should not go to X., Y., and Z. - without seeing me. I hardly ever see anybody; but, of course, you - must come if you will. I got my sister to go because she is so - gentle and nice, that I thought she could persuade anybody to do - anything. She says that you know Mr. Puffle quite well, which seems - to be so very odd. He doesn’t know that I ever write a word, and I - didn’t think he had an acquaintance in the world whom I don’t know - the name of. You’re quite wrong about one thing. They never smoke - at the Post Office, and they wouldn’t be let to do it. If you - choose to come, you must. I shall be at home any time on Friday - morning,--that is, after half-past nine, when Charles goes away. - -“Yours truly, - -“J. DE M. - - - -“We began to talk about editors after dinner, just for fun; and Charles -said that he didn’t know that he had ever seen one. Of course we didn’t -say anything about the ‘Olympus;’ but I don’t know why he should be so -mysterious.” Then there was a second postscript, written down in a -corner of the sheet of paper. “I know you’ll be sorry you came.” - - * * * * * - -Our editor was now quite determined that he would see the adventure to -an end. He had at first thought that Josephine was keeping herself in -the background merely that she might enhance the favour of a personal -meeting when that favour should be accorded. A pretty woman believing -herself to be a genius, and thinking that good things should ever be -made scarce, might not improbably fall into such a foible. But now he -was convinced that she would prefer to keep herself unseen if her doing -so might be made compatible with her great object. Mr. Brown was not a -man to intrude himself unnecessarily upon any woman unwilling to receive -him; but in this case it was, so he thought, his duty to persevere. So -he wrote a pretty little note to Miss Josephine saying that he would be -with her at eleven o’clock on the day named. - -Precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in -King-Charles Street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by -the fair hands of Mrs. Puffle herself. “H--sh,” said Mrs. Puffle; “we -don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” Mr. Brown, who cared -nothing for the servants of the Puffle establishment, and who was -becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair, -simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “My sister is up -stairs,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” Then she -paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;--“I am -so sorry to say that Polly is not well.--But she means to see you,” Mrs. -Puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far -prevailed, made some sign as though he was about to retreat. “She never -is very well,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so -much. Do you know, Mr. Brown, I think the mind sometimes eats up the -body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” They were -now upon the stairs, and Mr. Brown followed the little lady into her -drawing-room. - -There, almost hidden in the depths of a low arm-chair, sat a little -wizened woman, not old indeed,--when Mr. Brown came to know her better, -he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers,--but -with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the -beholder. Who has not seen it,--the face in which the eye and the brow -are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard? -See such a one when she sleeps,--when the brightness of the eye is -hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the -difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is -generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude. -“This is my sister-in-law,” said Mrs. Puffle, introducing the two -correspondents to each other. The editor looked at the little woman who -made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the -brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared -so very plainly in her letters. And there was a smile too about the -mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to -indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling -of her riddle,--as though she were saying to herself, “What do you think -now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters, -and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the -morning to Camden Town?” Mr. Brown shook hands with her, and muttered -something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better -health. - -“No,” said Josephine de Montmorenci, “I am not very well. I never am. I -told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.” - -We say no more than the truth of Mr. Brown in declaring that he was now -more ready than ever to do whatever might be in his power to forward the -views of this young authoress. If he was interested before when he -believed her to be beautiful, he was doubly interested for her now when -he knew her to be a cripple;--for he had seen when she made that faint -attempt to rise that her spine was twisted, and that, when she stood up, -her head sank between her shoulders. “I am very glad to make your -acquaintance,” he said, seating himself near her. “I should never have -been satisfied without doing so.” - -“It is so very good of you to come,” said Mrs. Puffle. - -“Of course it is good of him,” said Josephine; “especially after the way -we wrote to him. The truth is, Mr. Brown, we were at our wits’ end to -catch you.” - -This was an aspect of the affair which our editor certainly did not -like. An attempt to deceive anybody else might have been pardonable; but -deceit practised against himself was odious to him. Nevertheless, he did -forgive it. The poor little creature before him had worked hard, and had -done her best. To teach her to be less metaphysical in her writings, and -more straightforward in her own practices, should be his care. There is -something to a man inexpressibly sweet in the power of protecting the -weak; and no one had ever seemed to be weaker than Josephine. “Miss de -Montmorenci,” he said, “we will let bygones be bygones, and will say -nothing about the letters. It is no doubt the fact that you did write -the novel yourself?” - -“Every word of it,” said Mrs. Puffle energetically. - -“Oh, yes; I wrote it,” said Josephine. - -“And you wish to have it published?” - -“Indeed I do.” - -“And you wish to get money for it?” - -“That is the truest of all,” said Josephine. - -“Oughtn’t one to be paid when one has worked so very hard?” said Mrs. -Puffle. - -“Certainly one ought to be paid if it can be proved that one’s work is -worth buying,” replied the sage mentor of literature. - -“But isn’t it worth buying?” demanded Mrs. Puffle. - -“I must say that I think that publishers do buy some that are worse,” -observed Josephine. - -Mr. Brown with words of wisdom explained to them as well as he was able -the real facts of the case. It might be that that manuscript, over which -the poor invalid had laboured for so many painful hours, would prove to -be an invaluable treasure of art, destined to give delight to thousands -of readers, and to be, when printed, a source of large profits to -publishers, booksellers, and author. Or, again, it might be that, with -all its undoubted merits,--and that there were such merits Mr. Brown was -eager in acknowledging,--the novel would fail to make any way with the -public. “A publisher,”--so said Mr. Brown,--“will hardly venture to pay -you a sum of money down, when the risk of failure is so great.” - -“But Polly has written ever so many things before,” said Mrs. Puffle. - -“That counts for nothing,” said Miss de Montmorenci. “They were short -pieces, and appeared without a name.” - -“Were you paid for them?” asked Mr. Brown. - -“I have never been paid a halfpenny for anything yet.” - -“Isn’t that cruel,” said Mrs. Puffle, “to work, and work, and work, and -never get the wages which ought to be paid for it?” - -“Perhaps there may be a good time coming,” said our editor. “Let us see -whether we can get Messrs. X., Y., and Z. to publish this at their own -expense, and with your name attached to it. Then, Miss de -Montmorenci----” - -“I suppose we had better tell him all,” said Josephine. - -“Oh, yes; tell everything. I am sure he won’t be angry; he is so -good-natured,” said Mrs. Puffle. - -Mr. Brown looked first at one, and then at the other, feeling himself to -be rather uncomfortable. What was there that remained to be told? He was -good-natured, but he did not like being told of that virtue. “The name -you have heard is not my name,” said the lady who had written the -novel. - -“Oh, indeed! I have heard Mrs. Puffle call you,--Polly.” - -“My name is,--Maryanne.” - -“It is a very good name,” said Mr. Brown,--“so good that I cannot quite -understand why you should go out of your way to assume another.” - -“It is Maryanne,--Puffle.” - -“Oh;--Puffle!” said Mr. Brown. - -“And a very good name, too,” said Mrs. Puffle. - -“I haven’t a word to say against it,” said Mr. Brown. “I wish I could -say quite as much as to that other name,--Josephine de Montmorenci.” - -“But Maryanne Puffle would be quite unendurable on a title-page,” said -the owner of the unfortunate appellation. - -“I don’t see it,” said Mr. Brown doggedly. - -“Ever so many have done the same,” said Mrs. Puffle. “There’s Boz.” - -“Calling yourself Boz isn’t like calling yourself Josephine de -Montmorenci,” said the editor, who could forgive the loss of beauty, but -not the assumed grandeur of the name. - -“And Currer Bell, and Jacob Omnium, and Barry Cornwall,” said poor Polly -Puffle, pleading hard for her falsehood. - -“And Michael Angelo Titmarsh! That was quite the same sort of thing,” -said Mrs. Puffle. - -Our editor tried to explain to them that the sin of which he now -complained did not consist in the intention,--foolish as that had -been,--of putting such a name as Josephine de Montmorenci on the -title-page, but in having corresponded with him,--with him who had been -so willing to be a friend,--under a false name. “I really think you -ought to have told me sooner,” he said. - -“If we had known you had been a friend of Charles’s we would have told -you at once,” said the young wife. - -“I never had the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Puffle in my life,” said -Mr. Brown. Mrs. Puffle opened her little mouth, and held up both her -little hands. Polly Puffle stared at her sister-in-law. “And what is -more,” continued Mr. Brown, “I never said that I had had that pleasure.” - -“You didn’t tell me that Charles smoked at the Post Office,” exclaimed -Mrs. Puffle,--“which he swears that he never does, and that he would be -dismissed at once if he attempted it?” Mr. Brown was driven to a smile. -“I declare I don’t understand you, Mr. Brown.” - -“It was his little Roland for our little Oliver,” said Miss Puffle. - -Mr. Brown felt that his Roland had been very small, whereas the Oliver -by which he had been taken in was not small at all. But he was forced to -accept the bargain. What is a man against a woman in such a matter? What -can he be against two women, both young, of whom one was pretty and the -other an invalid? Of course he gave way, and of course he undertook the -mission to X., Y., and Z. We have not ourselves read “Not so Black as -he’s Painted,” but we can say that it came out in due course under the -hands of those enterprising publishers, and that it made what many of -the reviews called quite a success. - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE PANJANDRUM. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE PANJANDRUM. - -PART I.--HOPE. - - -We hardly feel certain that we are justified in giving the following -little story to the public as an Editor’s Tale, because at the time to -which it refers, and during the circumstances with which it deals, no -editorial power was, in fact, within our grasp. As the reader will -perceive, the ambition and the hopes, and something of a promise of the -privileges, were there; but the absolute chair was not mounted for us. -The great WE was not, in truth, ours to use. And, indeed, the interval -between the thing we then so cordially desired, and the thing as it has -since come to exist, was one of so many years, that there can be no -right on our part to connect the two periods. We shall, therefore, tell -our story, as might any ordinary individual, in the first person -singular, and speak of such sparks of editorship as did fly up around us -as having created but a dim coruscation, and as having been quite -insufficient to justify the delicious plural. - - * * * * * - -It is now just thirty years ago since we determined to establish the -“Panjandrum” Magazine. The “we” here spoken of is not an editorial we, -but a small set of human beings who shall be personally introduced to -the reader. The name was intended to be delightfully meaningless, but we -all thought that it was euphonious, graphic, also,--and sententious, -even though it conveyed no definite idea. That question of a name had -occupied us a good deal, and had almost split us into parties. I,--for I -will now speak of myself as I,--I had wished to call it by the name of a -very respectable young publisher who was then commencing business, and -by whom we intended that the trade part of our enterprise should be -undertaken. “Colburn’s” was an old affair in those days, and I doubt -whether “Bentley’s” was not already in existence. “Blackwood’s” and -“Fraser’s” were at the top of the tree, and, as I think, the -“Metropolitan” was the only magazine then in much vogue not called by -the name of this or that enterprising publisher. But some of our -colleagues would not hear of this, and were ambitious of a title that -should describe our future energies and excellences. I think we should -have been called the “Pandrastic,” but that the one lady who joined our -party absolutely declined the name. At one moment we had almost carried -“Panurge.” The “Man’s” Magazine was thought of, not as opposed to -womanhood, but as intended to trump the “Gentleman’s.” But a hint was -given to us that we might seem to imply that our periodical was not -adapted for the perusal of females. We meant the word “man” in the great -generic sense;--but the somewhat obtuse outside world would not have so -taken it. “The H. B. P.” was for a time in the ascendant, and was -favoured by the lady, who drew for us a most delightful little circle -containing the letters illustrated;--what would now be called a -monogram, only that the letters were legible. The fact that nobody would -comprehend that “H. B. P.” intended to express the general opinion of -the shareholders that “Honesty is the Best Policy,” was felt to be a -recommendation rather than otherwise. I think it was the enterprising -young publisher who objected to the initials,--not, I am sure, from any -aversion to the spirit of the legend. Many other names were tried, and I -shall never forget the look which went round our circle when one young -and gallant, but too indiscreet reformer, suggested that were it not for -offence, whence offence should not come, the “Purge” was the very name -for us;--from all which it will be understood that it was our purpose to -put right many things that were wrong. The matter held us in discussion -for some months, and then we agreed to call the great future lever of -the age,--the “Panjandrum.” - -When a new magazine is about to be established in these days, the first -question raised will probably be one of capital. A very considerable sum -of money, running far into four figures,--if not going beyond it,--has -to be mentioned, and made familiar to the ambitious promoters of the -enterprise. It was not so with us. Nor was it the case that our young -friend the publisher agreed to find the money, leaving it to us to find -the wit. I think we selected our young friend chiefly because, at that -time, he had no great business to speak of, and could devote his time to -the interests of the “Panjandrum.” As for ourselves we were all poor; -and in the way of capital a set of human beings more absurdly -inefficient for any purposes of trade could not have been brought -together. We found that for a sum of money which we hoped that we might -scrape together among us, we could procure paper and print for a couple -of thousand copies of our first number;--and, after that, we were to -obtain credit for the second number by the reputation of the first. -Literary advertising, such as is now common to us, was then unknown. The -cost of sticking up “The Panjandrum” at railway stations and on the tops -of the omnibuses, certainly would not be incurred. Of railway stations -there were but few in the country, and even omnibuses were in their -infancy. A few modest announcements in the weekly periodicals of the day -were thought to be sufficient; and, indeed, there pervaded us all an -assurance that the coming of the “Panjandrum” would be known to all men, -even before it had come. I doubt whether our desire was not concealment -rather than publicity. We measured the importance of the “Panjandrum” by -its significance to ourselves, and by the amount of heart which we -intended to throw into it. Ladies and gentlemen who get up magazines in -the present day are wiser. It is not heart that is wanted, but very big -letters on very big boards, and plenty of them. - -We were all heart. It must be admitted now that we did not bestow upon -the matter of literary excellence quite so much attention as that -branch of the subject deserves. We were to write and edit our magazine -and have it published, not because we were good at writing or editing, -but because we had ideas which we wished to promulgate. Or it might be -the case with some of us that we only thought that we had ideas. But -there was certainly present to us all a great wish to do some good. -That, and a not altogether unwholesome appetite for a reputation which -should not be personal, were our great motives. I do not think that we -dreamed of making fortunes; though no doubt there might be present to -the mind of each of us an idea that an opening to the profession of -literature might be obtained through the pages of the “Panjandrum.” In -that matter of reputation we were quite agreed that fame was to be -sought, not for ourselves, nor for this or that name, but for the -“Panjandrum.” No man or woman was to declare himself to be the author of -this or that article;--nor indeed was any man or woman to declare -himself to be connected with a magazine. The only name to be known to a -curious public was that of the young publisher. All intercourse between -the writers and the printers was to be through him. If contributions -should come from the outside world,--as come they would,--they were to -be addressed to the Editor of the “Panjandrum,” at the publisher’s -establishment. It was within the scope of our plan to use any such -contribution that might please us altogether; but the contents of the -magazine were, as a rule, to come from ourselves. A magazine then, as -now, was expected to extend itself through something over a hundred and -twenty pages; but we had no fear as to our capacity for producing the -required amount. We feared rather that we might jostle each other in our -requirements for space. - -We were six, and, young as I was then, I was to be the editor. But to -the functions of the editor was to be attached very little editorial -responsibility. What should and what should not appear in each monthly -number was to be settled in conclave. Upon one point, however, we were -fully agreed,--that no personal jealousy should ever arise among us so -as to cause quarrel or even embarrassment. As I had already written some -few slight papers for the press, it was considered probable that I might -be able to correct proofs, and do the fitting and dovetailing. My -editing was not to go beyond that. If by reason of parity of numbers in -voting there should arise a difficulty, the lady was to have a double -vote. Anything more noble, more chivalrous, more trusting, or, I may -add, more philanthropic than our scheme never was invented; and for the -persons, I will say that they were noble, chivalrous, trusting, and -philanthropic;--only they were so young! - -Place aux dames. We will speak of the lady first,--more especially as -our meetings were held at her house. I fear that I may, at the very -outset of our enterprise, turn the hearts of my readers against her by -saying that Mrs. St. Quinten was separated from her husband. I must, -however, beg them to believe that this separation had been occasioned by -no moral fault or odious misconduct on her part. I will confess that I -did at that time believe that Mr. St. Quinten was an ogre, and that I -have since learned to think that he simply laboured under a strong and, -perhaps, monomaniacal objection to literary pursuits. As Mrs. St. -Quinten was devoted to them, harmony was impossible, and the marriage -was unfortunate. She was young, being perhaps about thirty; but I think -that she was the eldest amongst us. She was good-looking, with an ample -brow, and bright eyes, and large clever mouth; but no woman living was -ever further removed from any propensity to flirtation. There resided -with her a certain Miss Collins, an elderly, silent lady, who was -present at all our meetings, and who was considered to be pledged to -secrecy. Once a week we met and drank tea at Mrs. St. Quinten’s house. -It may be as well to explain that Mrs. St. Quinten really had an -available income, which was a condition of life unlike that of her -colleagues,--unless as regarded one, who was a fellow of an Oxford -college. She could certainly afford to give us tea and muffins once a -week;--but, in spite of our general impecuniosity, the expense of -commencing the magazine was to be borne equally by us all. I can assure -the reader, with reference to more than one of the members, that they -occasionally dined on bread and cheese, abstaining from meat and pudding -with the view of collecting the sum necessary for the great day. - -The idea had originated, I think, between Mrs. St. Quinten and Churchill -Smith. Churchill Smith was a man with whom, I must own, I never felt -that perfect sympathy which bound me to the others. Perhaps among us all -he was the most gifted. Such at least was the opinion of Mrs. St. -Quinten and, perhaps, of himself. He was a cousin of the lady’s, and had -made himself particularly objectionable to the husband by instigating -his relative to write philosophical essays. It was his own speciality to -be an unbeliever and a German scholar; and we gave him credit for being -so deep in both arts that no man could go deeper. It had, however, been -decided among us very early in our arrangements,--and so decided, not -without great chance of absolute disruption,--that his infidelity was -not to bias the magazine. He was to take the line of deep thinking, -German poetry, and unintelligible speculation generally. He used to talk -of Comte, whose name I had never heard till it fell from his lips, and -was prepared to prove that Coleridge was very shallow. He was generally -dirty, unshorn, and, as I thought, disagreeable. He called Mrs. St. -Quinten Lydia, because of his cousinship, and no one knew how or where -he lived. I believe him to have been a most unselfish, abstemious -man,--one able to control all appetites of the flesh. I think that I -have since heard that he perished in a Russian prison. - -My dearest friend among the number was Patrick Regan, a young Irish -barrister, who intended to shine at the English Bar. I think the world -would have used him better had his name been John Tomkins. The history -of his career shows very plainly that the undoubted brilliance of his -intellect, and his irrepressible personal humour and good-humour have -been always unfairly weighted by those Irish names. What attorney, with -any serious matter in hand, would willingly go to a barrister who -called himself Pat Regan? And then, too, there always remained with him -just a hint of a brogue,--and his nose was flat in the middle! I do not -believe that all the Irishmen with flattened noses have had the bone of -the feature broken by a crushing blow in a street row; and yet they -certainly look as though that peculiar appearance had been the result of -a fight with sticks. Pat has told me a score of times that he was born -so, and I believe him. He had a most happy knack of writing verses, -which I used to think quite equal to Mr. Barham’s, and he could rival -the droll Latinity of Father Prout who was coming out at that time with -his “Dulcis Julia Callage,” and the like. Pat’s father was an attorney -at Cork; but not prospering, I think, for poor Pat was always short of -money. He had, however, paid the fees, and was entitled to appear in wig -and gown wherever common-law barristers do congregate. He is -Attorney-General at one of the Turtle Islands this moment, with a salary -of £400 a year. I hear from him occasionally, and the other day he sent -me “Captain Crosbie is my name,” done into endecasyllabics. I doubt, -however, whether he ever made a penny by writing for the press. I cannot -say that Pat was our strongest prop. He sometimes laughed at -“Lydia,”--and then I was brought into disgrace, as having introduced -him to the company. - -Jack Hallam, the next I will name, was also intended for the Bar: but, I -think, never was called. Of all the men I have encountered in life he -was certainly the most impecunious. Now he is a millionaire. He was one -as to whom all who knew him,--friends and foes alike,--were decided that -under no circumstances would he ever work, or by any possibility earn a -penny. Since then he has applied himself to various branches of -commerce, first at New York and then at San Francisco; he has laboured -for twenty-four years almost without a holiday, and has shown a -capability for sustaining toil which few men have equalled. He had been -introduced to our set by Walter Watt, of whom I will speak just now; and -certainly when I remember the brightness of his wit and the flow of his -words, and his energy when he was earnest, I am bound to acknowledge -that in searching for sheer intellect,--for what I may call power,--we -did not do wrong to enrol Jack Hallam. He had various crude ideas in his -head of what he would do for us,--having a leaning always to the side of -bitter mirth. I think he fancied that satire might be his forte. As it -is, they say that no man living has a quicker eye to the erection of a -block of buildings in a coming city. He made a fortune at Chicago, and -is said to have erected Omaha out of his own pocket. I am told that he -pays income-tax in the United States on nearly a million dollars per -annum. I wonder whether he would lend me five pounds if I asked him? I -never knew a man so free as Jack at borrowing half-a-crown or a clean -pocket-handkerchief. - -Walter Watt was a fellow of ----. ---- I believe has fellows who do not -take orders. It must have had one such in those days, for nothing could -have induced our friend, Walter Watt, to go into the Church. How it came -to pass that the dons of a college at Oxford should have made a fellow -of so wild a creature was always a mystery to us. I have since been told -that at ---- the reward could hardly be refused to a man who had gone -out a “first” in classics and had got the “Newdegate.” Such had been the -career of young Watt. And, though I say that he was wild, his moral -conduct was not bad. He simply objected on principle to all authority, -and was of opinion that the goods of the world should be in common. I -must say of him that in regard to one individual his practice went even -beyond his preaching; for Jack Hallam certainly consumed more of the -fellowship than did Walter Watt himself. Jack was dark and swarthy. -Walter was a fair little man, with long hair falling on the sides of his -face, and cut away over his forehead,--as one sees it sometimes cut in a -picture. He had round blue eyes, a well-formed nose, and handsome mouth -and chin. He was very far gone in his ideas of reform, and was quite in -earnest in his hope that by means of the “Panjandrum” something might be -done to stay the general wickedness,--or rather ugliness of the world. -At that time Carlyle was becoming prominent as a thinker and writer -among us, and Watt was never tired of talking to us of the hero of -“Sartor Resartus.” He was an excellent and most unselfish man,--whose -chief fault was an inclination for the making of speeches, which he had -picked up at an Oxford debating society. He now lies buried at Kensal -Green. I thought to myself, when I saw another literary friend laid -there some eight years since, that the place had become very quickly -populated since I and Regan had seen poor Watt placed in his last home, -almost amidst a desert. - -Of myself, I need only say that at that time I was very young, very -green, and very ardent as a politician. The Whigs were still in office; -but we, who were young then, and warm in our political convictions, -thought that the Whigs were doing nothing for us. It must be remembered -that things and ideas have advanced so quickly during the last thirty -years, that the Conservatism of 1870 goes infinitely further in the -cause of general reform than did the Radicalism of 1840. I was regarded -as a Democrat because I was loud against the Corn Laws; and was accused -of infidelity when I spoke against the Irish Church Endowments. I take -some pride to myself that I should have seen these evils to be evils -even thirty years ago. But to Household Suffrage I doubt whether even my -spirit had ascended. If I remember rightly I was great upon annual -parliaments; but I know that I was discriminative, and did not accept -all the points of the seven-starred charter. I had an idea in those -days,--I can confess it now after thirty years,--that I might be able to -indite short political essays which should be terse, argumentative, and -convincing, and at the same time full of wit and frolic. I never quite -succeeded in pleasing even myself in any such composition. At this time -I did a little humble work for the ----, but was quite resolved to fly -at higher game than that. - -As I began with the lady, so I must end with her. I had seen and read -sheaves of her MS., and must express my conviction at this day, when all -illusions are gone, that she wrote with wonderful ease and with some -grace. A hard critic might perhaps say that it was slip-slop; but still -it was generally readable. I believe that in the recesses of her -privacy, and under the dark and secret guidance of Churchill Smith, she -did give way to German poetry and abstruse thought. I heard once that -there was a paper of hers on the essence of existence, in which she -answered that great question, as to personal entity, or as she put it, -“What is it, to be?” The paper never appeared before the Committee, -though I remember the question to have been once suggested for -discussion. Pat Regan answered it at once,--“A drop of something short,” -said he. I thought then that everything was at an end! Her translation -into a rhymed verse of a play of Schiller’s did come before us, and -nobody could have behaved better than she did, when she was told that it -hardly suited our project. What we expected from Mrs. St. Quinten in the -way of literary performance I cannot say that we ourselves had exactly -realised, but we knew that she was always ready for work. She gave us -tea and muffins, and bore with us when we were loud, and devoted her -time to our purposes, and believed in us. She had exquisite tact in -saving us from wordy quarrelling, and was never angry herself, except -when Pat Regan was too hard upon her. What became of her I never knew. -When the days of the “Panjandrum” were at an end she vanished from our -sight. I always hoped that Mr. St. Quinten reconciled himself to -literature, and took her back to his bosom. - -While we were only determining that the thing should be, all went -smoothly with us. Columns, or the open page, made a little difficulty; -but the lady settled it for us in favour of the double column. It is a -style of page which certainly has a wiser look about it than the other; -and then it has the advantage of being clearly distinguished from the -ordinary empty book of the day. The word “padding,” as belonging to -literature, was then unknown; but the idea existed,--and perhaps the -thing. We were quite resolved that there should be no padding in the -“Panjandrum.” I think our most ecstatic, enthusiastic, and accordant -moments were those in which we resolved that it should be all good, all -better than anything else,--all best. We were to struggle after -excellence with an energy that should know no relaxing,--and the -excellence was not to be that which might produce for us the greatest -number of half-crowns, but of the sort which would increase truth in the -world, and would teach men to labour hard and bear their burdens nobly, -and become gods upon earth. I think our chief feeling was one of -impatience in having to wait to find to what heaven death would usher -us, who unfortunately had to be human before we could put on divinity. -We wanted heaven at once,--and were not deterred though Jack Hallam -would borrow ninepence and Pat Regan make his paltry little jokes. - -We had worked hard for six months before we began to think of writing, -or even of apportioning to each contributor what should be written for -the first number. I shall never forget the delight there was in having -the young publisher in to tea, and in putting him through his figures, -and in feeling that it became us for the moment to condescend to matters -of trade. We felt him to be an inferior being; but still it was much for -us to have progressed so far towards reality as to have a real publisher -come to wait upon us. It was at that time clearly understood that I was -to be the editor, and I felt myself justified in taking some little lead -in arranging matters with our energetic young friend. A remark that I -made one evening was very mild,--simply some suggestion as to the -necessity of having a more than ordinarily well-educated set of -printers;--but I was snubbed infinitely by Churchill Smith. “Mr X.,” -said he, “can probably tell us more about printing than we can tell -him.” I felt so hurt that I was almost tempted to leave the room at -once. I knew very well that if I seceded Pat Regan would go with me, and -that the whole thing must fall to the ground. Mrs. St. Quinten, however, -threw instant oil upon the waters. “Churchill,” said she, “let us live -and learn. Mr. X., no doubt, knows. Why should we not share his -knowledge?” I smothered my feelings in the public cause, but I was -conscious of a wish that Mr. Smith might fall among the Philistines of -Cursitor Street, and so of necessity be absent from our meetings. There -was an idea among us that he crept out of his hiding-place, and came to -our conferences by by-ways; which was confirmed when our hostess -proposed that our evening should be changed from Thursday, the day first -appointed, to Sunday. We all acceded willingly, led away somewhat, I -fear, by an idea that it was the proper thing for advanced spirits such -as ours to go to work on that day which by ancient law is appointed for -rest. - -Mrs. St. Quinten would always open our meeting with a little speech. -“Gentlemen and partners in this enterprise,” she would say, “the tea is -made, and the muffins are ready. Our hearts are bound together in the -work. We are all in earnest in the good cause of political reform and -social regeneration. Let the spirit of harmony prevail among us. Mr. -Hallam, perhaps you’ll take the cover off.” To see Jack Hallam eat -muffins was,--I will say “a caution,” if the use of the slang phrase may -be allowed to me for the occasion. It was presumed among us that on -these days he had not dined. Indeed, I doubt whether he often did -dine,--supper being his favourite meal. I have supped with him more than -once, at his invitation,--when to be without coin in my own pocket was -no disgrace,--and have wondered at the equanimity with which the vendors -of shell-fish have borne my friend’s intimation that he must owe them -the little amount due for our evening entertainment. On these occasions -his friend Watt was never with him, for Walter’s ideas as to the common -use of property were theoretical. Jack dashed at once into the more -manly course of practice. When he came to Mrs. St. Quinten’s one evening -in my best,--nay, why dally with the truth?--in my only pair of black -dress trousers, which I had lent him ten days before, on the occasion, -as I then believed, of a real dinner party, I almost denounced him -before his colleagues. I think I should have done so had I not felt that -he would in some fashion have so turned the tables on me that I should -have been the sufferer. There are men with whom one comes by the worst -in any contest, let justice on one’s own side be ever so strong and ever -so manifest. - -But this is digression. After the little speech, Jack would begin upon -the muffins, and Churchill Smith,--always seated at his cousin’s left -hand,--would hang his head upon his hand, wearing a look of mingled -thought and sorrow on his brow. He never would eat muffins. We fancied -that he fed himself with penny hunches of bread as he walked along the -streets. As a man he was wild, unsociable, untamable; but, as a -philosopher, he had certainly put himself beyond most of those wants to -which Jack Hallam and others among us were still subject. “Lydia,” he -once said, when pressed hard to partake of the good things provided, -“man cannot live by muffins alone,--no, nor by tea and muffins. That by -which he can live is hard to find. I doubt we have not found it yet.” - -This, to me, seemed to be rank apostasy,--infidelity to the cause which -he was bound to trust as long as he kept his place in that society. How -shall you do anything in the world, achieve any success, unless you -yourself believe in yourself? And if there be a partnership either in -mind or matter, your partner must be the same to you as yourself. -Confidence is so essential to the establishment of a magazine! I felt -then, at least, that the “Panjandrum” could have no chance without it, -and I rebuked Mr. Churchill Smith. “We know what you mean by that,” said -I;--“because we don’t talk German metaphysics, you think we aint worth -our salt.” - -“So much worth it,” said he, “that I trust heartily you may find enough -to save you even yet.” - -I was about to boil over with wrath; but Walter Watt was on his legs, -making a speech about the salt of the earth, before I had my words -ready. Churchill Smith would put up with Walter when he would endure -words from no one else. I used to think him mean enough to respect the -Oxford fellowship, but I have since fancied that he believed that he had -discovered a congenial spirit. In those days I certainly did despise -Watt’s fellowship, but in later life I have come to believe that men who -get rewards have generally earned them. Watt on this occasion made a -speech to which in my passion I hardly attended; but I well remember -how, when I was about to rise in my wrath, Mrs. St. Quinten put her hand -on my arm, and calmed me. “If you,” said she, “to whom we most trust for -orderly guidance, are to be the first to throw down the torch of -discord, what will become of us?” - -“I haven’t thrown down any torch,” said I. - -“Neither take one up,” said she, pouring out my tea for me as she spoke. - -“As for myself,” said Regan, “I like metaphysics,--and I like them -German. Is there anything so stupid and pig-headed as that insular -feeling which makes us think nothing to be good that is not home-grown?” - -“All the same,” said Jack, “who ever eat a good muffin out of London?” - -“Mr. Hallam, Mary Jane is bringing up some more,” said our hostess. She -was an open-handed woman, and the supply of these delicacies never ran -low as long as the “Panjandrum” was a possibility. - -It was, I think, on this evening that we decided finally for columns and -for a dark gray wrapper,--with a portrait of the Panjandrum in the -centre; a fancy portrait it must necessarily be; but we knew that we -could trust for that to the fertile pencil of Mrs. St. Quinten. I had -come prepared with a specimen cover, as to which I had in truth -consulted an artistic friend, and had taken with it no inconsiderable -labour. I am sure, looking back over the long interval of years at my -feelings on that occasion,--I am sure, I say, that I bore well the -alterations and changes which were made in that design until at last -nothing remained of it. But what matters a wrapper? Surely of any -printed and published work it is by the interior that you should judge -it. It is not that old conjuror’s head that has given its success to -“Blackwood,” nor yet those four agricultural boys that have made the -“Cornhill” what it is. - -We had now decided on columns, on the cover, and the colour. We had -settled on the number of pages, and had thumbed four or five specimens -of paper submitted to us by our worthy publisher. In that matter we had -taken his advice, and chosen the cheapest; but still we liked the -thumbing of the paper. It was business. Paper was paper then, and bore a -high duty. I do not think that the system of illustration had commenced -in those days, though a series of portraits was being published by one -distinguished contemporary. We readily determined that we would attempt -nothing of that kind. There then arose a question as to the insertion of -a novel. Novels were not then, as now, held to be absolutely essential -for the success of a magazine. There were at that time magazines with -novels and magazines without them. The discreet young publisher -suggested to us that we were not able to pay for such a story as would -do us any credit. I myself, who was greedy for work, with bated breath -offered to make an attempt. It was received with but faint thanks, and -Walter Watt, rising on his legs, with eyes full of fire and arms -extended, denounced novels in the general. It was not for such purpose -that he was about to devote to the production of the “Panjandrum” any -erudition that he might have acquired and all the intellect that God had -given him. Let those who wanted novels go for them to the writer who -dealt with fiction in the open market. As for him, he at any rate would -search for truth. We reminded him of Blumine.[A] “Tell your novel in -three pages,” said he, “and tell it as that is told, and I will not -object to it.” We were enabled, however, to decide that there should be -no novel in the “Panjandrum.” - - [A] See “Sartor Resartus” - -Then at length came the meeting at which we were to begin our real work -and divide our tasks among us. Hitherto Mr. X. had usually joined us, -but a hint had been given to him that on this and a few following -meetings we would not trespass on his time. It was quite understood -that he, as publisher, was to have nothing to do with the preparation or -arrangement of the matter to be published. We were, I think, a little -proud of keeping him at a distance when we came to the discussion of -that actual essence of our combined intellects which was to be issued to -the world under the grotesque name which we had selected. That mind and -matter should be kept separated was impressed very strongly upon all of -us. Now, we were “mind,” and Mr. X. was “matter.” He was matter at any -rate in reference to this special work, and, therefore, when we had -arrived at that vital point we told him,--I had been commissioned to do -so,--that we did not require his attendance just at present. I am bound -to say that Mr. X. behaved well to the end, but I do not think that he -ever warmed to the “Panjandrum” after that. I fancy that he owns two or -three periodicals now, and hires his editors quite as easily as he does -his butlers,--and with less regard to their characters. - -I spent a nervous day in anticipation of that meeting. Pat Regan was -with me all day, and threatened dissolution. “There isn’t a fellow in -the world,” said he, “that I love better than Walter Watt, and I’d go to -Jamaica to serve him;”--when the time came, which it did, oh, so soon! -he was asked to go no further than Kensal Green;--“but----!” and then -Pat paused. - -“You’re ready to quarrel with him,” said I, “simply because he won’t -laugh at your jokes.” - -“There’s a good deal in that,” said Regan; “and when two men are in a -boat together each ought to laugh at the other’s jokes. But the question -isn’t as to our laughing. If we can’t make the public laugh sometimes we -may as well shut up shop. Walter is so intensely serious that nothing -less austere than lay sermons will suit his conscience.” - -“Let him preach his sermon, and do you crack your jokes. Surely we can’t -be dull when we have you and Jack Hallam?” - -“Jack’ll never write a line,” said Regan; “he only comes for the -muffins. Then think of Churchill Smith, and the sort of stuff he’ll -expect to force down our readers’ throats.” - -“Smith is sour, but never tedious,” said I. Indeed, I expected great -things from Smith, and so I told my friend. - -“‘Lydia’ will write,” said Pat. We used to call her Lydia behind her -back. “And so will Churchill Smith and Watt. I do not doubt that they -have quires written already. But no one will read a word of it. Jack, -and you, and I will intend to write, but we shall never do anything.” - -This I felt to be most unjust, because, as I have said before, I was -already engaged upon the press. My work was not remunerative, but it was -regularly done. “I am afraid of nothing,” said I, “but distrust. You can -move a mountain if you will only believe that you can move it.” - -“Just so;--but in order to avoid the confusion consequent on general -motion among the mountains, I and other men have been created without -that sort of faith.” It was always so with my poor friend, and, -consequently, he is now Attorney-General at a Turtle Island. Had he -believed as I did,--he and Jack,--I still think that the “Panjandrum” -might have been a great success. “Don’t you look so glum,” he went on to -say. “I’ll stick to it, and do my best. I did put Lord Bateman into -rhymed Latin verse for you last night.” - -Then he repeated to me various stanzas, of which I still remember one:-- - - “Tuam duxi, verum est, filiam, sed merum est; - Si virgo mihi data fuit, virgo tibi redditur. - Venit in ephippio mihi, et concipio - Satis est si triga pro reditu conceditur.” - -This cheered me a little, for I thought that Pat was good at these -things, and I was especially anxious to take the wind out of the sails -of “Fraser” and Father Prout. “Bring it with you,” said I to him, giving -him great praise. “It will raise our spirits to know that we have -something ready.” He did bring it; but “Lydia” required to have it all -translated to her, word by word. It went off heavily, and was at last -objected to by the lady. For the first and last time during our debates -Miss Collins ventured to give an opinion on the literary question under -discussion. She agreed, she said, with her friend in thinking that Mr. -Regan’s Latin poem should not be used. The translation was certainly as -good as the ballad, and I was angry. Miss Collins, at any rate, need not -have interfered. - -At last the evening came, and we sat round the table, after the tea-cups -had been removed, each anxious for his allotted task. Pat had been so -far right in his views as to the diligence of three of our colleagues, -that they came furnished with piles of manuscript. Walter Watt, who was -afflicted with no false shame, boldly placed before him on the table a -heap of blotted paper. Churchhill Smith held in his hand a roll; but he -did not, in fact, unroll it during the evening. He was a man very fond -of his own ideas, of his own modes of thinking and manner of life, but -not prone to put himself forward. I do not mind owning that I disliked -him; but he had a power of self-abnegation which was, to say the least -of it, respectable. As I entered the room, my eyes fell on a mass of -dishevelled sheets of paper which lay on the sofa behind the chair on -which Mrs. St. Quinten always sat, and I knew that these were her -contributions. Pat Regan, as I have said, produced his unfortunate -translation, and promised with the greatest good-humour to do another -when he was told that his last performance did not quite suit Mrs. St. -Quinten’s views. Jack had nothing ready; nor, indeed, was anything -“ready” ever expected from him. I, however, had my own ideas as to what -Jack might do for us. For myself, I confess that I had in my pocket from -two to three hundred lines of what I conceived would be a very suitable -introduction, in verse, for the first number. It was my duty, I thought, -as editor, to provide the magazine with a few initiatory words. I did -not, however, produce the rhymes on that evening, having learned to feel -that any strong expression of self on the part of one member at that -board was not gratifying to the others. I did take some pains in -composing those lines, and thought at the time that I had been not -unhappy in mixing the useful with the sweet. How many hours shall I say -that I devoted to them? Alas, alas, it matters not now! Those words -which I did love well never met any eye but my own. Though I had them -then by heart, they were never sounded in any ear. It was not personal -glory that I desired. They were written that the first number of the -“Panjandrum” might appear becomingly before the public, and the first -number of the “Panjandrum” never appeared! I looked at them the other -day, thinking whether it might be too late for them to serve another -turn. I will never look at them again. - -But from the first starting of the conception of the “Panjandrum” I had -had a great idea, and that idea was discussed at length on the evening -of which I am speaking. We must have something that should be sparkling, -clever, instructive, amusing, philosophical, remarkable, and new, all at -the same time! That such a thing might be achieved in literature I felt -convinced. And it must be the work of three or four together. It should -be something that should force itself into notice, and compel attention. -It should deal with the greatest questions of humanity, and deal with -them wisely,--but still should deal with them in a sportive spirit. -Philosophy and humour might, I was sure, be combined. Social science -might be taught with witty words, and abstract politics made as -agreeable as a novel. There had been the “Corn Law Rhymes,”--and the -“Noctes.” It was, however, essentially necessary that we should be new, -and therefore I endeavoured,--vainly endeavoured,--to get those old -things out of my head. Fraser’s people had done a great stroke of -business by calling their Editor Mr. Yorke. If I could get our people to -call me Mr. Lancaster, something might come of it. But yet it was so -needful that we should be new! The idea had been seething in my brain so -constantly that I had hardly eat or slept free from it for the last six -weeks. If I could roll Churchill Smith and Jack Hallam into one, throw -in a dash of Walter Watt’s fine political eagerness, make use of Regan’s -ready poetical facility, and then control it all by my own literary -experience, the thing would be done. But it is so hard to blend the -elements! - -I had spoken often of it to Pat, and he had assented. “I’ll do anything -into rhyme,” he used to say, “if that’s what you mean.” It was not quite -what I meant. One cannot always convey one’s meaning to another; and -this difficulty is so infinitely increased when one is not quite clear -in one’s own mind! And then Pat, who was the kindest fellow in the -world, and who bore with the utmost patience a restless energy which -must often have troubled him sorely, had not really his heart in it as I -had. “If Churchill Smith will send me ever so much of his stuff, I’ll -put it into Latin or English verse, just as you please,--and I can’t say -more than that.” It was a great offer to make, but it did not exactly -reach the point at which I was aiming. - -I had spoken to Smith about it also. I knew that if we were to achieve -success, we must do so in a great measure by the force of his -intellectual energy. I was not seeking pleasure, but success, and was -willing therefore to endure the probable discourtesy, or at least want -of cordiality, which I might encounter from the man. I must acknowledge -that he listened to me with a rapt attention. Attention so rapt is more -sometimes than one desires. Could he have helped me with a word or two -now and again I should have felt myself to be more comfortable with him. -I am inclined to think that two men get on better together in discussing -a subject when they each speak a little at random. It creates a -confidence, and enables a man to go on to the end. Churchill Smith heard -me without a word, and then remarked that he had been too slow quite to -catch my idea. Would I explain it again? I did explain it again,--though -no doubt I was flustered, and blundered. “Certainly,” said Churchill -Smith, “if we can all be witty and all wise, and all witty and wise at -the same time, and altogether, it will be very fine. But then, you see, -I’m never witty, and seldom wise.” The man was so uncongenial that there -was no getting anything from him. I did not dare to suggest to him that -he should submit the prose exposition of his ideas to the metrical -talent of our friend Regan. - -As soon as we were assembled I rose upon my legs, saying that I proposed -to make a few preliminary observations. It certainly was the case that -at this moment Mrs. St. Quinten was rinsing the teapot, and Mary Jane -had not yet brought in the muffins. We all know that when men meet -together for special dinners, the speeches are not commenced till the -meal is over;--and I would have kept my seat till Jack had done his -worst with the delicacies, had it not been our practice to discuss our -business with our plates and cups and saucers still before us. “You -can’t drink your tea on your legs,” said Jack Hallam. “I have no such -intention,” said I. “What I have to lay before you will not take a -minute.” A suggestion, however, came from another quarter that I should -not be so formal; and Mrs. St. Quinten, touching my sleeve, whispered to -me a precaution against speech making. I sat down, and remarked in a -manner that I felt to be ludicrously inefficient, that I had been going -to propose that the magazine should be opened by a short introductory -paper. As the reader knows, I had the introduction then in my pocket. -“Let us dash into the middle of our work at once,” said Walter Watt. “No -one reads introductions,” said Regan;--my own friend, Pat Regan! “I own -I don’t think an introduction would do us any particular service,” said -“Lydia,” turning to me with that smile which was so often used to keep -us in good-humour. I can safely assert that it was never vainly used on -me. I did not even bring the verses out of my pocket, and thus I escaped -at least the tortures of that criticism to which I should have been -subjected had I been allowed to read them to the company. “So be it,” -said I. “Let us then dash into the middle of our work at once. It is -only necessary to have a point settled. Then we can progress.” - -After that I was silent for awhile, thinking it well to keep myself in -the background. But no one seemed to be ready for speech. Walter Watt -fingered his manuscript uneasily, and Mrs. St. Quinten made some remark -not distinctly audible as to the sheets on the sofa. “But I must get rid -of the tray first,” she said. Churchill Smith sat perfectly still with -his roll in his pocket. “Mrs. St. Quinten and gentlemen,” I said, “I am -happy to tell you that I have had a contribution handed to me which will -go far to grace our first number. Our friend Regan has done ‘Lord -Bateman’ into Latin verse with a Latinity and a rhythm so excellent that -it will go far to make us at any rate equal to anything else in that -line.” Then I produced the translated ballad, and the little episode -took place which I have already described. Mrs. St. Quinten insisted on -understanding in detail, and it was rejected. “Then upon my word I don’t -know what you are to get,” said I. “Latin translations are not -indispensable,” said Walter Watt. “No doubt we can live without them,” -said Pat, with a fine good humour. He bore the disgrace of having his -first contribution rejected with admirable patience. There was nothing -he could not bear. To this day he bears being Attorney-General at the -Turtle Islands. - -Something must be done. “Perhaps,” said I, turning to the lady, “Mrs. -St. Quinten will begin by giving us her ideas as to our first number. -She will tell us what she intends to do for us herself.” She was still -embarrassed by the tea-things. And I acknowledge that I was led to -appeal to her at that moment because it was so. If I could succeed in -extracting ideas they would be of infinitely more use to us than the -reading of manuscript. To get the thing “licked into shape” must be our -first object. As I had on this evening walked up to the sombre street -leading into the new road in which Mrs. St. Quinten lived I had declared -to myself a dozen times that to get the thing “licked into shape” was -the great desideratum. In my own imaginings I had licked it into some -shape. I had suggested to myself my own little introductory poem as a -commencement, and Pat Regan’s Latin ballad as a pretty finish to the -first number. Then there should be some thirty pages of dialogue,--or -trialogue,--or hexalogue if necessary, between the different members of -our Board, each giving, under an assumed name, his view of what a -perfect magazine should be. This I intended to be the beginning of a -conversational element which should be maintained in all subsequent -numbers, and which would enable us in that light and airy fashion which -becomes a magazine to discuss all subjects of politics, philosophy, -manners, literature, social science, and even religion if necessary, -without inflicting on our readers the dulness of a long unbroken essay. -I was very strong about these conversations, and saw my way to a great -success,--if I could only get my friends to act in concert with me. Very -much depended on the names to be chosen, and I had my doubts whether -Watt and Churchill Smith would consent to this slightly theatrical -arrangement. Mrs. St. Quinten had already given in her adhesion, but was -doubting whether she would call herself “Charlotte,”--partly after -Charlotte Corday and partly after the lady who cut bread and butter, or -“Mrs. Freeman,”--that name having, as she observed, been used before as -a nom de plume,--or “Sophronie,” after Madame de Sévigné, who was -pleased so to call herself among the learned ladies of Madame de -Rambouillet’s bower. I was altogether in favour of Mrs. Freeman, which -has the merit of simplicity; but that was a minor point. Jack Hallam had -chosen his appellation. Somewhere in the Lowlands he had seen over a -small shop-door the name of John Neverapenny; and “John Neverapenny” he -would be. I turned it over on my tongue a score of times, and thought -that perhaps it might do. Pat wanted to call himself “The O’Blazes,” but -was at last persuaded to adopt the quieter name of “Tipperary,” in which -county his family had been established since Ireland was,--settled I -think he said. For myself I was indifferent. They might give me what -title they pleased. I had had my own notion, but that had been rejected. -They might call me “Jones” or “Walker,” if they thought proper. But I -was very much wedded to the idea, and I still think that had it been -stoutly carried out the results would have been happy. - -I was the first to acknowledge that the plan was not new. There had been -the “Noctes,” and some imitations even of the “Noctes.” But then, what -is new? The “Noctes” themselves had been imitations from older works. If -Socrates and Hippias had not conversed, neither probably would Mr. North -and his friends. “You might as well tell me,” said I, addressing my -colleagues, “that we must invent a new language, find new forms of -expression, print our ideas in an unknown type, and impress them on some -strange paper. Let our thoughts be new,” said I, “and then let us select -for their manifestation the most convenient form with which experience -provides us.” But they didn’t see it. Mrs. St. Quinten liked the romance -of being “Sophronie,” and to Jack and Pat there was some fun in the -nicknames; but in the real thing for which I was striving they had no -actual faith. “If I could only lick them into shape,” I had said to -myself at the last moment, as I was knocking at Mrs. St. Quinten’s door. - -Mrs. St. Quinten was nearer, to my way of thinking, in this respect than -the others; and therefore I appealed to her while the tea-things were -still before her, thinking that I might obtain from her a suggestion in -favour of the conversations. The introductory poem and the Latin ballad -were gone. For spilt milk what wise man weeps? My verses had not even -left my pocket. Not one there knew that they had been written. And I was -determined that not one should know. But my conversations might still -live. Ah, if I could only blend the elements! “Sophronie,” said I, -taking courage, and speaking with a voice from which all sense of shame -and fear of failure were intended to be banished; “Sophronie will tell -us what she intends to do for us herself.” - -I looked into my friend’s face and saw that she liked it. But she turned -to her cousin, Churchill Smith, as though for approval,--and met none. -“We had better be in earnest,” said Churchill Smith, without moving a -muscle in his face or giving the slightest return to the glance which -had fallen upon him from his cousin. - -“No one can be more thoroughly in earnest than myself,” I replied. - -“Let us have no calling of names,” said Churchill Smith. “It is -inappropriate, and especially so when a lady is concerned.” - -“It has been done scores of times,” I rejoined; “and that too in the -very highest phases of civilisation, and among the most discreet of -matrons.” - -“It seems to me to be twaddle,” said Walter Watt. - -“To my taste it’s abominably vulgar,” said Churchill Smith. - -“It has answered very well in other magazines,” said I. - -“That’s just the reason we should avoid it,” said Walter Watt. - -“I think the thing has been about worn out,” said Pat Regan. - -I was now thrown upon my mettle. Rising again upon my legs,--for the -tea-things had now been removed,--I poured out my convictions, my hopes, -my fears, my ambitions. If we were thus to disagree on every point, how -should we ever blend the elements? If we could not forbear with one -another, how could we hope to act together upon the age as one great -force? If there was no agreement between us, how could we have the -strength of union? Then I adverted with all the eloquence of which I -was master to the great objects to be attained by these imaginary -conversations. “That we may work together, each using his own -words,--that is my desire,” I said. And I pointed out to them how -willing I was to be the least among them in this contest, to content -myself with simply acting as chorus, and pointing to the lessons of -wisdom which would fall from out of their mouths. I must say that they -listened to me on this occasion with great patience. Churchill Smith sat -there, with his great hollow eyes fixed upon me; and it seemed to me, as -he looked, that even he was being persuaded. I threw myself into my -words, and implored them to allow me on this occasion to put them on the -road to success. When I had finished speaking I looked around, and for a -moment I thought they were convinced. There was just a whispered word -between our Sophronie and her cousin, and then she turned to me and -spoke. I was still standing, and I bent down over her to catch the -sentence she should pronounce. “Give it up,” she said. - -And I gave it up. With what a pang this was done few of my readers can -probably understand. It had been my dream from my youth upwards. I was -still young, no doubt, and looking back now I can see how insignificant -were the aspirations which were then in question. But there is no period -in a man’s life in which it does not seem to him that his ambition is -then, at that moment, culminating for him,--till the time comes in which -he begins to own to himself that his life is not fit for ambition. I had -believed that I might be the means of doing something, and of doing it -in this way. Very vague indeed had been my notions;--most crude my -ideas. I can see that now. What it was that my interlocutors were to say -to each other I had never clearly known. But I had felt that in this way -each might speak his own speech without confusion and with delight to -the reader. The elements, I had thought, might be so blent. Then there -came that little whisper between Churchill Smith and our Sophronie, and -I found that I had failed. “Give it up,” said she. - -“Oh, of course,” I said, as I sat down; “only just settle what you mean -to do.” For some few minutes I hardly heard what matters were being -discussed among them, and, indeed, during the remainder of the evening I -took no real share in the conversation. I was too deeply wounded even to -listen. I was resolute at first to abandon the whole affair. I had -already managed to scrape together the sum of money which had been named -as the share necessary for each of us to contribute towards the -production of the first number, and that should be altogether at their -disposal. As for editing a periodical in the management of which I was -not allowed to have the slightest voice, that was manifestly out of the -question. Nor could I contribute when every contribution which I -suggested was rejected before it was seen. My money I could give them, -and that no doubt would be welcome. With these gloomy thoughts my mind -was so full that I actually did not hear the words with which Walter -Watt and Churchill Smith were discussing the papers proposed for the -first number. - -There was nothing read that evening. No doubt it was visible to them all -that I was, as it were, a blighted spirit among them. They could not but -know how hard I had worked, how high had been my hopes, how keen was my -disappointment;--and they felt for me. Even Churchill Smith, as he shook -hands with me at the door, spoke a word of encouragement. “Do not expect -to do things too quickly,” said he. “I don’t expect to do anything,” -said I. “We may do something even yet,” said he, “if we can be humble, -and patient, and persevering. We may do something though it be ever so -little.” I was humble enough certainly, and knew that I had persevered. -As for patience;--well; I would endeavour even to be patient. - -But, prior to that, Mrs. St. Quinten had explained to me the programme -which had now been settled between the party. We were not to meet again -till that day fortnight, and then each of us was to come provided with -matter that would fill twenty-one printed pages of the magazine. This, -with the title-page, would comprise the whole first number. We might all -do as we liked with our own pages,--each within his allotted -space,--filling the whole with one essay, or dividing it into two or -three short papers. In this way there might be scope for Pat Regan’s -verse, or for any little badinage in which Jack Hallam might wish to -express himself. And in order to facilitate our work, and for the sake -of general accommodation, a page or two might be lent or borrowed. -“Whatever anybody writes then,” I asked, “must be admitted?” Mrs. St. -Quinten explained to me that this had not been their decision. The whole -matter produced was of course to be read,--each contributor’s paper by -the contributor himself, and it was to be printed and inserted in the -first number, if any three would vote for its insertion. On this -occasion the author, of course, would have no vote. The votes were to -be handed in, written on slips of paper, so that there might be no -priority in voting,--so that no one should be required to express -himself before or after his neighbour. It was very complex, but I made -no objection. - -As I walked home alone,--for I had no spirits to join Regan and Jack -Hallam, who went in search of supper at the Haymarket,--I turned over -Smith’s words in my mind, and resolved that I would be humble, patient, -and persevering,--so that something might be done, though it were, as he -said, ever so little. I would struggle still. Though everything was to -be managed in a manner adverse to my own ideas and wishes, I would still -struggle. I would still hope that the “Panjandrum” might become a great -fact in the literature of my country. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -PART II.--DESPAIR. - - -A fortnight had been given to us to prepare our matter, and during that -fortnight I saw none of my colleagues. I purposely kept myself apart -from them in order that I might thus give a fairer chance to the scheme -which had been adopted. Others might borrow or lend their pages, but I -would do the work allotted to me, and would attend the next meeting as -anxious for the establishment and maintenance of the Panjandrum as I had -been when I had hoped that the great consideration which I had given -personally to the matter might have been allowed to have some weight. -And gradually, as I devoted the first day of my fortnight to thinking of -my work, I taught myself to hope again, and to look forward to a time -when, by the sheer weight of my own industry and persistency, I might -acquire that influence with my companions of which I had dreamed of -becoming the master. After all, could I blame them for not trusting me, -when as yet I had given them no ground for such confidence? What had I -done that they should be willing to put their thoughts, their -aspirations, their very brains and inner selves under my control? But -something might be done which would force them to regard me as their -leader. So I worked hard at my twenty-one pages, and during the -fortnight spoke no word of the “Panjandrum” to any human being. - -But my work did not get itself done without very great mental distress. -The choice of a subject had been left free to each contributor. For -myself I would almost have preferred that some one should have dictated -to me the matter to which I should devote myself. How would it be with -our first number if each of us were to write a political essay of -exactly twenty-one pages, or a poem of that length in blank verse, or a -humorous narrative? Good Heavens! How were we to expect success with the -public if there were no agreement between ourselves as to the nature of -our contributions no editorial power in existence for our mutual -support. I went down and saw Mr. X., and found him to be almost -indifferent as to the magazine. “You see, Sir,” said he, “the matter -isn’t in my hands. If I can give any assistance, I shall be very happy; -but it seems to me that you want some one with experience.” “I could -have put them right if they’d have let me,” I replied. He was very -civil, but it was quite clear to me that Mr. X.’s interest in the matter -was over since the day of his banishment from Mrs. St. Quinten’s -tea-table. “What do you think is a good sort of subject,” I asked -him,--as it were cursorily; “with a view, you know, to the eye of the -public, just at the present moment?” He declined to suggest any subject, -and I was thrown back among the depths of my own feelings and -convictions. Now, could we have blended our elements together, and -discussed all this in really amicable council, each would have corrected -what there might have been of rawness in the other, and in the freedom -of conversation our wits would have grown from the warmth of mutual -encouragement. Such, at least, was my belief then. Since that I have -learned to look at the business with eyes less enthusiastic. Let a man -have learned the trick of the pen, let him not smoke too many cigars -overnight, and let him get into his chair within half an hour after -breakfast, and I can tell you almost to a line how much of a magazine -article he will produce in three hours. It does not much matter what the -matter be,--only this, that if his task be that of reviewing, he may be -expected to supply a double quantity. Three days, three out of the -fourteen, passed by, and I could think of no fitting subject on which to -begin the task I had appointed myself of teaching the British public. -Politics at the moment were rather dull, and no very great question was -agitating the minds of men. Lord Melbourne was Prime Minister, and had -in the course of the Session been subjected to the usual party attacks. -We intended to go a great deal further than Lord Melbourne in advocating -Liberal measures, and were disposed to regard him and his colleagues as -antiquated fogies in Statecraft; but, nevertheless, as against Sir -Robert Peel, we should have given him the benefit of our defence. I did -not, however, feel any special call to write up Lord Melbourne. Lord -John was just then our pet minister; but even on his behalf I did not -find myself capable of filling twenty-one closely-printed pages with -matter which should really stir the public mind. In a first number, to -stir the public mind is everything. I didn’t think that my colleagues -sufficiently realised that fact,--though I had indeed endeavoured to -explain it to them. In the second, third, or fourth publication you may -descend gradually to an ordinary level; you may become,--not exactly -dull, for dulness in a magazine should be avoided,--but what I may -perhaps call “adagio” as compared with the “con forza” movement with -which the publication certainly should be opened. No reader expects to -be supplied from month to month with the cayenne pepper and shallot -style of literature; but in the preparation of a new literary banquet, -the first dish cannot be too highly spiced. I knew all that,--and then -turned it over in my mind whether I could not do something about the -ballot. - -It had never occurred to me before that there could be any difficulty in -finding a subject. I had to reject the ballot because at that period of -my life I had, in fact, hardly studied the subject. I was Liberal, and -indeed Radical, in all my political ideas. I was ready to “go in” for -anything that was undoubtedly Liberal and Radical. In a general way I -was as firm in my politics as any member of the House of Commons, and -had thought as much on public subjects as some of them. I was an eager -supporter of the ballot. But when I took the pen in my hand there came -upon me a feeling that,--that,--that I didn’t exactly know how to say -anything about it that other people would care to read. The twenty-one -pages loomed before me as a wilderness, which, with such a staff, I -could never traverse. It had not occurred to me before that it would be -so difficult for a man to evoke from his mind ideas on a subject with -which he supposed himself to be familiar. And, such thoughts as I had, I -could clothe in no fitting words. On the fifth morning, driven to -despair, I did write a page or two upon the ballot; and then,--sinking -back in my chair, I began to ask myself a question, as to which doubt -was terrible to me. Was this the kind of work to which my gifts were -applicable? The pages which I had already written were manifestly not -adapted to stir the public mind. The sixth and seventh days I passed -altogether within my room, never once leaving the house. I drank green -tea. I eat meat very slightly cooked. I debarred myself from food for -several hours, so that the flesh might be kept well under. I sat up one -night, nearly till daybreak, with a wet towel round my head. On the next -I got up, and lit my own fire at four o’clock. Thinking that I might be -stretching the cord too tight, I took to reading a novel, but could not -remember the words as I read them, so painfully anxious was I to produce -the work I had undertaken to perform. On the morning of the eighth day -I was still without a subject. - -I felt like the man who undertook to play the violin at a dance for five -shillings and a dinner,--the dinner to be paid in advance; but who, when -making his bargain, had forgotten that he had never learned a note of -music! I had undertaken even to lead the band, and, as it seemed, could -not evoke a sound. A horrid idea came upon me that I was struck, as it -were, with a sudden idiotcy. My mind had absolutely fled from me. I sat -in my arm-chair, looking at the wall, counting the pattern on the paper, -and hardly making any real effort to think. All the world seemed at once -to have become a blank to me. I went on muttering to myself, “No, the -ballot won’t do;” as though there was nothing else but the ballot with -which to stir the public mind. On the eighth morning I made a minute and -quite correct calculation of the number of words that were demanded of -me,--taking the whole as forty-two pages, because of the necessity of -recopying,--and I found that about four hours a day would be required -for the mere act of writing. The paper was there, and the pen and -ink;--but beyond that there was nothing ready. I had thought to rack my -brain, but I began to doubt whether I had a brain to rack. Of all those -matters of public interest which had hitherto been to me the very salt -of my life, I could not remember one which could possibly be converted -into twenty-one pages of type. Unconsciously I kept on muttering words -about the ballot. “The ballot be ----!” I said, aloud to myself in my -agony. - -On that Sunday evening I began to consider what excuse I might best make -to my colleagues. I might send and say I was very sick. I might face -them, and quarrel with them,--because of their ill-treatment of me. Or I -might tell only half a lie, keeping within the letter of the truth, and -say that I had not yet finished my work. But no. I would not lie at all. -Late on that Sunday evening there came upon me a grand idea. I would -stand up before them and confess my inability to do the work I had -undertaken. I arranged the words of my little speech, and almost took -delight in them. “I, who have intended to be a teacher, am now aware -that I have hardly as yet become a pupil.” In such case the “Panjandrum” -would be at an end. The elements had not been happily blended; but -without me they could not, I was sure, be kept in any concert. The -“Panjandrum,”--which I had already learned to love as a mother loves -her first-born,--the dear old “Panjandrum” must perish before its birth. -I felt the pity of it! The thing itself,--the idea and theory of it, had -been very good. But how shall a man put forth a magazine when he finds -himself unable to write a page of it within the compass of a week? The -meditations of that Sunday were very bitter, but perhaps they were -useful. I had long since perceived that mankind are divided into two -classes,--those who shall speak, and those who shall listen to the -speech of others. In seeing clearly the existence of such a division I -had hitherto always assumed myself to belong to the first class. Might -it not be probable that I had made a mistake, and that it would become -me modestly to take my allotted place in the second? - -On the Monday morning I began to think that I was ill, and resolved that -I would take my hat and go out into the park, and breathe some air,--let -the “Panjandrum” live or die. Such another week as the last would, I -fancied, send me to Hanwell. It was now November, and at ten o’clock, -when I looked out, there was a soft drizzling rain coming down, and the -pavement of the street was deserted. It was just the morning for work, -were work possible. There still lay on the little table in the corner -of the room the square single sheet of paper, with its margin doubled -down, all fitted for the printer,--only that the sheet was still blank. -I looked at the page, and I rubbed my brow, and I gazed into the -street,--and then determined that a two hours’ ring round the Regent’s -Park was the only chance left for me. - -As I put on my thick boots and old hat and prepared myself for a -thorough wetting, I felt as though at last I had hit upon the right -plan. Violent exercise was needed, and then inspiration might come. -Inspiration would come the sooner if I could divest myself from all -effort in searching for it. I would take my walk and employ my mind, -simply, in observing the world around me. For some distance there was -but little of the world to observe. I was lodging at this period in a -quiet and eligible street not far from Theobald’s Road. Thence my way -lay through Bloomsbury Square, Russell Square, and Gower Street, and as -I went I found the pavement to be almost deserted. The thick soft rain -came down, not with a splash and various currents, running off and -leaving things washed though wet, but gently insinuating itself -everywhere, and covering even the flags with mud. I cared nothing for -the mud. I went through it all with a happy scorn for the poor -creatures who were endeavouring to defend their clothes with umbrellas. -“Let the heavens do their worst to me,” I said to myself as I spun along -with eager steps; and I was conscious of a feeling that external -injuries could avail me nothing if I could only cure the weakness that -was within. - -The Park too was nearly empty. No place in London is ever empty now, but -thirty years ago the population was palpably thinner. I had not come -out, however, to find a crowd. A damp boy sweeping a crossing, or an old -woman trying to sell an apple, was sufficient to fill my mind with -thoughts as to the affairs of my fellow-creatures. Why should it have -been allotted to that old woman to sit there, placing all her hopes on -the chance sale of a few apples, the cold rain entering her very bones -and driving rheumatism into all her joints, while another old woman, of -whom I had read a paragraph that morning, was appointed to entertain -royalty, and go about the country with five or six carriages and four? -Was there injustice in this,--and if so, whence had the injustice come? -The reflection was probably not new; but, if properly thought out, might -it not suffice for the one-and-twenty pages? “Sally Brown, the -barrow-woman, _v._ the Duchess of ----!” Would it not be possible to -make the two women plead against each other in some imaginary court of -justice, beyond the limits of our conventional life,--some court in -which the duchess should be forced to argue her own case, and in which -the barrow-woman would decidedly get the better of her? If this could be -done how happy would have been my walk through the mud and slush! - -As I was thinking of this I saw before me on the pathway a stout -woman,--apparently middle-aged, but her back was towards me,--leading a -girl who perhaps might be ten or eleven years old. They had come up one -of the streets from the New Road to the Park, and were hurrying along so -fast that the girl, who held the woman by the arm, was almost running. -The woman was evidently a servant, but in authority,--an upper nurse -perhaps, or a housekeeper. Why she should have brought her charge out in -the rain was a mystery; but I could see from the elasticity of the -child’s step that she was happy and very eager. She was a well-made -girl, with long well-rounded legs, which came freely down beneath her -frock, with strong firm boots, a straw hat, and a plaid shawl wound -carefully round her throat and waist. As I followed them those rapid -legs of hers seemed almost to twinkle in their motion as she kept pace -with the stout woman who was conducting her. The mud was all over her -stockings; but still there was about her an air of well-to-do comfort -which made me feel that the mud was no more than a joke to her. Every -now and then I caught something of a glimpse of her face as she half -turned herself round in talking to the woman. I could see, or at least I -could fancy that I saw, that she was fair, with large round eyes and -soft light brown hair. Children did not then wear wigs upon their backs, -and I was driven to exercise my fancy as to her locks. At last I -resolved that I would pass them and have one look at her--and I did so. -It put me to my best pace to do it, but gradually I overtook them and -could hear that the girl never ceased talking as she ran. As I went by -them I distinctly heard the words, “Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s -like!” “You’ll see, Miss,” said Anne. I looked back and saw that she was -exactly as I had thought,--a fair, strong, healthy girl, with round eyes -and large mouth, broad well-formed nose, and light hair. Who was the -“he,” as to whom her anxiety was so great,--the “he” whom she was -tripping along through the rain and mud to see, and kiss, and love, and -wonder at? And why hadn’t she been taken in a cab? Would she be allowed -to take off those very dirty stockings before she was introduced to her -new-found brother, or wrapped in the arms of her stranger father? - -I saw no more of them, and heard no further word; but I thought a great -deal of the girl. Ah, me, if she could have been a young unknown, -newly-found sister of my own, how warmly would I have welcomed her! How -little should I have cared for the mud on her stockings; how closely -would I have folded her in my arms; how anxious would I have been with -Anne as to those damp clothes; what delight would I have had in feeding -her, coaxing her, caressing her, and playing with her! There had seemed -to belong to her a wholesome strong health, which it had made me for the -moment happy even to witness. And then the sweet, eloquent anxiety of -her voice,--“Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s like!” While I heard her -voice I had seemed to hear and know so much of her! And then she had -passed out of my ken for ever! - -I thought no more about the duchess and the apple-woman, but devoted my -mind entirely to the girl and her brother. I was persuaded that it must -be a brother. Had it been a father there would have been more of awe in -her tone. It certainly was a brother. Gradually, as the unforced -imagination came to play upon the matter, a little picture fashioned -itself in my mind. The girl was my own sister--a sister whom I had never -seen till she was thus brought to me for protection and love; but she -was older, just budding into womanhood, instead of running beside her -nurse with twinkling legs. There, however, was the same broad, honest -face, the same round eyes, the same strong nose and mouth. She had come -to me for love and protection, having no other friend in the world to -trust. But, having me, I proudly declared to myself that she needed -nothing further. In two short months I was nothing to her,--or almost -nothing. I had a friend, and in two little months my friend had become -so much more than I ever could have been! - -These wondrous castles in the air never get themselves well built when -the mind, with premeditated skill and labour, sets itself to work to -build them. It is when they come uncalled for that they stand erect and -strong before the mind’s eye, with every mullioned window perfect, the -rounded walls all there, the embrasures cut, the fosse dug, and the -drawbridge down. As I had made this castle for myself, as I had sat with -this girl by my side, calling her the sweetest names, as I had seen her -blush when my friend came near her, and had known at once, with a mixed -agony and joy, how the thing was to be, I swear that I never once -thought of the “Panjandrum.” I walked the whole round of the Regent’s -Park, perfecting the building; and I did perfect it, took the girl to -church, gave her away to my friend Walker, and came back and sobbed and -sputtered out my speech at the little breakfast, before it occurred to -me to suggest to myself that I might use the thing. - -Churchill Smith and Walter Watt had been dead against a novel; and, -indeed, the matter had been put to the vote, and it had been decided -that there should be no novel. But, what is a novel? The purport of that -vote had been to negative a long serial tale, running on from number to -number, in a manner which has since become well understood by the -reading public. I had thought my colleagues wrong, and so thinking, it -was clearly my duty to correct their error, if I might do so without -infringing that loyalty and general obedience to expressed authority -which are so essential to such a society as ours. Before I had got back -to Theobald’s Road I had persuaded myself that a short tale would be the -very thing for the first number. It might not stir the public mind. To -do that I would leave to Churchill Smith and Walter Watt. But a -well-formed little story, such as that of which I had now the full -possession, would fall on the readers of the “Panjandrum” like sweet -rain in summer, making things fresh and green and joyous. I was quite -sure that it was needed. Walter Watt might say what he pleased, and -Churchill Smith might look at me as sternly as he would, sitting there -silent with his forehead on his hand; but I knew at least as much about -a magazine as they did. At any rate, I would write my tale. That very -morning it had seemed to me to be impossible to get anything written. -Now, as I hurried up stairs to get rid of my wet clothes, I felt that I -could not take the pen quickly enough into my hand. I had a thing to -say, and I would say it. If I could complete my story,--and I did not -doubt its completion from the very moment in which I realised its -conception,--I should be saved, at any rate, from the disgrace of -appearing empty-handed in Mrs. St. Quinten’s parlour. Within a quarter -of an hour of my arrival at home I had seated myself at my table and -written the name of the tale,--“The New Inmate.” - -I doubt whether any five days in my life were ever happier than those -which were devoted to this piece of work. I began it that Monday -afternoon, and finished it on the Friday night. While I was at the task -all doubt vanished from my mind. I did not care a fig for Watt or -Smith, and was quite sure that I should carry Mrs. St. Quinten with me. -Each night I copied fairly what I had written in the day, and I came to -love the thing with an exceeding love. There was a deal of pathos in -it,--at least so I thought,--and I cried over it like a child. I had -strained all my means to prepare for the coming of the girl,--I am now -going back for a moment to my castle in the air,--and had furnished for -her a little sitting-room and as pretty a white-curtained chamber as a -girl ever took pleasure in calling her own. There were books for her, -and a small piano, and a low sofa, and all little feminine belongings. I -had said to myself that everything should be for her, and I had sold my -horse,--the horse of my imagination, the reader will understand, for I -had never in truth possessed such an animal,--and told my club friends -that I should no longer be one of them. Then the girl had come, and had -gone away to Walker,--as it seemed to me at once,--to Walker, who still -lived in lodgings, and had not even a second sitting-room for her -comfort,--to Walker, who was, indeed, a good fellow in his way, but -possessed of no particular attractions either in wit, manners, or -beauty! I wanted them to change with me, and to take my pretty home. I -should have been delighted to go to a garret, leaving them everything. -But Walker was proud, and would not have it so; and the girl protested -that the piano and the white dimity curtains were nothing to her. Walker -was everything;--Walker, of whom she had never heard, when she came but -a few weeks since to me as the only friend left to her in the world! I -worked myself up to such a pitch of feeling over my story, that I could -hardly write it for my tears. I saw myself standing all alone in that -pretty sitting-room after they were gone, and I pitied myself with an -exceeding pity. “Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.” If -success was to be obtained by obeying that instruction, I might -certainly expect success. - -The way in which my work went without a pause was delightful. When the -pen was not in my hand I was longing for it. While I was walking, -eating, or reading, I was still thinking of my story. I dreamt of it. It -came to me to be a matter that admitted of no doubt. The girl with the -muddy stockings, who had thus provided me in my need, was to me a -blessed memory. When I kissed my sister’s brow, on her first arrival, -she was in my arms,--palpably. All her sweetnesses were present to me, -as though I had her there, in the little street turning out of -Theobald’s Road. To this moment I can distinguish the voice in which she -spoke to me that little whispered word, when I asked her whether she -cared for Walker. When one thinks of it, the reality of it all is -appalling. What need is there of a sister or a friend in the flesh,--a -sister or a friend with probably so many faults,--when by a little -exercise of the mind they may be there at your elbow, faultless? It came -to pass that the tale was more dear to me than the magazine. As I read -it through for the third or fourth time on the Sunday morning, I was -chiefly anxious for the “Panjandrum,” in order that “The New Inmate” -might see the world. - -We were to meet that evening at eight o’clock, and it was understood -that the sitting would be prolonged to a late hour, because of the -readings. It would fall to my lot to take the second reading, as coming -next to Mrs. St. Quinten, and I should, at any rate, not be subjected to -a weary audience. We had, however, promised each other to be very -patient; and I was resolved that, even to the production of Churchill -Smith, who would be the last, I would give an undivided and eager -attention. I determined also in my joy that I would vote against the -insertion of no colleague’s contribution. Were we not in a boat -together, and would not each do his best? Even though a paper might be -dull, better a little dulness than the crushing of a friend’s spirit. I -fear that I thought that “The New Inmate” might atone for much dulness. -I dined early on that day; then took a walk round the Regent’s Park, to -renew my thoughts on the very spot on which they had first occurred to -me, and after that, returning home, gave a last touch to my work. Though -it had been written after so hurried a fashion, there was not a word in -it which I had not weighed and found to be fitting. - -I was the first at Mrs. St. Quinten’s house, and found that lady very -full of the magazine. She asked, however, no questions as to my -contribution. Of her own she at once spoke to me. “What do you think I -have done at last?” she said. In my reply to her question I made some -slight allusion to “The New Inmate,” but I don’t think she caught the -words. “I have reviewed Bishop Berkeley’s whole Theory on Matter,” said -she. What feeling I expressed by my gesture I cannot say, but I think it -must have been one of great awe. “And I have done it exhaustively,” she -continued; “so that the subject need not be continued. Churchill does -not like continuations.” Perhaps it did not signify much. If she were -heavy, I at any rate was light. If her work should prove difficult of -comprehension, mine was easy. If she spoke only to the wise and old, I -had addressed myself to babes and sucklings. I said something as to the -contrast, again naming my little story. But she was too full of Bishop -Berkeley to heed me. If she had worked as I had worked, of course she -was full of Bishop Berkeley. To me, “The New Inmate” at that moment was -more than all the bishops. - -The other men soon came in, clustering together, and our number was -complete. Regan whispered to me that Jack Hallam had not written a line. -“And you?” I asked. “Oh, I am all right,” said he. “I don’t suppose -they’ll let it pass; but that’s their affair;--not mine.” Watt and Smith -took their places almost without speaking, and preparation was made for -the preliminary feast of the body. The after-feast was a matter of such -vital importance to us that we hardly possessed our customary -light-hearted elasticity. There was, however, an air of subdued triumph -about our “Lydia,”--of triumph subdued by the presence of her cousin. As -for myself, I was supremely happy. I said a word to Watt, asking him as -to his performance. “I don’t suppose you will like it,” he replied; “but -it is at any rate a fair specimen of that which it has been my ambition -to produce.” I assured him with enthusiasm that I was thoroughly -prepared to approve, and that, too, without carping criticism. “But we -must be critics,” he observed. Of Churchill Smith I asked no question. - -When we had eaten and drunk we began the work of the evening by giving -in the names of our papers, and describing the nature of the work we had -done. Mrs. St. Quinten was the first, and read her title from a scrap of -paper. “A Review of Bishop Berkeley’s Theory.” Churchill Smith remarked -that it was a very dangerous subject. The lady begged him to wait till -he should hear the paper read. “Of course I will hear it read,” said her -cousin. To me it was evident that Smith would object to this essay -without any scruple, if he did not in truth approve of it. Then it was -my turn, and I explained in the quietest tone which I could assume that -I had written a little tale called “The New Inmate.” It was very simple, -I said, but I trusted it might not be rejected on that score. There was -silence for a moment, and I prompted Regan to proceed; but I was -interrupted by Walter Watt. “I thought,” said he, “that we had -positively decided against ‘prose fiction.’” I protested that the -decision had been given against novels, against long serial stories to -be continued from number to number. This was a little thing, completed -within my twenty-one allotted pages. “Our vote was taken as to prose -fiction,” said Watt. I appealed to Hallam, who at once took my part,--as -also did Regan. “Walter is quite correct as to the purport of our -decision,” said Churchill Smith. I turned to Mrs. St. Quinten. “I don’t -see why we shouldn’t have a short story,” she said. I then declared that -with their permission I would at any rate read it, and again requested -Regan to proceed. Upon this Walter Watt rose upon his feet, and made a -speech. The vote had been taken, and could not be rescinded. After such -a vote it was not open to me to read my story. The story, no doubt, was -very good,--he was pleased to say so,--but it was not matter of the sort -which they intended to use. Seeing the purpose which they had in view, -he thought that the reading of the story would be waste of time. “It -will clearly be waste of time,” said Churchill Smith. Walter Watt went -on to explain to us that if from one meeting to another we did not allow -ourselves to be bound by our own decisions, we should never appear -before the public. - -I will acknowledge that I was enraged. It seemed to me impossible that -such folly should be allowed to prevail, or that after all my efforts I -should be treated by my own friends after such a fashion. I also got -upon my legs and protested loudly that Mr. Watt and Mr. Smith did not -even know what had been the subject under discussion, when the vote -adverse to novels had been taken. No record was kept of our proceedings; -and, as I clearly showed to them, Mr. Regan and Mr. Hallam were quite as -likely to hold correct views on this subject as were Mr. Watt and Mr. -Smith. All calling of men Pat, and Jack, and Walter, was for the moment -over. Watt admitted the truth of this argument, and declared that they -must again decide whether my story of “The New Inmate” was or was not a -novel in the sense intended when the previous vote was taken. If -not,--if the decision on that point should be in my favour,--then the -privilege of reading it would at any rate belong to me. I believed so -thoroughly in my own work that I desired nothing beyond this. We went to -work, therefore, and took the votes on the proposition,--Was or was not -the story of “The New Inmate” debarred by the previous resolution -against the admission of novels? - -The decision manifestly rested with Mrs. St. Quinten. I was master, -easily master, of three votes. Hallam and Regan were altogether with me, -and in a matter of such import I had no hesitation in voting for -myself. Had the question been the acceptance or rejection of the story -for the magazine, then, by the nature of our constitution, I should have -had no voice in the matter. But this was not the case, and I recorded my -own vote in my own favour without a blush. Having done so, I turned to -Mrs. St. Quinten with an air of supplication in my face of which I -myself was aware, and of which I became at once ashamed. She looked -round at me almost furtively, keeping her eyes otherwise fixed upon -Churchill Smith’s immovable countenance. I did not condescend to speak a -word to her. What words I had to say, I had spoken to them all, and was -confident in the justice of my cause. I quickly dropped that look of -supplication and threw myself back in my chair. The moment was one of -intense interest, almost of agony, but I could not allow myself to think -that in very truth my work would be rejected by them before it was seen. -If such were to be their decision, how would it be possible that the -“Panjandrum” should ever be brought into existence? Who could endure -such ignominy and still persevere? - -There was silence among us, which to me in the intensity of my feelings -seemed to last for minutes. Regan was the first to speak. “Now, Mrs. St. -Quinten,” he said, “it all rests with you.” An idea shot across my mind -at the moment, of the folly of which we had been guilty in placing our -most vital interests in the hands of a woman merely on the score of -gallantry. Two votes had been given to her as against one of ours simply -because,--she was a woman. It may be that there had been something in -the arrangement of compensation for the tea and muffins; but if so, how -poor was the cause for so great an effect! She sat there the arbiter of -our destinies. “You had better give your vote,” said Smith roughly. “You -think it is a novel?” she said, appealing to him. “There can be no doubt -of it,” he replied; “a novel is not a novel because it is long or short. -Such is the matter which we intended to declare that we would not put -forth in our magazine.” “I protest,” said I, jumping up,--“I protest -against this interference.” - -Then there was a loud and very angry discussion whether Churchill Smith -was justified in his endeavour to bias Mrs. St. Quinten; and we were -nearly brought to a vote upon that. I myself was very anxious to have -that question decided,--to have any question decided in which Churchill -Smith could be shown to be in the wrong. But no one would back me, and -it seemed to me as though even Regan and Jack Hallam were falling off -from me,--though Jack had never yet restored to me that article of -clothing to which allusion was made in the first chapter of this little -history, and I had been almost as anxious for Pat’s Latin translation as -for my own production. It was decided without a vote that any amount of -free questioning as to each other’s opinions, and of free answering, was -to be considered fair. “I tell her my opinion. You can tell her yours,” -said Churchill Smith. “It is my opinion,” said I, “that you want to -dictate to everybody and to rule the whole thing.” “I think we did mean -to exclude all story-telling,” said Mrs. St. Quinten, and so the -decision was given against me. - -Looking back at it I know that they were right on the exact point then -under discussion. They had intended to exclude all stories. But,--heaven -and earth,--was there ever such folly as that of which they had been -guilty in coming to such a resolution? I have often suggested to myself -since, that had “The New Inmate” been read on that evening, the -“Panjandrum” might have become a living reality, and that the fortieth -volume of the publication might now have been standing on the shelves of -many a well-filled library. The decision, however, had been given -against me, and I sat like one stricken dumb, paralysed, or turned to -stone. I remember it as though it were yesterday. I did not speak a -word, but simply moving my chair an inch or two, I turned my face away -from the lady who had thus blasted all my hopes. I fear that my eyes -were wet, and that a hot tear trickled down each cheek. No note of -triumph was sounded, and I verily believe they all suffered in my too -conspicuous sufferings. To both Watt and Smith it had been a matter of -pure conscience. Mrs. St. Quinten, woman-like, had obeyed the man in -whose strength she trusted. There was silence for a few moments, and -then Watt invited Regan to proceed. He had divided his work into three -portions, but what they were called, whether they were verse or prose, -translations or original, comic or serious, I never knew. I could not -listen then. For me to continue my services to the “Panjandrum” was an -impossibility. I had been crushed--so crushed that I had not vitality -left me to escape from the room, or I should not have remained there. -Pat Regan’s papers were nothing to me now. Watt I knew had written an -essay called “The Real Aristocrat,” which was published elsewhere -afterwards. Jack Hallam’s work was not ready. There was something said -of his delinquency, but I cared not what. I only wish that my work also -had been unready. Churchill Smith also had some essay, “On the Basis of -Political Right.” That, if I remember rightly, was its title. I often -talked the matter over in after days with Pat Regan, and I know that -from the moment in which my consternation was made apparent to them, the -thing went very heavily. At the time, and for some hours after the -adverse decision, I was altogether unmanned and unable to collect my -thoughts. Before the evening was over there occurred a further episode -in our affairs which awakened me. - -The names of the papers had been given in, and Mrs. St. Quinten began to -read her essay. Nothing more than the drone of her voice reached the -tympanum of my ears. I did not look at her, or think of her, or care to -hear a word that she uttered. I believe I almost slept in my agony; but -sleeping or waking I was turning over in my mind, wearily and incapably, -the idea of declining to give any opinion as to the propriety of -inserting or rejecting the review of Bishop Berkeley’s theory, on the -score that my connection with the “Panjandrum” had been severed. But the -sound of the reading went on, and I did not make up my mind. I hardly -endeavoured to make it up, but sat dreamily revelling in my own -grievance, and pondering over the suicidal folly of the “Panjandrum” -Company. The reading went on and on without interruption, without -question and without applause. I know I slept during some portion of the -time, for I remember that Regan kicked my shin. And I remember, also, a -feeling of compassion for the reader, who was hardly able to rouse -herself up to the pitch of spirit necessary for the occasion,--but -allowed herself to be quelled by the cold steady gaze of her cousin -Churchill. Watt sat immovable, with his hands in his trousers pockets, -leaning back in his chair, the very picture of dispassionate criticism. -Jack Hallam amused himself by firing paper pellets at Regan, sundry of -which struck me on the head and face. Once Mrs. St. Quinten burst forth -in offence. “Mr. Hallam,” she said, “I am sorry to be so tedious.” “I -like it of all things,” said Jack. It was certainly very long. Half -comatose, as I was, with my own sufferings, I had begun to ask myself -before Mrs. St. Quinten had finished her task whether it would be -possible to endure three other readings lengthy as this. Ah! if I might -have read “My New Inmate,” how different would the feeling have been! Of -what the lady said about Berkeley, I did not catch a word; but the name -of the philosophical bishop seemed to be repeated usque ad nauseam. Of a -sudden I was aware that I had snored,--a kick from Pat Regan wounded my -shin; a pellet from Jack Hallam fell on my nose; and the essay was -completed. I looked up, and could see that drops of perspiration were -standing on the lady’s brow. - -There was a pause, and even I was now aroused to attention. We were to -write our verdicts on paper,--simply the word, “Insert,” or -“Reject,”--and what should I write? Instead of doing so, should I -declare at once that I was severed from the “Panjandrum” by the -treatment I had received? That I was severed, in fact, I was very sure. -Could any human flesh and blood have continued its services to any -magazine after such humiliation as I had suffered? Nevertheless it might -perhaps be more manly were I to accept the responsibility of voting on -the present occasion,--and if so, how should I vote? I had not followed -a single sentence, and yet I was convinced that matter such as that -would never stir the British public mind. But as the thing went, we were -not called upon for our formal verdicts. “Lydia,” as soon as she had -done reading, turned at once to her cousin. She cared for no verdict but -his. “Well,” said she, “what do you think of it?” At first he did not -answer. “I know I read it badly,” she continued, “but I hope you caught -my meaning.” - -“It is utter nonsense,” he said, without moving his head. - -“Oh, Churchill!” she exclaimed. - -“It is utter nonsense,” he repeated. “It is out of the question that it -should be published.” She glanced her eyes round the company, but -ventured no spoken appeal. Jack Hallam said something about unnecessary -severity and want of courtesy. Watt simply shook his head. “I say it is -trash,” said Smith, rising from his chair. “You shall not disgrace -yourself. Give it to me.” She put her hand upon the manuscript, as -though to save it. “Give it to me,” he said sternly, and took it from -her unresisting grasp. Then he stalked to the fire, and tearing the -sheets in pieces, thrust them between the bars. - -Of course there was a great commotion. We were all up in a moment, -standing around her as though to console her. Miss Collins came in and -absolutely wept over her ill-used friend. For the instant I had -forgotten “The New Inmate,” as though it had never been written. She was -deluged in tears, hiding her face upon the table; but she uttered no -word of reproach, and ventured not a syllable in defence of her essay. -“I didn’t think it was so bad as that,” she murmured amidst her sobs. I -did not dare to accuse the man of cruelty. I myself had become so small -among them that my voice would have had no weight. But I did think him -cruel, and hated him on her account as well as on my own. Jack Hallam -remarked that for this night, at least, our work must be considered to -be over. “It is over altogether,” said Churchill Smith. “I have known -that for weeks past; and I have known, too, what fools we have been to -make the attempt. I hope, at least, that we may have learnt a lesson -that will be of service to us. Perhaps you had better go now, and I’ll -just say a word or two to my cousin before I leave her.” - -How we got out of the room I hardly remember. There was, no doubt, some -leave-taking between us four and the unfortunate Lydia, but it amounted, -I think, to no more than mere decency required. To Churchill Smith I -know that I did not speak. I never saw either of the cousins again; nor, -as has been already told, did I ever distinctly hear what was their fate -in life. And yet how intimately connected with them had I been for the -last six or eight months! For not calling upon her, so that we might -have mingled the tears of our disappointment together, I much blamed -myself; but the subject which we must have discussed,--the failure, -namely, of the “Panjandrum,”--was one so sore and full of sorrow, that I -could not bring myself to face the interview. Churchill Smith, I know, -made various efforts to obtain literary employment; but never succeeded, -because he would yield no inch in the expression of his own violent -opinions. I doubt whether he ever earned as much as £10 by his writings. -I heard of his living,--and almost starving,--still in London, and then -that he went to fight for Polish freedom. It is believed that he died in -a Russian prison, but I could never find any one who knew with accuracy -the circumstances of his fate. He was a man who could go forth with his -life in his hand, and in meeting death could feel that he encountered -only that which he had expected. Mrs. St. Quinten certainly vanished -during the next summer from the street in which she had bestowed upon us -so many muffins, and what became of her I never heard. - -On that evening Pat Regan and I consoled ourselves together as best we -might, Jack Hallam and Walter Watt having parted from us under the walls -of Marylebone Workhouse. Pat and I walked down to a modest house of -refreshment with which we were acquainted in Leicester Square, and there -arranged the obsequies of the “Panjandrum” over a pint of stout and a -baked potato. Pat’s equanimity was marvellous. It had not even yet been -ruffled, although the indignities thrown upon him had almost surpassed -those inflicted on myself. His “Lord Bateman” had been first rejected; -and, after that, his subsequent contributions had been absolutely -ignored, merely because Mr. Churchill Smith had not approved his -cousin’s essay upon Bishop Berkeley! “It was rot; real rot,” said Pat, -alluding to Lydia’s essay, and apologising for Smith. “But why not have -gone on and heard yours?” said I. “Mine would have been rot, too,” said -Pat. “It isn’t so easy, after all, to do this kind of thing.” - -We agreed that the obsequies should be very private. Indeed, as the -“Panjandrum” had as yet not had a body of its own, it was hardly -necessary to open the earth for the purposes of interment. We agreed -simply to say nothing about it to any one. I would go to Mr. X. and tell -him that we had abandoned our project, and there would be an end of it. -As the night advanced, I offered to read “The New Inmate” to my friend; -but he truly remarked that of reading aloud they had surely had enough -that night. When he reflected that but for the violence of Mr. Smith’s -proceedings we might even then, at that moment, have been listening to -an essay upon the “Basis of Political Rights,” I think that he rejoiced -that the “Panjandrum” was no more. - -On the following morning I called on Mr. X., and explained to him that -portion of the occurrences of the previous evening with which it was -necessary that he should be made acquainted. I thought that he was -rather brusque; but I cannot complain that he was, upon the whole, -unfriendly. “The truth is, Sir,” he said, “you none of you exactly knew -what you wanted to be after. You were very anxious to do something -grand, but hadn’t got this grand thing clear before your eye. People, -you know, may have too much genius, or may have too little.” Which of -the two he thought was our case he did not say; but he did promise to -hear my story of “The New Inmate” read, with reference to its possible -insertion in another periodical publication with which he had lately -become connected. Perhaps some of my readers may remember its appearance -in the first number of the “Marble Arch,” where it attracted no little -attention, and was supposed to have given assistance, not altogether -despicable, towards the establishment of that excellent periodical. - -Such was the history of the “Panjandrum.” - - - - -THE SPOTTED DOG. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE SPOTTED DOG. - - - - -PART I.--THE ATTEMPT. - - -Some few years since we received the following letter:-- - -“DEAR SIR, - - “I write to you for literary employment, and I implore you to - provide me with it if it be within your power to do so. My capacity - for such work is not small, and my acquirements are considerable. - My need is very great, and my views in regard to remuneration are - modest. I was educated at ----, and was afterwards a scholar of - ---- College, Cambridge. I left the university without a degree, in - consequence of a quarrel with the college tutor. I was rusticated, - and not allowed to return. After that I became for awhile a student - for the Chancery Bar. I then lived for some years in Paris, and I - understand and speak French as though it were my own language. For - all purposes of literature I am equally conversant with German. I - read Italian. I am, of course, familiar with Latin. In regard to - Greek I will only say that I am less ignorant of it than - nineteen-twentieths of our national scholars. I am well read in - modern and ancient history. I have especially studied political - economy. I have not neglected other matters necessary to the - education of an enlightened man,--unless it be natural philosophy. - I can write English, and can write it with rapidity. I am a - poet;--at least, I so esteem myself. I am not a believer. My - character will not bear investigation;--in saying which, I mean you - to understand, not that I steal or cheat, but that I live in a - dirty lodging, spend many of my hours in a public-house, and cannot - pay tradesmen’s bills where tradesmen have been found to trust me. - I have a wife and four children,--which burden forbids me to free - myself from all care by a bare bodkin. I am just past forty, and - since I quarrelled with my family because I could not understand - The Trinity, I have never been the owner of a ten-pound note. My - wife was not a lady. I married her because I was determined to take - refuge from the conventional thraldom of so-called ‘gentlemen’ - amidst the liberty of the lower orders. My life, of course, has - been a mistake. Indeed, to live at all,--is it not a folly? - - “I am at present employed on the staff of two or three of the - ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ Your august highness in literature has perhaps - never heard of a ‘Penny Dreadful.’ I write for them matter, which - we among ourselves call ‘blood and nastiness,’--and which is copied - from one to another. For this I am paid forty-five shillings a - week. For thirty shillings a week I will do any work that you may - impose upon me for the term of six months. I write this letter as a - last effort to rescue myself from the filth of my present position, - but I entertain no hope of any success. If you ask it I will come - and see you; but do not send for me unless you mean to employ me, - as I am ashamed of myself. I live at No. 3, Cucumber Court, Gray’s - Inn Lane;--but if you write, address to the care of Mr. Grimes, the - Spotted Dog, Liquorpond Street. Now I have told you my whole life, - and you may help me if you will. I do not expect an answer. - -“Yours truly, - -“JULIUS MACKENZIE.” - - - -Indeed he had told us his whole life, and what a picture of a life he -had drawn! There was something in the letter which compelled attention. -It was impossible to throw it, half read, into the waste-paper basket, -and to think of it not at all. We did read it, probably twice, and then -put ourselves to work to consider how much of it might be true and how -much false. Had the man been a boy at ----, and then a scholar of his -college? We concluded that, so far, the narrative was true. Had he -abandoned his dependence on wealthy friends from conscientious scruples, -as he pretended; or had other and less creditable reasons caused the -severance? On that point we did not quite believe him. And then, as to -those assertions made by himself in regard to his own capabilities,--how -far did they gain credence with us? We think that we believed them all, -making some small discount,--with the exception of that one in which he -proclaimed himself to be a poet. A man may know whether he understands -French, and be quite ignorant whether the rhymed lines which he produces -are or are not poetry. When he told us that he was an infidel, and that -his character would not bear investigation, we went with him altogether. -His allusion to suicide we regarded as a foolish boast. We gave him -credit for the four children, but were not certain about the wife. We -quite believed the general assertion of his impecuniosity. That stuff -about “conventional thraldom” we hope we took at its worth. When he told -us that his life had been a mistake he spoke to us Gospel truth. - -Of the “Penny Dreadfuls,” and of “blood and nastiness,” so called, we -had never before heard, but we did not think it remarkable that a man so -gifted as our correspondent should earn forty-five shillings a week by -writing for the cheaper periodicals. It did not, however, appear to us -probable that any one so remunerated would be willing to leave that -engagement for another which should give him only thirty shillings. When -he spoke of the “filth of his present position,” our heart began to -bleed for him. We know what it is so well, and can fathom so accurately -the degradation of the educated man who, having been ambitious in the -career of literature, falls into that slough of despond by which the -profession of literature is almost surrounded. There we were with him, -as brothers together. When we came to Mr. Grimes and the Spotted Dog, in -Liquorpond Street, we thought that we had better refrain from answering -the letter,--by which decision on our part he would not, according to -his own statement, be much disappointed. Mr. Julius Mackenzie! Perhaps -at this very time rich uncles and aunts were buttoning up their pockets -against the sinner because of his devotion to the Spotted Dog. There are -well-to-do people among the Mackenzies. It might be the case that that -heterodox want of comprehension in regard to The Trinity was the cause -of it: but we have observed that in most families, grievous as are -doubts upon such sacred subjects, they are not held to be cause of -hostility so invincible as is a thorough-going devotion to a Spotted -Dog. If the Spotted Dog had brought about these troubles, any -interposition from ourselves would be useless. - -For twenty-four hours we had given up all idea of answering the letter; -but it then occurred to us that men who have become disreputable as -drunkards do not put forth their own abominations when making appeals -for aid. If this man were really given to drink he would hardly have -told us of his association with the public-house. Probably he was much -at the Spotted Dog, and hated himself for being there. The more we -thought of it the more we fancied that the gist of his letter might be -true. It seemed that the man had desired to tell the truth as he himself -believed it. - -It so happened that at that time we had been asked to provide an index -to a certain learned manuscript in three volumes. The intended publisher -of the work had already procured an index from a professional compiler -of such matters; but the thing had been so badly done that it could not -be used. Some knowledge of the classics was required, though it was not -much more than a familiarity with the names of Latin and Greek authors, -to which perhaps should be added some acquaintance, with the names also, -of the better-known editors and commentators. The gentleman who had had -the task in hand had failed conspicuously, and I had been told by my -enterprising friend Mr. X----, the publisher, that £25 would be freely -paid on the proper accomplishment of the undertaking. The work, -apparently so trifling in its nature, demanded a scholar’s acquirements, -and could hardly be completed in less than two months. We had snubbed -the offer, saying that we should be ashamed to ask an educated man to -give his time and labour for so small a remuneration;--but to Mr. Julius -Mackenzie £25 for two months’ work would manifestly be a godsend. If Mr. -Julius Mackenzie did in truth possess the knowledge for which he gave -himself credit; if he was, as he said, “familiar with Latin,” and was -“less ignorant of Greek than nineteen-twentieths of our national -scholars,” he might perhaps be able to earn this £25. We certainly knew -no one else who could and who would do the work properly for that money. -We therefore wrote to Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and requested his presence. -Our note was short, cautious, and also courteous. We regretted that a -man so gifted should be driven by stress of circumstances to such need. -We could undertake nothing, but if it would not put him to too much -trouble to call upon us, we might perhaps be able to suggest something -to him. Precisely at the hour named Mr. Julius Mackenzie came to us. - -We well remember his appearance, which was one unutterably painful to -behold. He was a tall man, very thin,--thin we might say as a -whipping-post, were it not that one’s idea of a whipping-post conveys -erectness and rigidity, whereas this man, as he stood before us, was -full of bends, and curves, and crookedness. His big head seemed to lean -forward over his miserably narrow chest. His back was bowed, and his -legs were crooked and tottering. He had told us that he was over forty, -but we doubted, and doubt now, whether he had not added something to his -years, in order partially to excuse the wan, worn weariness of his -countenance. He carried an infinity of thick, ragged, wild, dirty hair, -dark in colour, though not black, which age had not yet begun to -grizzle. He wore a miserable attempt at a beard, stubbly, uneven, and -half shorn,--as though it had been cut down within an inch of his chin -with blunt scissors. He had two ugly projecting teeth, and his cheeks -were hollow. His eyes were deep-set, but very bright, illuminating his -whole face; so that it was impossible to look at him and to think him to -be one wholly insignificant. His eyebrows were large and shaggy, but -well formed, not meeting across the brow, with single, -stiffly-projecting hairs,--a pair of eyebrows which added much strength -to his countenance. His nose was long and well shaped,--but red as a -huge carbuncle. The moment we saw him we connected that nose with the -Spotted Dog. It was not a blotched nose, not a nose covered with many -carbuncles, but a brightly red, smooth, well-formed nose, one glowing -carbuncle in itself. He was dressed in a long brown great-coat, which -was buttoned up round his throat, and which came nearly to his feet. The -binding of the coat was frayed, the buttons were half uncovered, the -button-holes were tattered, the velvet collar had become party-coloured -with dirt and usage. It was in the month of December, and a great-coat -was needed; but this great-coat looked as though it were worn because -other garments were not at his command. Not an inch of linen or even of -flannel shirt was visible. Below his coat we could only see his broken -boots and the soiled legs of his trousers, which had reached that age -which in trousers defies description. When we looked at him we could not -but ask ourselves whether this man had been born a gentleman and was -still a scholar. And yet there was that in his face which prompted us to -believe the account he had given of himself. As we looked at him we felt -sure that he possessed keen intellect, and that he was too much of a man -to boast of acquirements which he did not believe himself to possess. We -shook hands with him, asked him to sit down, and murmured something of -our sorrow that he should be in distress. - -“I am pretty well used to it,” said he. There was nothing mean in his -voice;--there was indeed a touch of humour in it, and in his manner -there was nothing of the abjectness of supplication. We had his letter -in our hands, and we read a portion of it again as he sat opposite to -us. We then remarked that we did not understand how he, having a wife -and family dependent on him, could offer to give up a third of his -income with the mere object of changing the nature of his work. “You -don’t know what it is,” said he, “to write for the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ -I’m at it seven hours a day, and hate the very words that I write. I -cursed myself afterwards for sending that letter. I know that to hope is -to be an ass. But I did send it, and here I am.” - -We looked at his nose and felt that we must be careful before we -suggested to our learned friend Dr. ---- to put his manuscript into the -hands of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. If it had been a printed book the attempt -might have been made without much hazard, but our friend’s work, which -was elaborate, and very learned, had not yet reached the honours of the -printing-house. We had had our own doubts whether it might ever assume -the form of a real book; but our friend, who was a wealthy as well as a -learned man, was, as yet, very determined. He desired, at any rate, that -the thing should be perfected, and his publisher had therefore come to -us offering £25 for the codification and index. Were anything other than -good to befall his manuscript, his lamentations would be loud, not on -his own score,--but on behalf of learning in general. It behoved us -therefore to be cautious. We pretended to read the letter again, in -order that we might gain time for a decision, for we were greatly -frightened by that gleaming nose. - -Let the reader understand that the nose was by no means Bardolphian. If -we have read Shakespeare aright Bardolph’s nose was a thing of terror -from its size as well as its hue. It was a mighty vat, into which had -ascended all the divinest particles distilled from the cellars of the -hostelrie in Eastcheap. Such at least is the idea which stage -representations have left upon all our minds. But the nose now before us -was a well-formed nose, would have been a commanding nose,--for the -power of command shows itself much in the nasal organ,--had it not been -for its colour. While we were thinking of this, and doubting much as to -our friend’s manuscript, Mr. Mackenzie interrupted us. “You think I am a -drunkard,” said he. The man’s mother-wit had enabled him to read our -inmost thoughts. - -As we looked up the man had risen from his chair, and was standing over -us. He loomed upon us very tall, although his legs were crooked, and his -back bent. Those piercing eyes, and that nose which almost assumed an -air of authority as he carried it, were a great way above us. There -seemed to be an infinity of that old brown great-coat. He had divined -our thoughts, and we did not dare to contradict him. We felt that a -weak, vapid, unmanly smile was creeping over our face. We were smiling -as a man smiles who intends to imply some contemptuous assent with the -self-depreciating comment of his companion. Such a mode of expression is -in our estimation most cowardly, and most odious. We had not intended -it, but we knew that the smile had pervaded us. “Of course you do,” said -he. “I was a drunkard, but I am not one now. It doesn’t matter;--only I -wish you hadn’t sent for me. I’ll go away at once.” - -So saying, he was about to depart, but we stopped him. We assured him -with much energy that we did not mean to offend him. He protested that -there was no offence. He was too well used to that kind of thing to be -made “more than wretched by it.” Such was his heart-breaking phrase. “As -for anger, I’ve lost all that long ago. Of course you take me for a -drunkard, and I should still be a drunkard, only----” - -“Only what?” I asked. - -“It don’t matter,” said he. “I need not trouble you more than I have -said already. You haven’t got anything for me to do, I suppose?” Then I -explained to him that I had something he might do, if I could venture -to entrust him with the work. With some trouble I got him to sit down -again, and to listen while I explained to him the circumstances. I had -been grievously afflicted when he alluded to his former habit of -drinking,--a former habit as he himself now stated,--but I entertained -no hesitation in raising questions as to his erudition. I felt almost -assured that his answers would be satisfactory, and that no discomfiture -would arise from such questioning. We were quickly able to perceive that -we at any rate could not examine him in classical literature. As soon as -we mentioned the name and nature of the work he went off at score, and -satisfied us amply that he was familiar at least with the title-pages of -editions. We began, indeed, to fear whether he might not be too caustic -a critic on our own friend’s performance. “Dr. ---- is only an amateur -himself,” said we, deprecating in advance any such exercise of the -red-nosed man’s too severe erudition. “We never get much beyond -dilettanteism here,” said he, “as far as Greek and Latin are concerned.” -What a terrible man he would have been could he have got upon the staff -of the Saturday Review, instead of going to the Spotted Dog! - -We endeavoured to bring the interview to an end by telling him that we -would consult the learned doctor from whom the manuscript had emanated; -and we hinted that a reference would be of course acceptable. His -impudence,--or perhaps we should rather call it his straightforward -sincere audacity,--was unbounded. “Mr. Grimes of the Spotted Dog knows -me better than any one else,” said he. We blew the breath out of our -mouth with astonishment. “I’m not asking you to go to him to find out -whether I know Latin and Greek,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “You must find that -out for yourself.” We assured him that we thought we had found that out. -“But he can tell you that I won’t pawn your manuscript.” The man was so -grim and brave that he almost frightened us. We hinted, however, that -literary reference should be given. The gentleman who paid him -forty-five shillings a week,--the manager, in short, of the “Penny -Dreadful,”--might tell us something of him. Then he wrote for us a name -on a scrap of paper, and added to it an address in the close vicinity of -Fleet Street, at which we remembered to have seen the title of a -periodical which we now knew to be a “Penny Dreadful.” - -Before he took his leave he made us a speech, again standing up over us, -though we also were on our legs. It was that bend in his neck, combined -with his natural height, which gave him such an air of superiority in -conversation. He seemed to overshadow us, and to have his own way with -us, because he was enabled to look down upon us. There was a footstool -on our hearth-rug, and we remember to have attempted to stand upon that, -in order that we might escape this supervision; but we stumbled and had -to kick it from us, and something was added to our sense of inferiority -by this little failure. “I don’t expect much from this,” he said. “I -never do expect much. And I have misfortunes independent of my poverty -which make it impossible that I should be other than a miserable -wretch.” - -“Bad health?” we asked. - -“No;--nothing absolutely personal;--but never mind. I must not trouble -you with more of my history. But if you can do this thing for me, it may -be the means of redeeming me from utter degradation.” We then assured -him that we would do our best, and he left us with a promise that he -would call again on that day week. - -The first step which we took on his behalf was one the very idea of -which had at first almost moved us to ridicule. We made enquiry -respecting Mr. Julius Mackenzie, of Mr. Grimes, the landlord of the -Spotted Dog. Though Mr. Grimes did keep the Spotted Dog, he might be a -man of sense and, possibly, of conscience. At any rate he would tell us -something, or confirm our doubts by refusing to tell us anything. We -found Mr. Grimes seated in a very neat little back parlour, and were -peculiarly taken by the appearance of a lady in a little cap and black -silk gown, whom we soon found to be Mrs. Grimes. Had we ventured to -employ our intellect in personifying for ourselves an imaginary Mrs. -Grimes as the landlady of a Spotted Dog public-house in Liquorpond -Street, the figure we should have built up for ourselves would have been -the very opposite of that which this lady presented to us. She was slim, -and young, and pretty, and had pleasant little tricks of words, in spite -of occasional slips in her grammar, which made us almost think that it -might be our duty to come very often to the Spotted Dog to enquire about -Mr. Julius Mackenzie. Mr. Grimes was a man about forty,--fully ten years -the senior of his wife,--with a clear gray eye, and a mouth and chin -from which we surmised that he would be competent to clear the Spotted -Dog of unruly visitors after twelve o’clock, whenever it might be his -wish to do so. We soon made known our request. Mr. Mackenzie had come to -us for literary employment. Could they tell us anything about Mr. -Mackenzie? - -“He’s as clever an author, in the way of writing and that kind of thing, -as there is in all London,” said Mrs. Grimes with energy. Perhaps her -opinion ought not to have been taken for much, but it had its weight. We -explained, however, that at the present moment we were specially anxious -to know something of the gentleman’s character and mode of life. Mr. -Grimes, whose manner to us was quite courteous, sat silent, thinking how -to answer us. His more impulsive and friendly wife was again ready with -her assurance. “There aint an honester gentleman breathing;--and I say -he is a gentleman, though he’s that poor he hasn’t sometimes a shirt to -his back.” - -“I don’t think he’s ever very well off for shirts,” said Mr. Grimes. - -“I wouldn’t be slow to give him one of yours, John, only I know he -wouldn’t take it,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Well now, look here, Sir;--we’ve -that feeling for him that our young woman there would draw anything for -him he’d ask--money or no money. She’d never venture to name money to -him if he wanted a glass of anything,--hot or cold, beer or spirits. -Isn’t that so, John?” - -“She’s fool enough for anything as far as I know,” said Mr. Grimes. - -“She aint no fool at all; and I’d do the same if I was there, and so’d -you, John. There is nothing Mackenzie’d ask as he wouldn’t give him,” -said Mrs. Grimes, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder to her -husband, who was standing on the hearth-rug;--“that is, in the way of -drawing liquor, and refreshments, and such like. But he never raised a -glass to his lips in this house as he didn’t pay for, nor yet took a -biscuit out of that basket. He’s a gentleman all over, is Mackenzie.” - -It was strong testimony; but still we had not quite got at the bottom of -the matter. “Doesn’t he raise a great many glasses to his lips?” we -asked. - -“No he don’t,” said Mrs. Grimes,--“only in reason.” - -“He’s had misfortunes,” said Mr. Grimes. - -“Indeed he has,” said the lady,--“what I call the very troublesomest of -troubles. If you was troubled like him, John, where’d you be?” - -“I know where you’d be,” said John. - -“He’s got a bad wife, Sir; the worst as ever was,” continued Mrs. -Grimes. “Talk of drink;--there is nothing that woman wouldn’t do for it. -She’d pawn the very clothes off her children’s back in mid-winter to get -it. She’d rob the food out of her husband’s mouth for a drop of gin. As -for herself,--she aint no woman’s notions left of keeping herself any -way. She’d as soon be picked out of the gutter as not;--and as for words -out of her mouth or clothes on her back, she hasn’t got, Sir, not an -item of a female’s feelings left about her.” - -Mrs. Grimes had been very eloquent, and had painted the “troublesomest -of all troubles” with glowing words. This was what the wretched man had -come to by marrying a woman who was not a lady in order that he might -escape the “conventional thraldom” of gentility! But still the drunken -wife was not all. There was the evidence of his own nose against -himself, and the additional fact that he had acknowledged himself to -have been formerly a drunkard. “I suppose he has drunk, himself?” we -said. - -“He has drunk, in course,” said Mrs. Grimes. - -“The world has been pretty rough with him, Sir,” said Mr. Grimes. - -“But he don’t drink now,” continued the lady. “At least if he do, we -don’t see it. As for her, she wouldn’t show herself inside our door.” - -“It aint often that man and wife draws their milk from the same cow,” -said Mr. Grimes. - -“But Mackenzie is here every day of his life,” said Mrs. Grimes. “When -he’s got a sixpence to pay for it, he’ll come in here and have a glass -of beer and a bit of something to eat. We does make him a little extra -welcome, and that’s the truth of it. We knows what he is, and we knows -what he was. As for book learning, Sir;--it don’t matter what language -it is, it’s all as one to him. He knows ’em all round just as I know my -catechism.” - -“Can’t you say fairer than that for him, Polly?” asked Mr. Grimes. - -“Don’t you talk of catechisms, John, nor yet of nothing else as a man -ought to set his mind to;--unless it is keeping the Spotted Dog. But as -for Mackenzie;--he knows off by heart whole books full of learning. -There was some furreners here as come from,--I don’t know where it was -they come from, only it wasn’t France, nor yet Germany, and he talked to -them just as though he hadn’t been born in England at all. I don’t think -there ever was such a man for knowing things. He’ll go on with poetry -out of his own head till you think it comes from him like web from a -spider.” We could not help thinking of the wonderful companionship which -there must have been in that parlour while the reduced man was spinning -his web and Mrs. Grimes, with her needlework lying idle in her lap, was -sitting by, listening with rapt admiration. In passing by the Spotted -Dog one would not imagine such a scene to have its existence within. -But then so many things do have existence of which we imagine nothing! - -Mr. Grimes ended the interview. “The fact is, Sir, if you can give him -employment better than what he has now, you’ll be helping a man who has -seen better days, and who only wants help to see ’em again. He’s got it -all there,” and Mr. Grimes put his finger up to his head. - -“He’s got it all here too,” said Mrs. Grimes, laying her hand upon her -heart. Hereupon we took our leave, suggesting to these excellent friends -that if it should come to pass that we had further dealings with Mr. -Mackenzie we might perhaps trouble them again. They assured us that we -should always be welcome, and Mr. Grimes himself saw us to the door, -having made profuse offers of such good cheer as the house afforded. We -were upon the whole much taken with the Spotted Dog. - -From thence we went to the office of the “Penny Dreadful,” in the -vicinity of Fleet Street. As we walked thither we could not but think of -Mrs. Grimes’s words. The troublesomest of troubles! We acknowledged to -ourselves that they were true words. Can there be any trouble more -troublesome than that of suffering from the shame inflicted by a -degraded wife? We had just parted from Mr. Grimes,--not, indeed, having -seen very much of him in the course of our interview;--but little as we -had seen, we were sure that he was assisted in his position by a buoyant -pride in that he called himself the master, and owner, and husband of -Mrs. Grimes. In the very step with which he passed in and out of his own -door you could see that there was nothing that he was ashamed of about -his household. When abroad he could talk of his “missus” with a -conviction that the picture which the word would convey to all who heard -him would redound to his honour. But what must have been the reflections -of Julius Mackenzie when his mind dwelt upon his wife? We remembered the -words of his letter. “I have a wife and four children, which burden -forbids me to free myself from all care with a bare bodkin.” As we -thought of them, and of the story which had been told to us at the -Spotted Dog, they lost that tone of rhodomontade with which they had -invested themselves when we first read them. A wife who is indifferent -to being picked out of the gutter, and who will pawn her children’s -clothes for gin, must be a trouble than which none can be more -troublesome. - -We did not find that we ingratiated ourselves with the people at the -office of the periodical for which Mr. Mackenzie worked; and yet we -endeavoured to do so, assuming in our manner and tone something of the -familiarity of a common pursuit. After much delay we came upon a -gentleman sitting in a dark cupboard, who twisted round his stool to -face us while he spoke to us. We believe that he was the editor of more -than one “Penny Dreadful,” and that as many as a dozen serial novels -were being issued to the world at the same time under his supervision. -“Oh!” said he, “so you’re at that game, are you?” We assured him that we -were at no game at all, but were simply influenced by a desire to assist -a distressed scholar. “That be blowed,” said our brother. “Mackenzie’s -doing as well here as he’ll do anywhere. He’s a drunken blackguard, when -all’s said and done. So you’re going to buy him up, are you? You won’t -keep him long,--and then he’ll have to starve.” We assured the gentleman -that we had no desire to buy up Mr. Mackenzie; we explained our ideas as -to the freedom of the literary profession, in accordance with which Mr. -Mackenzie could not be wrong in applying to us for work; and we -especially deprecated any severity on our brother’s part towards the -man, more especially begging that nothing might be decided, as we were -far from thinking it certain that we could provide Mr. Mackenzie with -any literary employment. “That’s all right,” said our brother, twisting -back his stool. “He can’t work for both of us;--that’s all. He has his -bread here regular, week after week; and I don’t suppose you’ll do as -much as that for him.” Then we went away, shaking the dust off our feet, -and wondering much at the great development of literature which latter -years have produced. We had not even known of the existence of these -papers;--and yet there they were, going forth into the hands of hundreds -of thousands of readers, all of whom were being, more or less, -instructed in their modes of life and manner of thinking by the stories -which were thus brought before them. - -But there might be truth in what our brother had said to us. Should Mr. -Mackenzie abandon his present engagement for the sake of the job which -we proposed to put in his hands, might he not thereby injure rather than -improve his prospects? We were acquainted with only one learned doctor -desirous of having his manuscripts codified and indexed at his own -expense. As for writing for the periodical with which we were connected, -we knew enough of the business to be aware that Mr. Mackenzie’s gifts of -erudition would very probably not so much assist him in attempting such -work as would his late training act against him. A man might be able to -read and even talk a dozen languages,--“just as though he hadn’t been -born in England at all,”--and yet not write the language with which we -dealt after the fashion which suited our readers. It might be that he -would fly much above our heads, and do work infinitely too big for us. -We did not regard our own heads as being very high. But, for such -altitude as they held, a certain class of writing was adapted. The -gentleman whom we had just left would require, no doubt, altogether -another style. It was probable that Mr. Mackenzie had already fitted -himself to his present audience. And, even were it not so, we could not -promise him forty-five shillings a week, or even that thirty shillings -for which he asked. There is nothing more dangerous than the attempt to -befriend a man in middle life by transplanting him from one soil to -another. - -When Mr. Mackenzie came to us again we endeavoured to explain all this -to him. We had in the meantime seen our friend the Doctor, whose -beneficence of spirit in regard to the unfortunate man of letters was -extreme. He was charmed with our account of the man, and saw with his -mind’s eye the work, for the performance of which he was pining, -perfected in a manner that would be a blessing to the scholars of all -future ages. He was at first anxious to ask Julius Mackenzie down to his -rectory, and, even after we had explained to him that this would not at -present be expedient, was full of a dream of future friendship with a -man who would be able to discuss the digamma with him, who would have -studied Greek metres, and have an opinion of his own as to Porson’s -canon. We were in possession of the manuscript, and had our friend’s -authority for handing it over to Mr. Mackenzie. - -He came to us according to appointment, and his nose seemed to be redder -than ever. We thought that we discovered a discouraging flavour of -spirits in his breath. Mrs. Grimes had declared that he drank,--only in -reason; but the ideas of the wife of a publican,--even though that wife -were Mrs. Grimes,--might be very different from our own as to what was -reasonable in that matter. And as we looked at him he seemed to be more -rough, more ragged, almost more wretched than before. It might be that, -in taking his part with my brother of the “Penny Dreadful,” with the -Doctor, and even with myself in thinking over his claims, I had endowed -him with higher qualities than I had been justified in giving to him. As -I considered him and his appearance I certainly could not assure myself -that he looked like a man worthy to be trusted. A policeman, seeing him -at a street corner, would have had an eye upon him in a moment. He -rubbed himself together within his old coat, as men do when they come -out of gin-shops. His eye was as bright as before, but we thought that -his mouth was meaner, and his nose redder. We were almost disenchanted -with him. We said nothing to him at first about the Spotted Dog, but -suggested to him our fears that if he undertook work at our hands he -would lose the much more permanent employment which he got from the -gentleman whom we had seen in the cupboard. We then explained to him -that we could promise to him no continuation of employment. - -The violence with which he cursed the gentleman who had sat in the -cupboard appalled us, and had, we think, some effect in bringing back to -us that feeling of respect for him which we had almost lost. It may be -difficult to explain why we respected him because he cursed and swore -horribly. We do not like cursing and swearing, and were any of our -younger contributors to indulge themselves after that fashion in our -presence we should, at the very least,--frown upon them. We did not -frown upon Julius Mackenzie, but stood up, gazing into his face above -us, again feeling that the man was powerful. Perhaps we respected him -because he was not in the least afraid of us. He went on to assert that -he cared not,--not a straw, we will say,--for the gentleman in the -cupboard. He knew the gentleman in the cupboard very well; and the -gentleman in the cupboard knew him. As long as he took his work to the -gentleman in the cupboard, the gentleman in the cupboard would be only -too happy to purchase that work at the rate of sixpence for a page of -manuscript containing two hundred and fifty words. That was his rate of -payment for prose fiction, and at that rate he could earn forty-five -shillings a week. He wasn’t afraid of the gentleman in the cupboard. He -had had some words with the gentleman in the cupboard before now, and -they two understood each other very well. He hinted, moreover, that -there were other gentlemen in other cupboards; but with none of them -could he advance beyond forty-five shillings a week. For this he had to -sit, with his pen in his hand, seven hours seven days a week, and the -very paper, pens, and ink came to fifteenpence out of the money. He had -struck for wages once, and for a halcyon month or two had carried his -point of sevenpence halfpenny a page; but the gentlemen in the cupboards -had told him that it could not be. They, too, must live. His matter was -no doubt attractive; but any price above sixpence a page unfitted it for -their market. All this Mr. Julius Mackenzie explained to us with much -violence of expression. When I named Mrs. Grimes to him the tone of his -voice was altered. “Yes,” said he, “I thought they’d say a word for me. -They’re the best friends I’ve got now. I don’t know that you ought quite -to believe her, for I think she’d perhaps tell a lie to do me a -service.” We assured him that we did believe every word Mrs. Grimes had -said to us. - -After much pausing over the matter we told him that we were empowered to -trust him with our friend’s work, and the manuscript was produced upon -the table. If he would undertake the work and perform it, he should be -paid £8: 6_s._: 8_d._ for each of the three volumes as they were -completed. And we undertook, moreover, on our own responsibility, to -advance him money in small amounts through the hands of Mrs. Grimes, if -he really settled himself to the task. At first he was in ecstasies, and -as we explained to him the way in which the index should be brought out -and the codification performed, he turned over the pages rapidly, and -showed us that he understood at any rate the nature of the work to be -done. But when we came to details he was less happy. In what workshop -was this new work to be performed? There was a moment in which we almost -thought of telling him to do the work in our own room; but we hesitated, -luckily, remembering that his continual presence with us for two or -three months would probably destroy us altogether. It appeared that his -present work was done sometimes at the Spotted Dog, and sometimes at -home in his lodgings. He said not a word to us about his wife, but we -could understand that there would be periods in which to work at home -would be impossible to him. He did not pretend to deny that there might -be danger on that score, nor did he ask permission to take the entire -manuscript at once away to his abode. We knew that if he took part he -must take the whole, as the work could not be done in parts. Counter -references would be needed. “My circumstances are bad;--very bad -indeed,” he said. We expressed the great trouble to which we should be -subjected if any evil should happen to the manuscript. “I will give it -up,” he said, towering over us again, and shaking his head. “I cannot -expect that I should be trusted.” But we were determined that it should -not be given up. Sooner than give the matter up we would make some -arrangement by hiring a place in which he might work. Even though we -were to pay ten shillings a week for a room for him out of the money, -the bargain would be a good one for him. At last we determined that we -would pay a second visit to the Spotted Dog, and consult Mrs. Grimes. We -felt that we should have a pleasure in arranging together with Mrs. -Grimes any scheme of benevolence on behalf of this unfortunate and -remarkable man. So we told him that we would think over the matter, and -send a letter to his address at the Spotted Dog, which he should receive -on the following morning. He then gathered himself up, rubbed himself -together again inside his coat, and took his departure. - -As soon as he was gone we sat looking at the learned Doctor’s -manuscript, and thinking of what we had done. There lay the work of -years, by which our dear and venerable old friend expected that he would -take rank among the great commentators of modern times. We, in truth, -did not anticipate for him all the glory to which he looked forward. We -feared that there might be disappointment. Hot discussion on verbal -accuracies or on rules of metre are perhaps not so much in vogue now as -they were a hundred years ago. There might be disappointment and great -sorrow; but we could not with equanimity anticipate the prevention of -this sorrow by the possible loss or destruction of the manuscript which -had been entrusted to us. The Doctor himself had seemed to anticipate no -such danger. When we told him of Mackenzie’s learning and misfortunes, -he was eager at once that the thing should be done, merely stipulating -that he should have an interview with Mr. Mackenzie before he returned -to his rectory. - -That same day we went to the Spotted Dog, and found Mrs. Grimes alone. -Mackenzie had been there immediately after leaving our room, and had -told her what had taken place. She was full of the subject and anxious -to give every possible assistance. She confessed at once that the papers -would not be safe in the rooms inhabited by Mackenzie and his wife. “He -pays five shillings a week,” she said, “for a wretched place round in -Cucumber Court. They are all huddled together, any way; and how he -manages to do a thing at all there,--in the way of author-work,--is a -wonder to everybody. Sometimes he can’t, and then he’ll sit for hours -together at the little table in our tap-room.” We went into the tap-room -and saw the little table. It was a wonder indeed that any one should be -able to compose and write tales of imagination in a place so dreary, -dark, and ill-omened. The little table was hardly more than a long slab -or plank, perhaps eighteen inches wide. When we visited the place there -were two brewers’ draymen seated there, and three draggled, -wretched-looking women. The carters were eating enormous hunches of -bread and bacon, which they cut and put into their mouths slowly, -solemnly, and in silence. The three women were seated on a bench, and -when I saw them had no signs of festivity before them. It must be -presumed that they had paid for something, or they would hardly have -been allowed to sit there. “It’s empty now,” said Mrs. Grimes, taking no -immediate notice of the men or of the women; “but sometimes he’ll sit -writing in that corner, when there’s such a jabber of voices as you -wouldn’t hear a cannon go off over at Reid’s, and that thick with smoke -you’d a’most cut it with a knife. Don’t he, Peter?” The man whom she -addressed endeavoured to prepare himself for answer by swallowing at the -moment three square inches of bread and bacon, which he had just put -into his mouth. He made an awful effort, but failed; and, failing, -nodded his head three times. “They all know him here, Sir,” continued -Mrs. Grimes. “He’ll go on writing, writing, writing, for hours together; -and nobody’ll say nothing to him. Will they, Peter?” Peter, who was now -half-way through the work he had laid out for himself, muttered some -inarticulate grunt of assent. - -We then went back to the snug little room inside the bar. It was quite -clear to me that the man could not manipulate the Doctor’s manuscript, -of which he would have to spread a dozen sheets before him at the same -time, in the place I had just visited. Even could he have occupied the -chamber alone, the accommodation would not have been sufficient for the -purpose. It was equally clear that he could not be allowed to use Mrs. -Grimes’s snuggery. “How are we to get a place for him?” said I, -appealing to the lady. “He shall have a place,” she said, “I’ll go bail; -he sha’n’t lose the job for want of a workshop.” Then she sat down and -began to think it over. I was just about to propose the hiring of some -decent room in the neighbourhood, when she made a suggestion, which I -acknowledge startled me. “I’ll have a big table put into my own -bed-room,” said she, “and he shall do it there. There aint another hole -or corner about the place as’d suit; and he can lay the gentleman’s -papers all about on the bed, square and clean and orderly. Can’t he now? -And I can see after ’em, as he don’t lose ’em. Can’t I now?” - -By this time there had sprung up an intimacy between ourselves and Mrs. -Grimes which seemed to justify an expression of the doubt which I then -threw on the propriety of such a disarrangement of her most private -domestic affairs. “Mr. Grimes will hardly approve of that,” we said. - -“Oh, John won’t mind. What’ll it matter to John as long as Mackenzie is -out in time for him to go to bed? We aint early birds, morning or -night,--that’s true. In our line folks can’t be early. But from ten to -six there’s the room, and he shall have it. Come up and see, Sir.” So we -followed Mrs. Grimes up the narrow staircase to the marital bower. “It -aint large, but there’ll be room for the table, and for him to sit at -it;--won’t there now?” - -It was a dark little room, with one small window looking out under the -low roof, and facing the heavy high dead wall of the brewery opposite. -But it was clean and sweet, and the furniture in it was all solid and -good, old-fashioned, and made of mahogany. Two or three of Mrs. Grimes’s -gowns were laid upon the bed, and other portions of her dress were hung -on pegs behind the doors. The only untidy article in the room was a pair -of “John’s” trousers, which he had failed to put out of sight. She was -not a bit abashed, but took them up and folded them and patted them, and -laid them in the capacious wardrobe. “We’ll have all these things away,” -she said, “and then he can have all his papers out upon the bed just as -he pleases.” - -We own that there was something in the proposed arrangement which -dismayed us. We also were married, and what would our wife have said had -we proposed that a contributor,--even a contributor not red-nosed and -seething with gin,--that any best-disciplined contributor should be -invited to write an article within the precincts of our sanctum? We -could not bring ourselves to believe that Mr. Grimes would authorise the -proposition. There is something holy about the bed-room of a married -couple; and there would be a special desecration in the continued -presence of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. We thought it better that we should -explain something of all this to her. “Do you know,” we said, “this -seems to be hardly prudent?” - -“Why not prudent?” she asked. - -“Up in your bed-room, you know! Mr. Grimes will be sure to dislike it.” - -“What,--John! Not he. I know what you’re a-thinking of, Mr. ----,” she -said. “But we’re different in our ways than what you are. Things to us -are only just what they are. We haven’t time, nor yet money, nor perhaps -edication, for seemings and thinkings as you have. If you was travelling -out amongst the wild Injeans, you’d ask any one to have a bit in your -bed-room as soon as look at ’em, if you’d got a bit for ’em to eat. -We’re travelling among wild Injeans all our lives, and a bed-room aint -no more to us than any other room. Mackenzie shall come up here, and -I’ll have the table fixed for him, just there by the window.” I hadn’t -another word to say to her, and I could not keep myself from thinking -for many an hour afterwards, whether it may not be a good thing for men, -and for women also, to believe that they are always travelling among -wild Indians. - -When we went down Mr. Grimes himself was in the little parlour. He did -not seem at all surprised at seeing his wife enter the room from above -accompanied by a stranger. She at once began her story, and told the -arrangement which she proposed,--which she did, as I observed, without -any actual request for his sanction. Looking at Mr. Grimes’s face, I -thought that he did not quite like it; but he accepted it, almost -without a word, scratching his head and raising his eyebrows. “You -know, John, he could no more do it at home than he could fly,” said Mrs. -Grimes. - -“Who said he could do it at home?” - -“And he couldn’t do it in the tap-room;--could he? If so, there aint no -other place, and so that’s settled.” John Grimes again scratched his -head, and the matter was settled. Before we left the house Mackenzie -himself came in, and was told in our presence of the accommodation which -was to be prepared for him. “It’s just like you, Mrs. Grimes,” was all -he said in the way of thanks. Then Mrs. Grimes made her bargain with him -somewhat sternly. He should have the room for five hours a day,--ten -till three, or twelve till five; but he must settle which, and then -stick to his hours. “And I won’t have nothing up there in the way of -drink,” said John Grimes. - -“Who’s asking to have drink there?” said Mackenzie. - -“You’re not asking now, but maybe you will. I won’t have it, that’s -all.” - -“That shall be all right, John,” said Mrs. Grimes, nodding her head. - -“Women are that soft,--in the way of judgment,--that they’ll go and do -a’most anything, good or bad, when they’ve got their feelings up.” Such -was the only rebuke which in our hearing Mr. Grimes administered to his -pretty wife. Mackenzie whispered something to the publican, but Grimes -only shook his head. We understood it all thoroughly. He did not like -the scheme, but he would not contradict his wife in an act of real -kindness. We then made an appointment with the scholar for meeting our -friend and his future patron at our rooms, and took our leave of the -Spotted Dog. Before we went, however, Mrs. Grimes insisted on producing -some cherry-bounce, as she called it, which, after sundry refusals on -our part, was brought in on a small round shining tray, in a little -bottle covered all over with gold sprigs, with four tiny glasses -similarly ornamented. Mrs. Grimes poured out the liquor, using a very -sparing hand when she came to the glass which was intended for herself. -We find it, as a rule, easier to talk with the Grimeses of the world -than to eat with them or to drink with them. When the glass was handed -to us we did not know whether or no we were expected to say something. -We waited, however, till Mr. Grimes and Mackenzie had been provided with -their glasses. “Proud to see you at the Spotted Dog, Mr. ----,” said -Grimes. “That we are,” said Mrs. Grimes, smiling at us over her almost -imperceptible drop of drink. Julius Mackenzie just bobbed his head, and -swallowed the cordial at a gulp,--as a dog does a lump of meat, leaving -the impression on his friends around him that he has not got from it -half the enjoyment which it might have given him had he been a little -more patient in the process. I could not but think that had Mackenzie -allowed the cherry-bounce to trickle a little in his palate, as I did -myself, it would have gratified him more than it did in being chucked -down his throat with all the impetus which his elbow could give to the -glass. “That’s tidy tipple,” said Mr. Grimes, winking his eye. We -acknowledged that it was tidy. “My mother made it, as used to keep the -Pig and Magpie, at Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes. In this way we learned -a good deal of Mrs. Grimes’s history. Her very earliest years had been -passed among wild Indians. - -Then came the interview between the Doctor and Mr. Mackenzie. We must -confess that we greatly feared the impression which our younger friend -might make on the elder. We had of course told the Doctor of the red -nose, and he had accepted the information with a smile. But he was a man -who would feel the contamination of contact with a drunkard, and who -would shrink from an unpleasant association. There are vices of which -we habitually take altogether different views in accordance with the -manner in which they are brought under our notice. This vice of -drunkenness is often a joke in the mouths of those to whom the thing -itself is a horror. Even before our boys we talk of it as being rather -funny, though to see one of them funny himself would almost break our -hearts. The learned commentator had accepted our account of the red nose -as though it were simply a part of the undeserved misery of the wretched -man; but should he find the wretched man to be actually redolent of gin -his feelings might be changed. The Doctor was with us first, and the -volumes of the MS. were displayed upon the table. The compiler of them, -as he lifted here a page and there a page, handled them with the -gentleness of a lover. They had been exquisitely arranged, and were very -fair. The pagings, and the margins, and the chapterings, and all the -complementary paraphernalia of authorship, were perfect. “A lifetime, my -friend; just a lifetime!” the Doctor had said to us, speaking of his own -work while we were waiting for the man to whose hands was to be -entrusted the result of so much labour and scholarship. We wished at -that moment that we had never been called on to interfere in the -matter. - -Mackenzie came, and the introduction was made. The Doctor was a -gentleman of the old school, very neat in his attire,--dressed in -perfect black, with kneebreeches and black gaiters, with a closely-shorn -chin, and an exquisitely white cravat. Though he was in truth simply the -rector of his parish, his parish was one which entitled him to call -himself a dean, and he wore a clerical rosette on his hat. He was a -well-made, tall, portly gentleman, with whom to take the slightest -liberty would have been impossible. His well-formed full face was -singularly expressive of benevolence, but there was in it too an air of -command which created an involuntary respect. He was a man whose means -were ample, and who could afford to keep two curates, so that the -appanages of a Church dignitary did in some sort belong to him. We doubt -whether he really understood what work meant,--even when he spoke with -so much pathos of the labour of his life; but he was a man not at all -exacting in regard to the work of others, and who was anxious to make -the world as smooth and rosy to those around him as it had been to -himself. He came forward, paused a moment, and then shook hands with -Mackenzie. Our work had been done, and we remained in the background -during the interview. It was now for the Doctor to satisfy himself with -the scholarship,--and, if he chose to take cognizance of the matter, -with the morals of his proposed assistant. - -Mackenzie himself was more subdued in his manner than he had been when -talking with ourselves. The Doctor made a little speech, standing at the -table with one hand on one volume and the other on another. He told of -all his work, with a mixture of modesty as to the thing done, and -self-assertion as to his interest in doing it, which was charming. He -acknowledged that the sum proposed for the aid which he required was -inconsiderable;--but it had been fixed by the proposed publisher. Should -Mr. Mackenzie find that the labour was long he would willingly increase -it. Then he commenced a conversation respecting the Greek dramatists, -which had none of the air or tone of an examination, but which still -served the purpose of enabling Mackenzie to show his scholarship. In -that respect there was no doubt that the ragged, red-nosed, disreputable -man, who stood there longing for his job, was the greater proficient of -the two. We never discovered that he had had access to books in later -years; but his memory of the old things seemed to be perfect. When it -was suggested that references would be required, it seemed that he did -know his way into the library of the British Museum. “When I wasn’t -quite so shabby,” he said boldly, “I used to be there.” The Doctor -instantly produced a ten-pound note, and insisted that it should be -taken in advance. Mackenzie hesitated, and we suggested that it was -premature; but the Doctor was firm. “If an old scholar mayn’t assist one -younger than himself,” he said, “I don’t know when one man may aid -another. And this is no alms. It is simply a pledge for work to be -done.” Mackenzie took the money, muttering something of an assurance -that as far as his ability went, the work should be done well. “It -should certainly,” he said, “be done diligently.” - -When money had passed, of course the thing was settled; but in truth the -bank-note had been given, not from judgment in settling the matter, but -from the generous impulse of the moment. There was, however, no -receding. The Doctor expressed by no hint a doubt as to the safety of -his manuscript. He was by far too fine a gentleman to give the man whom -he employed pain in that direction. If there were risk, he would now run -the risk. And so the thing was settled. - -We did not, however, give the manuscript on that occasion into -Mackenzie’s hands, but took it down afterwards, locked in an old -despatch box of our own, to the Spotted Dog, and left the box with the -key of it in the hands of Mrs. Grimes. Again we went up into that lady’s -bed-room, and saw that the big table had been placed by the window for -Mackenzie’s accommodation. It so nearly filled the room, that as we -observed, John Grimes could not get round at all to his side of the bed. -It was arranged that Mackenzie was to begin on the morrow. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -PART II.--THE RESULT. - - -During the next month we saw a good deal of Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and -made ourselves quite at home in Mrs. Grimes’s bed-room. We went in and -out of the Spotted Dog as if we had known that establishment all our -lives, and spent many a quarter of an hour with the hostess in her -little parlour, discussing the prospects of Mr. Mackenzie and his -family. He had procured to himself decent, if not exactly new, garments -out of the money so liberally provided by my learned friend the Doctor, -and spent much of his time in the library of the British Museum. He -certainly worked very hard, for he did not altogether abandon his old -engagement. Before the end of the first month the index of the first -volume, nearly completed, had been sent down for the inspection of the -Doctor, and had been returned with ample eulogium and some little -criticism. The criticisms Mackenzie answered by letter, with true -scholarly spirit, and the Doctor was delighted. Nothing could be more -pleasant to him than a correspondence, prolonged almost indefinitely, as -to the respective merits of a τὀ or a τον, or on the demand for a -spondee or an iamb. When he found that the work was really in -industrious hands, he ceased to be clamorous for early publication, and -gave us to understand privately that Mr. Mackenzie was not to be limited -to the sum named. The matter of remuneration was, indeed, left very much -to ourselves, and Mackenzie had certainly found a most efficient friend -in the author whose works had been confided to his hands. - -All this was very pleasant, and Mackenzie throughout that month worked -very hard. According to the statements made to me by Mrs. Grimes he took -no more gin than what was necessary for a hard-working man. As to the -exact quantity of that cordial which she imagined to be beneficial and -needful, we made no close enquiry. He certainly kept himself in a -condition for work, and so far all went on happily. Nevertheless, there -was a terrible skeleton in the cupboard,--or rather out of the -cupboard, for the skeleton could not be got to hide itself. A certain -portion of his prosperity reached the hands of his wife, and she was -behaving herself worse than ever. The four children had been covered -with decent garments under Mrs. Grimes’s care, and then Mrs. Mackenzie -had appeared at the Spotted Dog, loudly demanding a new outfit for -herself. She came not only once, but often, and Mr. Grimes was beginning -to protest that he saw too much of the family. We had become very -intimate with Mrs. Grimes, and she did not hesitate to confide to us her -fears lest “John should cut up rough,” before the thing was completed. -“You see,” she said, “it is against the house, no doubt, that woman -coming nigh it.” But still she was firm, and Mackenzie was not disturbed -in the possession of the bed-room. At last Mrs. Mackenzie was provided -with some articles of female attire;--and then, on the very next day, -she and the four children were again stripped almost naked. The wretched -creature must have steeped herself in gin to the shoulders, for in one -day she made a sweep of everything. She then came in a state of furious -intoxication to the Spotted Dog, and was removed by the police under the -express order of the landlord. - -We can hardly say which was the most surprising to us, the loyalty of -Mrs. Grimes or the patience of John. During that night, as we were told -two days afterwards by his wife, he stormed with passion. The papers she -had locked up in order that he should not get at them and destroy them. -He swore that everything should be cleared out on the following morning. -But when the morning came he did not even say a word to Mackenzie, as -the wretched, downcast, broken-hearted creature passed up stairs to his -work. “You see I knows him, and how to deal with him,” said Mrs. Grimes, -speaking of her husband. “There aint another like himself -nowheres;--he’s that good. A softer-hearteder man there aint in the -public line. He can speak dreadful when his dander is up, and can -look----; oh, laws, he just can look at you! But he could no more put -his hands upon a woman, in the way of hurting,--no more than be an -archbishop.” Where could be the man, thought we to ourselves as this was -said to us, who could have put a hand,--in the way of hurting,--upon -Mrs. Grimes? - -On that occasion, to the best of our belief, the policeman contented -himself with depositing Mrs. Mackenzie at her own lodgings. On the next -day she was picked up drunk in the street, and carried away to the -lock-up house. At the very moment in which the story was being told to -us by Mrs. Grimes, Mackenzie had gone to the police office to pay the -fine, and to bring his wife home. We asked with dismay and surprise why -he should interfere to rescue her--why he did not leave her in custody -as long as the police would keep her? “Who’d there be to look after the -children?” asked Mrs. Grimes, as though she were offended at our -suggestion. Then she went on to explain that in such a household as that -of poor Mackenzie the wife is absolutely a necessity, even though she be -an habitual drunkard. Intolerable as she was, her services were -necessary to him. “A husband as drinks is bad,” said Mrs. Grimes,--with -something, we thought, of an apologetic tone for the vice upon which her -own prosperity was partly built,--“but when a woman takes to it, it’s -the ---- devil.” We thought that she was right, as we pictured to -ourselves that man of letters satisfying the magistrate’s demand for his -wife’s misconduct, and taking the degraded, half-naked creature once -more home to his children. - -We saw him about twelve o’clock on that day, and he had then, too -evidently, been endeavouring to support his misery by the free use of -alcohol. We did not speak of it down in the parlour; but even Mrs. -Grimes, we think, would have admitted that he had taken more than was -good for him. He was sitting up in the bed-room with his head hanging -upon his hand, with a swarm of our learned friend’s papers spread on the -table before him. Mrs. Grimes, when he entered the house, had gone up -stairs to give them out to him; but he had made no attempt to settle -himself to his work. “This kind of thing must come to an end,” he said -to us with a thick, husky voice. We muttered something to him as to the -need there was that he should exert a manly courage in his troubles. -“Manly!” he said. “Well, yes; manly. A man should be a man, of course. -There are some things which a man can’t bear. I’ve borne more than -enough, and I’ll have an end of it.” - -We shall never forget that scene. After awhile he got up, and became -almost violent. Talk of bearing! Who had borne half as much as he? There -were things a man should not bear. As for manliness, he believed that -the truly manly thing would be to put an end to the lives of his wife, -his children, and himself at one swoop. Of course the judgment of a -mealy-mouthed world would be against him, but what would that matter to -him when he and they had vanished out of this miserable place into the -infinite realms of nothingness? Was he fit to live, or were they? Was -there any chance for his children but that of becoming thieves and -prostitutes? And for that poor wretch of a woman, from out of whose -bosom even her human instincts had been washed by gin,--would not death -to her be, indeed, a charity? There was but one drawback to all this. -When he should have destroyed them, how would it be with him if he -should afterwards fail to make sure work with his own life? In such case -it was not hanging that he would fear, but the self-reproach that would -come upon him in that he had succeeded in sending others out of their -misery, but had flinched when his own turn had come. Though he was drunk -when he said these horrid things, or so nearly drunk that he could not -perfect the articulation of his words, still there was a marvellous -eloquence with him. When we attempted to answer, and told him of that -canon which had been set against self-slaughter, he laughed us to scorn. -There was something terrible to us in the audacity of the arguments -which he used, when he asserted for himself the right to shuffle off -from his shoulders a burden which they had not been made broad enough -to bear. There was an intensity and a thorough hopelessness of suffering -in his case, an openness of acknowledged degradation, which robbed us -for the time of all that power which the respectable ones of the earth -have over the disreputable. When we came upon him with our wise saws, -our wisdom was shattered instantly, and flung back upon us in fragments. -What promise could we dare to hold out to him that further patience -would produce any result that could be beneficial? What further harm -could any such doing on his part bring upon him? Did we think that were -he brought out to stand at the gallows’ foot with the knowledge that ten -minutes would usher him into what folks called eternity, his sense of -suffering would be as great as it had been when he conducted that woman -out of court and along the streets to his home, amidst the jeering -congratulations of his neighbours? “When you have fallen so low,” said -he, “that you can fall no lower, the ordinary trammels of the world -cease to bind you.” Though his words were knocked against each other -with the dulled utterances of intoxication, his intellect was terribly -clear, and his scorn for himself, and for the world that had so treated -him, was irrepressible. - -We must have been over an hour with him up there in the bed-room, and -even then we did not leave him. As it was manifest that he could do no -work on that day, we collected the papers together, and proposed that he -should take a walk with us. He was patient as we shovelled together the -Doctor’s pages, and did not object to our suggestion. We found it -necessary to call up Mrs. Grimes to assist us in putting away the “Opus -magnum,” and were astonished to find how much she had come to know about -the work. Added to the Doctor’s manuscript there were now the pages of -Mackenzie’s indexes,--and there were other pages of reference, for use -in making future indexes,--as to all of which Mrs. Grimes seemed to be -quite at home. We have no doubt that she was familiar with the names of -Greek tragedians, and could have pointed out to us in print the -performances of the chorus. “A little fresh air’ll do you a deal of -good, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to the unfortunate man,--“only take a -biscuit in your pocket.” We got him out to the street, but he angrily -refused to take the biscuit which she endeavoured to force into his -hands. - -That was a memorable walk. Turning from the end of Liquorpond Street up -Gray’s Inn Lane towards Holborn, we at once came upon the entrance into -a miserable court. “There,” said he; “it is down there that I live. She -is sleeping it off now, and the children are hanging about her, -wondering whether mother has got money to have another go at it when she -rises. I’d take you down to see it all, only it’d sicken you.” We did -not offer to go down the court, abstaining rather for his sake than for -our own. The look of the place was as of a spot squalid, fever-stricken, -and utterly degraded. And this man who was our companion had been born -and bred a gentleman,--had been nourished with that soft and gentle care -which comes of wealth and love combined,--had received the education -which the country gives to her most favoured sons, and had taken such -advantage of that education as is seldom taken by any of those favoured -ones;--and Cucumber Court, with a drunken wife and four half-clothed, -half-starved children, was the condition to which he had brought -himself! The world knows nothing higher nor brighter than had been his -outset in life,--nothing lower nor more debased than the result. And yet -he was one whose time and intellect had been employed upon the pursuit -of knowledge,--who even up to this day had high ideas of what should be -a man’s career,--who worked very hard and had always worked,--who as far -as we knew had struck upon no rocks in the pursuit of mere pleasure. It -had all come to him from that idea of his youth that it would be good -for him “to take refuge from the conventional thraldom of so-called -gentlemen amidst the liberty of the lower orders.” His life, as he had -himself owned, had indeed been a mistake. - -We passed on from the court, and crossing the road went through the -squares of Gray’s Inn, down Chancery Lane, through the little iron gate -into Lincoln’s Inn, round through the old square,--than which we know no -place in London more conducive to suicide; and the new square,--which -has a gloom of its own, not so potent, and savouring only of madness, -till at last we found ourselves in the Temple Gardens. I do not know why -we had thus clung to the purlieus of the Law, except it was that he was -telling us how in his early days, when he had been sent away from -Cambridge,--as on this occasion he acknowledged to us, for an attempt to -pull the tutor’s nose, in revenge for a supposed insult,--he had -intended to push his fortunes as a barrister. He pointed up to a certain -window in a dark corner of that suicidal old court, and told us that for -one year he had there sat at the feet of a great Gamaliel in Chancery, -and had worked with all his energies. Of course we asked him why he had -left a prospect so alluring. Though his answers to us were not quite -explicit, we think that he did not attempt to conceal the truth. He -learned to drink, and that Gamaliel took upon himself to rebuke the -failing, and by the end of that year he had quarrelled irreconcilably -with his family. There had been great wrath at home when he was sent -from Cambridge, greater wrath when he expressed his opinion upon certain -questions of religious faith, and wrath to the final severance of all -family relations when he told the chosen Gamaliel that he should get -drunk as often as he pleased. After that he had “taken refuge among the -lower orders,” and his life, such as it was, had come of it. - -In Fleet Street, as we came out of the Temple, we turned into an -eating-house and had some food. By this time the exercise and the air -had carried off the fumes of the liquor which he had taken, and I knew -that it would be well that he should eat. We had a mutton chop and a hot -potato and a pint of beer each, and sat down to table for the first and -last time as mutual friends. It was odd to see how in his converse with -us on that day he seemed to possess a double identity. Though the -hopeless misery of his condition was always present to him, was -constantly on his tongue, yet he could talk about his own career and -his own character as though they belonged to a third person. He could -even laugh at the wretched mistake he had made in life, and speculate as -to its consequences. For himself he was well aware that death was the -only release that he could expect. We did not dare to tell him that if -his wife should die, then things might be better with him. We could only -suggest to him that work itself, if he would do honest work, would -console him for many sufferings. “You don’t know the filth of it,” he -said to us. Ah, dear! how well we remember the terrible word, and the -gesture with which he pronounced it, and the gleam of his eyes as he -said it! His manner to us on this occasion was completely changed, and -we had a gratification in feeling that a sense had come back upon him of -his old associations. “I remember this room so well,” he said,--“when I -used to have friends and money.” And, indeed, the room was one which has -been made memorable by Genius. “I did not think ever to have found -myself here again.” We observed, however, that he could not eat the food -that was placed before him. A morsel or two of the meat he swallowed, -and struggled to eat the crust of his bread, but he could not make a -clean plate of it, as we did,--regretting that the nature of chops did -not allow of ampler dimensions. His beer was quickly finished, and we -suggested to him a second tankard. With a queer, half-abashed twinkle of -the eye, he accepted our offer, and then the second pint disappeared -also. We had our doubts on the subject, but at last decided against any -further offer. Had he chosen to call for it he must have had a third; -but he did not call for it. We left him at the door of the tavern, and -he then promised that in spite of all that he had suffered and all that -he had said he would make another effort to complete the Doctor’s work. -“Whether I go or stay,” he said, “I’d like to earn the money that I’ve -spent.” There was something terrible in that idea of his going! Whither -was he to go? - -The Doctor heard nothing of the misfortune of these three or four -inauspicious days; and the work was again going on prosperously when he -came up again to London at the end of the second month. He told us -something of his banker, and something of his lawyer, and murmured a -word or two as to a new curate whom he needed; but we knew that he had -come up to London because he could not bear a longer absence from the -great object of his affections. He could not endure to be thus parted -from his manuscript, and was again childishly anxious that a portion of -it should be in the printer’s hands. “At sixty-five, Sir,” he said to -us, “a man has no time to dally with his work.” He had been dallying -with his work all his life, and we sincerely believed that it would be -well with him if he could be contented to dally with it to the end. If -all that Mackenzie said of it was true, the Doctor’s erudition was not -equalled by his originality, or by his judgment. Of that question, -however, we could take no cognizance. He was bent upon publishing, and -as he was willing and able to pay for his whim and was his own master, -nothing that we could do would keep him out of the printer’s hands. - -He was desirous of seeing Mackenzie, and was anxious even to see him -once at his work. Of course he could meet his assistant in our editorial -room, and all the papers could easily be brought backwards and forwards -in the old despatch-box. But in the interest of all parties we hesitated -as to taking our revered and reverend friend to the Spotted Dog. Though -we had told him that his work was being done at a public-house, we -thought that his mind had conceived the idea of some modest inn, and -that he would be shocked at being introduced to a place which he would -regard simply as a gin-shop. Mrs. Grimes, or if not Mrs. Grimes, then -Mr. Grimes, might object to another visitor to their bed-room; and -Mackenzie himself would be thrown out of gear by the appearance of those -clerical gaiters upon the humble scene of his labours. We, therefore, -gave him such reasons as were available for submitting, at any rate for -the present, to having the papers brought up to him at our room. And we -ourselves went down to the Spotted Dog to make an appointment with -Mackenzie for the following day. We had last seen him about a week -before, and then the task was progressing well. He had told us that -another fortnight would finish it. We had enquired also of Mrs. Grimes -about the man’s wife. All she could tell us was that the woman had not -again troubled them at the Spotted Dog. She expressed her belief, -however, that the drunkard had been more than once in the hands of the -police since the day on which Mackenzie had walked with us through the -squares of the Inns of Court. - -It was late when we reached the public-house on the occasion to which we -now allude, and the evening was dark and rainy. It was then the end of -January, and it might have been about six o’clock. We knew that we -should not find Mackenzie at the public-house; but it was probable that -Mrs. Grimes could send for him, or, at least, could make the -appointment for us. We went into the little parlour, where she was -seated with her husband, and we could immediately see, from the -countenance of both of them, that something was amiss. We began by -telling Mrs. Grimes that the Doctor had come to town. “Mackenzie aint -here, Sir,” said Mrs. Grimes, and we almost thought that the very tone -of her voice was altered. We explained that we had not expected to find -him at that hour, and asked if she could send for him. She only shook -her head. Grimes was standing with his back to the fire and his hands in -his trousers pockets. Up to this moment he had not spoken a word. We -asked if the man was drunk. She again shook her head. Could she bid him -to come to us to-morrow, and bring the box and the papers with him? -Again she shook her head. - -“I’ve told her that I won’t have no more of it,” said Grimes; “nor yet I -won’t. He was drunk this morning,--as drunk as an owl.” - -“He was sober, John, as you are, when he came for the papers this -afternoon at two o’clock.” So the box and the papers had all been taken -away! - -“And she was here yesterday rampaging about the place, without as much -clothes on as would cover her nakedness,” said Mr. Grimes. “I won’t -have no more of it. I’ve done for that man what his own flesh and blood -wouldn’t do. I know that; and I won’t have no more of it. Mary Anne, -you’ll have that table cleared out after breakfast to-morrow.” When a -man, to whom his wife is usually Polly, addresses her as Mary Anne, then -it may be surmised that that man is in earnest. We knew that he was in -earnest, and she knew it also. - -“He wasn’t drunk, John,--no, nor yet in liquor, when he come and took -away that box this afternoon.” We understood this reiterated assertion. -It was in some sort excusing to us her own breach of trust in having -allowed the manuscript to be withdrawn from her own charge, or was -assuring us that, at the worst, she had not been guilty of the -impropriety of allowing the man to take it away when he was unfit to -have it in his charge. As for blaming her, who could have thought of it? -Had Mackenzie at any time chosen to pass down stairs with the box in his -hands, it was not to be expected that she should stop him violently. And -now that he had done so we could not blame her; but we felt that a great -weight had fallen upon our own hearts. If evil should come to the -manuscript would not the Doctor’s wrath fall upon us with a crushing -weight? Something must be done at once. And we suggested that it would -be well that somebody should go round to Cucumber Court. “I’d go as soon -as look,” said Mrs. Grimes, “but he won’t let me.” - -“You don’t stir a foot out of this to-night;--not that way,” said Mr. -Grimes. - -“Who wants to stir?” said Mrs. Grimes. - -We felt that there was something more to be told than we had yet heard, -and a great fear fell upon us. The woman’s manner to us was altered, and -we were sure that this had come not from altered feelings on her part, -but from circumstances which had frightened her. It was not her husband -that she feared, but the truth of something that her husband had said to -her. “If there is anything more to tell, for God’s sake tell it,” we -said, addressing ourselves rather to the man than to the woman. Then -Grimes did tell us his story. On the previous evening Mackenzie had -received three or four sovereigns from Mrs. Grimes, being, of course, a -portion of the Doctor’s payments; and early on that morning all -Liquorpond Street had been in a state of excitement with the drunken -fury of Mackenzie’s wife. She had found her way into the Spotted Dog, -and was being actually extruded by the strength of Grimes himself,--of -Grimes, who had been brought down, half dressed, from his bed-room by -the row,--when Mackenzie himself, equally drunk, appeared upon the -scene. “No, John;--not equally drunk,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Bother!” -exclaimed her husband, going on with his story. The man had struggled to -take the woman by the arm, and the two had fallen and rolled in the -street together. “I was looking out of the window, and it was awful to -see,” said Mrs. Grimes. We felt that it was “awful to hear.” A man,--and -such a man, rolling in the gutter with a drunken woman,--himself -drunk,--and that woman his wife! “There aint to be no more of it at the -Spotted Dog; that’s all,” said John Grimes, as he finished his part of -the story. - -Then, at last, Mrs. Grimes became voluble. All this had occurred before -nine in the morning. “The woman must have been at it all night,” she -said. “So must the man,” said John. “Anyways he came back about dinner, -and he was sober then. I asked him not to go up, and offered to make him -a cup of tea. It was just as you’d gone out after dinner, John.” - -“He won’t have no more tea here,” said John. - -“And he didn’t have any then. He wouldn’t, he said, have any tea, but -went up stairs. What was I to do? I couldn’t tell him as he shouldn’t. -Well;--during the row in the morning John had said something as to -Mackenzie not coming about the premises any more.” - -“Of course I did,” said Grimes. - -“He was a little cut, then, no doubt,” continued the lady; “and I didn’t -think as he would have noticed what John had said.” - -“I mean it to be noticed now.” - -“He had noticed it then, Sir, though he wasn’t just as he should be at -that hour of the morning. Well;--what does he do? He goes up stairs and -packs up all the papers at once. Leastways, that’s as I suppose. They -aint there now. You can go and look if you please, Sir. Well; when he -came down, whether I was in the kitchen,--though it isn’t often as my -eyes is off the bar, or in the tap-room, or busy drawing, which I do do -sometimes, Sir, when there are a many calling for liquor, I can’t -say;--but if I aint never to stand upright again, I didn’t see him pass -out with the box. But Miss Wilcox did. You can ask her.” Miss Wilcox was -the young lady in the bar, whom we did not think ourselves called upon -to examine, feeling no doubt whatever as to the fact of the box having -been taken away by Mackenzie. In all this Mrs. Grimes seemed to defend -herself, as though some serious charge was to be brought against her; -whereas all that she had done had been done out of pure charity; and in -exercising her charity towards Mackenzie she had shown an almost -exaggerated kindness towards ourselves. - -“If there’s anything wrong, it isn’t your fault,” we said. - -“Nor yet mine,” said John Grimes. - -“No, indeed,” we replied. - -“It aint none of our faults,” continued he; “only this;--you can’t wash -a blackamoor white, nor it aint no use trying. He don’t come here any -more, that’s all. A man in drink we don’t mind. We has to put up with -it. And they aint that tarnation desperate as is a woman. As long as a -man can keep his legs he’ll try to steady hisself; but there is women -who, when they’ve liquor, gets a fury for rampaging. There aint a many -as can beat this one, Sir. She’s that strong, it took four of us to hold -her; though she can’t hardly do a stroke of work, she’s that weak when -she’s sober.” - -We had now heard the whole story, and, while hearing it, had determined -that it was our duty to go round into Cucumber Court and seek the -manuscript and the box. We were unwilling to pry into the wretchedness -of the man’s home; but something was due to the Doctor; and we had to -make that appointment for the morrow, if it were still possible that -such an appointment should be kept. We asked for the number of the -house, remembering well the entrance into the court. Then there was a -whisper between John and his wife, and the husband offered to accompany -us. “It’s a roughish place,” he said, “but they know me.” “He’d better -go along with you,” said Mrs. Grimes. We, of course, were glad of such -companionship, and glad also to find that the landlord, upon whom we had -inflicted so much trouble, was still sufficiently our friend to take -this trouble on our behalf. - -“It’s a dreary place enough,” said Grimes, as he led us up the narrow -archway. Indeed it was a dreary place. The court spread itself a little -in breadth, but very little, when the passage was passed, and there were -houses on each side of it. There was neither gutter nor, as far as we -saw, drain, but the broken flags were slippery with moist mud, and here -and there, strewed about between the houses, there were the remains of -cabbages and turnip-tops. The place swarmed with children, over whom one -ghastly gas-lamp at the end of the court threw a flickering and -uncertain light. There was a clamour of scolding voices, to which it -seemed that no heed was paid; and there was a smell of damp rotting -nastiness, amidst which it seemed to us to be almost impossible that -life should be continued. Grimes led the way without further speech, to -the middle house on the left hand of the court, and asked a man who was -sitting on the low threshold of the door whether Mackenzie was within. -“So that be you, Muster Grimes; be it?” said the man, without stirring. -“Yes; he’s there I guess, but they’ve been and took her.” Then we passed -on into the house. “No matter about that,” said the man, as we -apologised for kicking him in our passage. He had not moved, and it had -been impossible to enter without kicking him. - -It seemed that Mackenzie held the two rooms on the ground floor, and we -entered them at once. There was no light, but we could see the glimmer -of a fire in the grate; and presently we became aware of the presence of -children. Grimes asked after Mackenzie, and a girl’s voice told us that -he was in the inner room. The publican then demanded a light, and the -girl with some hesitation, lit the end of a farthing candle, which was -fixed in a small bottle. We endeavoured to look round the room by the -glimmer which this afforded, but could see nothing but the presence of -four children, three of whom seemed to be seated in apathy on the -floor. Grimes, taking the candle in his hand, passed at once into the -other room, and we followed him. Holding the bottle something over his -head, he contrived to throw a gleam of light upon one of the two beds -with which the room was fitted, and there we saw the body of Julius -Mackenzie stretched in the torpor of dead intoxication. His head lay -against the wall, his body was across the bed, and his feet dangled on -to the floor. He still wore his dirty boots, and his clothes as he had -worn them in the morning. No sight so piteous, so wretched, and at the -same time so eloquent had we ever seen before. His eyes were closed, and -the light of his face was therefore quenched. His mouth was open, and -the slaver had fallen upon his beard. His dark, clotted hair had been -pulled over his face by the unconscious movement of his hands. There -came from him a stertorous sound of breathing, as though he were being -choked by the attitude in which he lay; and even in his drunkenness -there was an uneasy twitching as of pain about his face. And there sat, -and had been sitting for hours past, the four children in the other -room, knowing the condition of the parent whom they most respected, but -not even endeavouring to do anything for his comfort. What could they -do? They knew, by long training and thorough experience, that a fit of -drunkenness had to be got out of by sleep. To them there was nothing -shocking in it. It was but a periodical misfortune. “She’ll have to own -he’s been and done it now,” said Grimes, looking down upon the man, and -alluding to his wife’s good-natured obstinacy. He handed the candle to -us, and, with a mixture of tenderness and roughness, of which the -roughness was only in the manner and the tenderness was real, he raised -Mackenzie’s head and placed it on the bolster, and lifted the man’s legs -on to the bed. Then he took off the man’s boots, and the old silk -handkerchief from the neck, and pulled the trousers straight, and -arranged the folds of the coat. It was almost as though he were laying -out one that was dead. The eldest girl was now standing by us, and -Grimes asked her how long her father had been in that condition. “Jack -Hoggart brought him in just afore it was dark,” said the girl. Then it -was explained to us that Jack Hoggart was the man whom we had seen -sitting on the door-step. - -“And your mother?” asked Grimes. - -“The perlice took her afore dinner.” - -“And you children;--what have you had to eat?” In answer to this the -girl only shook her head. Grimes took no immediate notice of this, but -called the drunken man by his name, and shook his shoulder, and looked -round to a broken ewer which stood on the little table, for water to -dash upon him;--but there was no water in the jug. He called again and -repeated the shaking, and at last Mackenzie opened his eyes, and in a -dull, half-conscious manner looked up at us. “Come, my man,” said -Grimes, “shake this off and have done with it.” - -“Hadn’t you better try to get up?” we asked. - -There was a faint attempt at rising, then a smile,--a smile which was -terrible to witness, so sad was all which it said; then a look of utter, -abject misery, coming, as we thought, from a momentary remembrance of -his degradation; and after that he sank back in the dull, brutal, -painless, death-like apathy of absolute unconsciousness. - -“It’ll be morning afore he’ll move,” said the girl. - -“She’s about right,” said Grimes. “He’s got it too heavy for us to do -anything but just leave him. We’ll take a look for the box and the -papers.” - -And the man upon whom we were looking down had been born a gentleman, -and was a finished scholar,--one so well educated, so ripe in literary -acquirement, that we knew few whom we could call his equal. Judging of -the matter by the light of our reason, we cannot say that the horror of -the scene should have been enhanced to us by these recollections. Had -the man been a shoemaker or a coalheaver there would have been enough of -tragedy in it to make an angel weep,--that sight of the child standing -by the bedside of her drunken father, while the other parent was away in -custody,--and in no degree shocked at what she saw, because the thing -was so common to her! But the thought of what the man had been, of what -he was, of what he might have been, and the steps by which he had -brought himself to the foul degradation which we witnessed, filled us -with a dismay which we should hardly have felt had the gifts which he -had polluted and the intellect which he had wasted been less capable of -noble uses. - -Our purpose in coming to the court was to rescue the Doctor’s papers -from danger, and we turned to accompany Grimes into the other room. As -we did so the publican asked the girl if she knew anything of a black -box which her father had taken away from the Spotted Dog. “The box is -here,” said the girl. - -“And the papers?” asked Grimes. Thereupon the girl shook her head, and -we both hurried into the outer room. I hardly know who first discovered -the sight which we encountered, or whether it was shown to us by the -child. The whole fire-place was strewn with half-burnt sheets of -manuscript. There were scraps of pages of which almost the whole had -been destroyed, others which were hardly more than scorched, and heaps -of paper-ashes all lying tumbled together about the fender. We went down -on our knees to examine them, thinking at the moment that the poor -creature might in his despair have burned his own work and have spared -that of the Doctor. But it was not so. We found scores of charred pages -of the Doctor’s elaborate handwriting. By this time Grimes had found the -open box, and we perceived that the sheets remaining in it were tumbled -and huddled together in absolute confusion. There were pages of the -various volumes mixed with those which Mackenzie himself had written, -and they were all crushed, and rolled, and twisted as though they had -been thrust thither as waste-paper,--out of the way. “‘Twas mother as -done it,” said the girl, “and we put ’em back again when the perlice -took her.” - -There was nothing more to learn,--nothing more by the hearing which any -useful clue could be obtained. What had been the exact course of the -scenes which had been enacted there that morning it little booted us to -enquire. It was enough and more than enough that we knew that the -mischief had been done. We went down on our knees before the fire, and -rescued from the ashes with our hands every fragment of manuscript that -we could find. Then we put the mass altogether in the box, and gazed -upon the wretched remnants almost in tears. “You had better go and get a -bit of some’at to eat,” said Grimes, handing a coin to the elder girl. -“It’s hard on them to starve ’cause their father’s drunk, Sir.” Then he -took the closed box in his hand and we followed him out into the street. -“I’ll send or step up to look after him to-morrow,” said Grimes, as he -put us and the box into a cab. We little thought when we made to the -drunkard that foolish request to arise, that we should never speak to -him again. - -As we returned to our office in the cab that we might deposit the box -there ready for the following day, our mind was chiefly occupied in -thinking over the undeserved grievances which had fallen upon ourselves. -We had been moved by the charitable desire to do services to two -different persons,--to the learned Doctor and to the red-nosed drunkard, -and this had come of it! There had been nothing for us to gain by -assisting either the one or the other. We had taken infinite trouble, -attempting to bring together two men who wanted each other’s -services,--working hard in sheer benevolence;--and what had been the -result? We had spent half an hour on our knees in the undignified and -almost disreputable work of raking among Mrs. Mackenzie’s cinders, and -now we had to face the anger, the dismay, the reproach, and,--worse than -all,--the agony of the Doctor. As to Mackenzie,--we asserted to -ourselves again and again that nothing further could be done for him. He -had made his bed, and he must lie upon it; but, oh! why,--why had we -attempted to meddle with a being so degraded? We got out of the cab at -our office door, thinking of the Doctor’s countenance as we should see -it on the morrow. Our heart sank within us, and we asked ourselves, if -it was so bad with us now, how it would be with us when we returned to -the place on the following morning. - -But on the following morning we did return. No doubt each individual -reader to whom we address ourselves has at some period felt that -indescribable load of personal, short-lived care, which causes the heart -to sink down into the boots. It is not great grief that does it;--nor is -it excessive fear; but the unpleasant operation comes from the mixture -of the two. It is the anticipation of some imperfectly-understood evil -that does it,--some evil out of which there might perhaps be an escape -if we could only see the way. In this case we saw no way out of it. The -Doctor was to be with us at one o’clock, and he would come with smiles, -expecting to meet his learned colleague. How should we break it to the -Doctor? We might indeed send to him, putting off the meeting, but the -advantage coming from that would be slight, if any. We must see the -injured Grecian sooner or later; and we had resolved, much as we feared, -that the evil hour should not be postponed. We spent an hour that -morning in arranging the fragments. Of the first volume about a third -had been destroyed. Of the second nearly every page had been either -burned or mutilated. Of the third but little had been injured. -Mackenzie’s own work had fared better than the Doctor’s; but there was -no comfort in that. After what had passed I thought it quite improbable -that the Doctor would make any use of Mackenzie’s work. So much of the -manuscript as could still be placed in continuous pages we laid out upon -the table, volume by volume,--that in the middle sinking down from its -original goodly bulk almost to the dimensions of a poor sermon;--and the -half-burned bits we left in the box. Then we sat ourselves down at our -accustomed table, and pretended to try to work. Our ears were very -sharp, and we heard the Doctor’s step upon our stairs within a minute or -two of the appointed time. Our heart went to the very toes of our -boots. We shuffled in our chair, rose from it, and sat down again,--and -were conscious that we were not equal to the occasion. Hitherto we had, -after some mild literary form, patronised the Doctor,--as a man of -letters in town will patronise his literary friend from the -country;--but we now feared him as a truant school-boy fears his master. -And yet it was so necessary that we should wear some air of -self-assurance! - -In a moment he was with us, wearing that bland smile which we knew so -well, and which at the present moment almost overpowered us. We had been -sure that he would wear that smile, and had especially feared it. “Ah,” -said he, grasping us by the hand, “I thought I should have been late. I -see that our friend is not here yet.” - -“Doctor,” we replied, “a great misfortune has happened.” - -“A great misfortune! Mr. Mackenzie is not dead?” - -“No;--he is not dead. Perhaps it would have been better that he had died -long since. He has destroyed your manuscript.” The Doctor’s face fell, -and his hands at the same time, and he stood looking at us. “I need not -tell you, Doctor, what my feelings are, and how great my remorse.” - -“Destroyed it!” Then we took him by the hand and led him to the table. -He turned first upon the appetising and comparatively uninjured third -volume, and seemed to think that we had hoaxed him. “This is not -destroyed,” he said, with a smile. But before I could explain anything, -his hands were among the fragments in the box. “As I am a living man, -they have burned it!” he exclaimed. “I--I--I----” Then he turned from -us, and walked twice the length of the room, backwards and forwards, -while we stood still, patiently waiting the explosion of his wrath. “My -friend,” he said, when his walk was over, “a great man underwent the -same sorrow. Newton’s manuscript was burned. I will take it home with -me, and we will say no more about it.” I never thought very much of the -Doctor as a divine, but I hold him to have been as good a Christian as I -ever met. - -But that plan of his of saying no more about it could not quite be -carried out. I was endeavouring to explain to him, as I thought it -necessary to do, the circumstances of the case, and he was protesting -his indifference to any such details, when there came a knock at the -door, and the boy who waited on us below ushered Mrs. Grimes into the -room. As the reader is aware, we had, during the last two months, become -very intimate with the landlady of the Spotted Dog, but we had never -hitherto had the pleasure of seeing her outside her own house. “Oh, Mr. -----” she began, and then she paused, seeing the Doctor. - -We thought it expedient that there should be some introduction. “Mrs. -Grimes,” we said, “this is the gentleman whose invaluable manuscript has -been destroyed by that unfortunate drunkard.” - -“Oh, then you’re the Doctor, Sir?” The Doctor bowed and smiled. His -heart must have been very heavy, but he bowed politely and smiled -sweetly. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I don’t know how to tell you!” - -“To tell us what?” asked the Doctor. - -“What has happened since?” we demanded. The woman stood shaking before -us, and then sank into a chair. Then arose to us at the moment some idea -that the drunken woman, in her mad rage, had done some great damage to -the Spotted Dog,--had set fire to the house, or injured Mr. Grimes -personally, or perhaps run a muck amidst the jugs and pitchers, window -glass, and gas lights. Something had been done which would give the -Grimeses a pecuniary claim on me or on the Doctor, and the woman had -been sent hither to make the first protest. Oh,--when should I see the -last of the results of my imprudence in having attempted to befriend -such a one as Julius Mackenzie! “If you have anything to tell, you had -better tell it,” we said, gravely. - -“He’s been, and----” - -“Not destroyed himself?” asked the Doctor. - -“Oh yes, Sir. He have indeed,--from ear to ear,--and is now a lying at -the Spotted Dog!” - - * * * * * - -And so, after all, that was the end of Julius Mackenzie! We need hardly -say that our feelings, which up to that moment had been very hostile to -the man, underwent a sudden revulsion. Poor, overburdened, struggling, -ill-used, abandoned creature! The world had been hard upon him, with a -severity which almost induced one to make complaint against Omnipotence. -The poor wretch had been willing to work, had been industrious in his -calling, had had capacity for work; and he had also struggled gallantly -against his evil fate, had recognised and endeavoured to perform his -duty to his children and to the miserable woman who had brought him to -his ruin! - -And that sin of drunkenness had seemed to us to be in him rather the -reflex of her vice than the result of his own vicious tendencies. Still -it might be doubtful whether she had not learned the vice from him. They -had both in truth been drunkards as long as they had been known in the -neighbourhood of the Spotted Dog; but it was stated by all who had known -them there that he was never seen to be drunk unless when she had -disgraced him by the public exposure of her own abomination. Such as he -was he had now come to his end! This was the upshot of his loud claims -for liberty from his youth upwards;--liberty as against his father and -family; liberty as against his college tutor; liberty as against all -pastors, masters, and instructors; liberty as against the conventional -thraldom of the world. He was now lying a wretched corpse at the Spotted -Dog, with his throat cut from ear to ear, till the coroner’s jury should -have decided whether or not they would call him a suicide! - -Mrs. Grimes had come to tell us that the coroner was to be at the -Spotted Dog at four o’clock, and to say that her husband hoped that we -would be present. We had seen Mackenzie so lately, and had so much to do -with the employment of the last days of his life, that we could not -refuse this request, though it came accompanied by no legal summons. -Then Mrs. Grimes again became voluble and poured out to us her -biography of Mackenzie as far as she knew it. He had been married to the -woman ten years, and certainly had been a drunkard before he married -her. “As for her, she’d been well-nigh suckled on gin,” said Mrs. -Grimes, “though he didn’t know it, poor fellow.” Whether this was true -or not, she had certainly taken to drink soon after her marriage, and -then his life had been passed in alternate fits of despondency and of -desperate efforts to improve his own condition and that of his children. -Mrs. Grimes declared to us that when the fit came on them,--when the -woman had begun and the man had followed,--they would expend upon drink -in two days what would have kept the family for a fortnight. “They say -as how it was nothing for them to swallow forty shillings’ worth of gin -in forty-eight hours.” The Doctor held up his hands in horror. “And it -didn’t, none of it, come our way,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Indeed, John -wouldn’t let us serve it for ’em.” - -She sat there for half an hour, and during the whole time she was -telling us of the man’s life; but the reader will already have heard -more than enough of it. By what immediate demon the woman had been -instigated to burn the husband’s work almost immediately on its -production within her own home, we never heard. Doubtless there had -been some terrible scene in which the man’s sufferings must have been -carried almost beyond endurance. “And he had feelings, Sir, he had,” -said Mrs. Grimes; “he knew as a woman should be decent, and a man’s wife -especial; I’m sure we pitied him so, John and I, that we could have -cried over him. John would say a hard word to him at times, but he’d -have walked round London to do him a good turn. John aint to say -edicated hisself, but he do respect learning.” - -When she had told us all, Mrs. Grimes went, and we were left alone with -the Doctor. He at once consented to accompany us to the Spotted Dog, and -we spent the hour that still remained to us in discussing the fate of -the unfortunate man. We doubt whether an allusion was made during the -time to the burned manuscript. If so, it was certainly not made by the -Doctor himself. The tragedy which had occurred in connection with it had -made him feel it to be unfitting even to mention his own loss. That such -a one should have gone to his account in such a manner, without hope, -without belief, and without fear,--as Burley said to Bothwell, and -Bothwell boasted to Burley,--that was the theme of the Doctor’s -discourse. “The mercy of God is infinite,” he said, bowing his head, -with closed eyes and folded hands. To threaten while the life is in the -man is human. To believe in the execution of those threats when the life -has passed away is almost beyond the power of humanity. - -At the hour fixed we were at the Spotted Dog, and found there a crowd -assembled. The coroner was already seated in Mrs. Grimes’s little -parlour, and the body as we were told had been laid out in the tap-room. -The inquest was soon over. The fact that he had destroyed himself in the -low state of physical suffering and mental despondency which followed -his intoxication was not doubted. At the very time that he was doing it, -his wife was being taken from the lock-up house to the police office in -the police van. He was not penniless, for he had sent the children out -with money for their breakfasts, giving special caution as to the -youngest, a little toddling thing of three years old;--and then he had -done it. The eldest girl, returning to the house, had found him lying -dead upon the floor. We were called upon for our evidence, and went into -the tap-room accompanied by the Doctor. Alas! the very table which had -been dragged up stairs into the landlady’s bed-room with the charitable -object of assisting Mackenzie in his work,--the table at which we had -sat with him conning the Doctor’s pages--had now been dragged down again -and was used for another purpose. We had little to say as to the matter, -except that we had known the man to be industrious and capable, and that -we had, alas! seen him utterly prostrated by drink on the evening before -his death. - -The saddest sight of all on this occasion was the appearance of -Mackenzie’s wife,--whom we had never before seen. She had been brought -there by a policeman, but whether she was still in custody we did not -know. She had been dressed, either by the decency of the police or by -the care of her neighbours, in an old black gown, which was a world too -large and too long for her. And on her head there was a black bonnet -which nearly enveloped her. She was a small woman, and, as far as we -could judge from the glance we got of her face, pale, and worn, and wan. -She had not such outward marks of a drunkard’s career as those which -poor Mackenzie always carried with him. She was taken up to the coroner, -and what answers she gave to him were spoken in so low a voice that they -did not reach us. The policeman, with whom we spoke, told us that she -did not feel it much,--that she was callous now and beyond the power of -mental suffering. “She’s frightened just this minute, Sir; but it isn’t -more than that,” said the policeman. We gave one glance along the table -at the burden which it bore, but we saw nothing beyond the outward lines -of that which had so lately been the figure of a man. We should have -liked to see the countenance once more. The morbid curiosity to see such -horrid sights is strong with most of us. But we did not wish to be -thought to wish to see it,--especially by our friend the Doctor,--and we -abstained from pushing our way to the head of the table. The Doctor -himself remained quiescent in the corner of the room the farthest from -the spectacle. When the matter was submitted to them, the jury lost not -a moment in declaring their verdict. They said that the man had -destroyed himself while suffering under temporary insanity produced by -intoxication. And that was the end of Julius Mackenzie, the scholar. - -On the following day the Doctor returned to the country, taking with him -our black box, to the continued use of which, as a sarcophagus, he had -been made very welcome. For our share in bringing upon him the great -catastrophe of his life, he never uttered to us, either by spoken or -written word, a single reproach. That idea of suffering as the great -philosopher had suffered seemed to comfort him. “If Newton bore it, -surely I can,” he said to us with his bland smile, when we renewed the -expression of our regret. Something passed between us, coming more from -us than from him, as to the expediency of finding out some youthful -scholar who could go down to the rectory, and reconstruct from its ruins -the edifice of our friend’s learning. The Doctor had given us some -encouragement, and we had begun to make enquiry, when we received the -following letter:-- - -“---- Rectory, ---- ----, 18--. - - “DEAR MR. ----, --You were so kind as to say that you would - endeavour to find for me an assistant in arranging and - reconstructing the fragments of my work on The Metres of the Greek - Dramatists. Your promise has been an additional kindness.” Dear, - courteous, kind old gentleman! For we knew well that no slightest - sting of sarcasm was intended to be conveyed in these words. “Your - promise has been an additional kindness; but looking upon the - matter carefully, and giving to it the best consideration in my - power, I have determined to relinquish the design. That which has - been destroyed cannot be replaced; and it may well be that it was - not worth replacing. I am old now, and never could do again that - which perhaps I was never fitted to do with any fair prospect of - success. I will never turn again to the ashes of my unborn child; - but will console myself with the memory of my grievance, knowing - well, as I do so, that consolation from the severity of harsh but - just criticism might have been more difficult to find. When I think - of the end of my efforts as a scholar, my mind reverts to the - terrible and fatal catastrophe of one whose scholarship was - infinitely more finished and more ripe than mine. - - “Whenever it may suit you to come into this part of the country, - pray remember that it will give very great pleasure to myself and - to my daughter to welcome you at our parsonage. - -“Believe me to be, - - “My dear Mr. ----, - - “Yours very sincerely, - - “---- ----.” - - - -We never have found the time to accept the Doctor’s invitation, and our -eyes have never again rested on the black box containing the ashes of -the unborn child to which the Doctor will never turn again. We can -picture him to ourselves standing, full of thought, with his hand upon -the lid, but never venturing to turn the lock. Indeed, we do not doubt -but that the key of the box is put away among other secret treasures, a -lock of his wife’s hair, perhaps, and the little shoe of the boy who did -not live long enough to stand at his father’s knee. For a tender, -soft-hearted man was the Doctor, and one who fed much on the memories of -the past. - -We often called upon Mr. and Mrs. Grimes at the Spotted Dog, and would -sit there talking of Mackenzie and his family. Mackenzie’s widow soon -vanished out of the neighbourhood, and no one there knew what was the -fate of her or of her children. And then also Mr. Grimes went and took -his wife with him. But they could not be said to vanish. Scratching his -head one day, he told me with a dolorous voice that he had--made his -fortune. “We’ve got as snug a little place as ever you see, just two -mile out of Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes triumphantly,--“with thirty -acres of land just to amuse John. And as for the Spotted Dog, I’m that -sick of it, another year’d wear me to a dry bone.” We looked at her, and -saw no tendency that way. And we looked at John, and thought that he was -not triumphant. - -Who followed Mr. and Mrs. Grimes at the Spotted Dog we have never -visited Liquorpond Street to see. - - - - -MRS. BRUMBY. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MRS. BRUMBY. - - -We think that we are justified in asserting that of all the persons with -whom we have been brought in contact in the course of our editorial -experiences, men or women, boys or girls, Mrs. Brumby was the most -hateful and the most hated. We are sure of this,--that for some months -she was the most feared, during which period she made life a burden to -us, and more than once induced us to calculate whether it would not be -well that we should abandon our public duties and retire to some private -corner into which it would be impossible that Mrs. Brumby should follow -us. Years have rolled on since then, and we believe that Mrs. Brumby has -gone before the great Judge and been called upon to account for the -injuries she did us. We know that she went from these shores to a -distant land when her nefarious projects failed at home. She was then by -no means a young woman. We never could find that she left relative or -friend behind her, and we know of none now, except those close and -dearest friends of our own who supported us in our misery, who remember -even that she existed. Whether she be alive or whether she be dead, her -story shall be told,--not in a spirit of revenge, but with strict -justice. - -What there was in her of good shall be set down with honesty; and indeed -there was much in her that was good. She was energetic, full of -resources, very brave, constant, devoted to the interests of the poor -creature whose name she bore, and by no means a fool. She was utterly -unscrupulous, dishonest, a liar, cruel, hard as a nether mill-stone to -all the world except Lieutenant Brumby,--harder to him than to all the -world besides when he made any faintest attempt at rebellion,--and as -far as we could judge, absolutely without conscience. Had she been a man -and had circumstances favoured her, she might have been a prime -minister, or an archbishop, or a chief justice. We intend no silly -satire on present or past holders of the great offices indicated; but we -think that they have generally been achieved by such a combination of -intellect, perseverance, audacity, and readiness as that which Mrs. -Brumby certainly possessed. And that freedom from the weakness of -scruple,--which in men who have risen in public life we may perhaps call -adaptability to compromise,--was in her so strong, that had she been a -man, she would have trimmed her bark to any wind that blew, and -certainly have sailed into some port. But she was a woman,--and the -ports were not open to her. - -Those ports were not open to her which had she been a man would have -been within her reach; but,--fortunately for us and for the world at -large as to the general question, though so very unfortunately as -regarded this special case,--the port of literature is open to women. It -seems to be the only really desirable harbour to which a female captain -can steer her vessel with much hope of success. There are the Fine Arts, -no doubt. There seems to be no reason why a woman should not paint as -well as Titian. But they don’t. With the pen they hold their own, and -certainly run a better race against men on that course than on any -other. Mrs. Brumby, who was very desirous of running a race and winning -a place, and who had seen all this, put on her cap, and jacket, and -boots, chose her colours, and entered her name. Why, oh why, did she -select the course upon which we, wretched we, were bound by our duties -to regulate the running? - -We may as well say at once that though Mrs. Brumby might have made a -very good prime minister, she could not write a paper for a magazine, or -produce literary work of any description that was worth paper and ink. -We feel sure that we may declare without hesitation that no perseverance -on her part, no labour however unswerving, no training however long, -would have enabled her to do in a fitting manner even a review for the -“Literary Curricle.” There was very much in her, but that was not in -her. We find it difficult to describe the special deficiency under which -she laboured;--but it existed and was past remedy. As a man suffering -from a chronic stiff joint cannot run, and cannot hope to run, so was it -with her. She could not combine words so as to make sentences, or -sentences so as to make paragraphs. She did not know what style meant. -We believe that had she ever read, Johnson, Gibbon, Archdeacon Coxe, Mr. -Grote, and Macaulay would have been all the same to her. And yet this -woman chose literature as her profession, and clung to it for awhile -with a persistence which brought her nearer to the rewards of success -than many come who are at all points worthy to receive them. - -We have said that she was not a young woman when we knew her. We cannot -fancy her to have been ever young. We cannot bring our imagination to -picture to ourselves the person of Mrs. Brumby surrounded by the -advantages of youth. When we knew her she may probably have been forty -or forty-five, and she then possessed a rigidity of demeanour and a -sternness of presence which we think must have become her better than -any softer guise or more tender phase of manner could ever have done in -her earlier years. There was no attempt about her to disguise or modify -her sex, such as women have made since those days. She talked much about -her husband, the lieutenant, and she wore a double roll of very stiff -dark brown curls on each side of her face,--or rather over her -brows,--which would not have been worn by a woman meaning to throw off -as far as possible her femininity. Whether those curls were or were not -artificial we never knew. Our male acquaintances who saw her used to -swear that they were false, but a lady who once saw her, assured us that -they were real. She told us that there is a kind of hair growing on the -heads of some women, thick, short, crisp, and shiny, which will -maintain its curl unbroken and unruffled for days. She told us, also, -that women blessed with such hair are always pachy-dermatous and -strong-minded. Such certainly was the character of Mrs. Brumby. She was -a tall, thin woman, not very tall or very thin. For aught that we can -remember, her figure may have been good;--but we do remember well that -she never seemed to us to have any charm of womanhood. There was a -certain fire in her dark eyes,--eyes which were, we think, quite -black,--but it was the fire of contention and not of love. Her features -were well formed, her nose somewhat long, and her lips thin, and her -face too narrow, perhaps, for beauty. Her chin was long, and the space -from her nose to her upper lip was long. She always carried a -well-wearing brown complexion;--a complexion with which no man had a -right to find fault, but which, to a pondering, speculative man, -produced unconsciously a consideration whether, in a matter of kissing, -an ordinary mahogany table did not offer a preferable surface. When we -saw her she wore, we think always, a dark stuff dress,--a fur tippet in -winter and a most ill-arranged shawl in summer,--and a large commanding -bonnet, which grew in our eyes till it assumed all the attributes of a -helmet,--inspiring that reverence and creating that fear which -Minerva’s headgear is intended to produce. When we add our conviction -that Mrs. Brumby trusted nothing to female charms, that she neither -suffered nor enjoyed anything from female vanity, and that the -lieutenant was perfectly safe, let her roam the world alone, as she -might, in search of editors, we shall have said enough to introduce the -lady to our readers. - -Of her early life, or their early lives, we know nothing; but the -unfortunate circumstances which brought us into contact with Mrs. -Brumby, made us also acquainted with the lieutenant. The lieutenant, we -think, was younger than his wife;--a good deal younger we used to -imagine, though his looks may have been deceptive. He was a confirmed -invalid, and there are phases of ill-health which give an appearance of -youthfulness rather than of age. What was his special ailing we never -heard,--though, as we shall mention further on, we had our own idea on -that subject; but he was always spoken of in our hearing as one who -always had been ill, who always was ill, who always would be ill, and -who never ought to think of getting well. He had been in some regiment -called the Duke of Sussex’s Own, and his wife used to imagine that her -claims upon the public as a woman of literature were enhanced by the -royalty of her husband’s corps. We never knew her attempt to make any -other use whatever of his services. He was not confined to his bed, and -could walk at any rate about the house; but she never asked him, or -allowed him to do anything. Whether he ever succeeded in getting his -face outside the door we do not know. He wore, when we saw him, an old -dressing-gown and slippers. He was a pale, slight, light-haired man, and -we fancy that he took a delight in novels. - -Their settled income consisted of his half-pay and some very small -property which belonged to her. Together they might perhaps have -possessed £150 per annum. When we knew them they had lodgings in Harpur -Street, near Theobald’s Road, and she had resolved to push her way in -London as a woman of literature. She had been told that she would have -to deal with hard people, and that she must herself be hard;--that -advantage would be taken of her weakness, and that she must therefore -struggle vehemently to equal the strength of those with whom she would -be brought in contact;--that editors, publishers, and brother authors -would suck her brains and give her nothing for them, and that, -therefore, she must get what she could out of them, giving them as -little as possible in return. It was an evil lesson that she had -learned; but she omitted nothing in the performance of the duties which -that lesson imposed upon her. - -She first came to us with a pressing introduction from an acquaintance -of ours who was connected with a weekly publication called the “Literary -Curricle.” The “Literary Curricle” was not in our estimation a strong -paper, and we will own that we despised it. We did not think very much -of the acquaintance by whom the strong introductory letter was written. -But Mrs. Brumby forced herself into our presence with the letter in her -hand, and before she left us extracted from us a promise that we would -read a manuscript which she pulled out of a bag which she carried with -her. Of that first interview a short account shall be given, but it must -first be explained that the editor of the “Literary Curricle” had -received Mrs. Brumby with another letter from another editor, whom she -had first taken by storm without any introduction whatever. This first -gentleman, whom we had not the pleasure of knowing, had, under what -pressure we who knew the lady can imagine, printed three or four short -paragraphs from Mrs. Brumby’s pen. Whether they reached publication we -never could learn, but we saw the printed slips. He, however, passed -her on to the “Literary Curricle,”--which dealt almost exclusively in -the reviewing of books,--and our friend at the office of that -influential “organ” sent her to us with an intimation that her very -peculiar and well-developed talents were adapted rather for the creation -of tales, or the composition of original treatises, than for reviewing. -The letter was very strong, and we learned afterwards that Mrs. Brumby -had consented to abandon her connection with the “Literary Curricle” -only on the receipt of a letter in her praise that should be very strong -indeed. She rejected the two first offered to her, and herself dictated -the epithets with which the third was loaded. On no other terms would -she leave the office of the “Literary Curricle.” - -We cannot say that the letter, strong as it was, had much effect upon -us; but this effect it had perhaps,--that after reading it we could not -speak to the lady with that acerbity which we might have used had she -come to us without it. As it was we were not very civil, and began our -intercourse by assuring her that we could not avail ourselves of her -services. Having said so, and observing that she still kept her seat, we -rose from our chair, being well aware how potent a spell that movement -is wont to exercise upon visitors who are unwilling to go. She kept her -seat and argued the matter out with us. A magazine such as that which we -then conducted must, she surmised, require depth of erudition, keenness -of intellect, grasp of hand, force of expression, and lightness of -touch. That she possessed all these gifts she had, she alleged, brought -to us convincing evidence. There was the letter from the editor of the -“Literary Curricle,” with which she had been long connected, declaring -the fact! Did we mean to cast doubt upon the word of our own intimate -friend? For the gentleman at the office of the “Literary Curricle” had -written to us as “Dear ----,” though as far as we could remember we had -never spoken half-a-dozen words to him in our life. Then she repeated -the explanation, given by her godfather, of the abrupt termination of -the close connection which had long existed between her and the -“Curricle.” She could not bring herself to waste her energies in the -reviewing of books. At that moment we certainly did believe that she had -been long engaged on the “Curricle,” though there was certainly not a -word in our correspondent’s letter absolutely stating that to be the -fact. He declared to us her capabilities and excellences, but did not -say that he had ever used them himself. Indeed, he told us that great -as they were, they were hardly suited for his work. She, before she had -left us on that occasion, had committed herself to positive falsehoods. -She boasted of the income she had earned from two periodicals, whereas -up to that moment she had never received a shilling for what she had -written. - -We find it difficult, even after so many years,--when the shame of the -thing has worn off together with the hairs of our head,--to explain how -it was that we allowed her to get, in the first instance, any hold upon -us. We did not care a brass farthing for the man who had written from -the “Literary Curricle.” His letter to us was an impertinence, and we -should have stated as much to Mrs. Brumby had we cared to go into such -matter with her. And our first feelings with regard to the lady herself -were feelings of dislike,--and almost of contempt even, though we did -believe that she had been a writer for the press. We disliked her nose, -and her lips, and her bonnet, and the colour of her face. We didn’t want -her. Though we were very much younger then than we are now, we had -already learned to set our backs up against strong-minded female -intruders. As we said before, we rose from our chair with the idea of -banishing her, not absolutely uncivilly, but altogether unceremoniously. -It never occurred to us during that meeting that she could be of any -possible service to us, or that we should ever be of any slightest -service to her. Nevertheless she had extracted from us a great many -words, and had made a great many observations herself before she left -us. - -When a man speaks a great many words it is impossible that he should -remember what they all were. That we told Mrs. Brumby on that occasion -that we did not doubt but that we would use the manuscript which she -left in our hands, we are quite sure was not true. We never went so near -making a promise in our lives,--even when pressed by youth and -beauty,--and are quite sure that what we did say to Mrs. Brumby was by -no means near akin to this. That we undertook to read the manuscript we -think probable, and therein lay our first fault,--the unfortunate slip -from which our future troubles sprang, and grew to such terrible -dimensions. We cannot now remember how the hated parcel, the abominable -roll, came into our hands. We do remember the face and form and figure -of the woman as she brought it out of the large reticule which she -carried, and we remember also how we put our hands behind us to avoid -it, as she presented it to us. We told her flatly that we did not want -it, and would not have it;--and yet it came into our hands! We think -that it must have been placed close to our elbow, and that, being used -to such playthings, we took it up. We know that it was in our hands, and -that we did not know how to rid ourselves of it when she began to tell -us the story of the lieutenant. We were hard-hearted enough to inform -her,--as we have, under perhaps lesser compulsion, informed others -since,--that the distress of the man or of the woman should never be -accepted as a reason for publishing the works of the writer. She -answered us gallantly enough that she had never been weak enough or -foolish enough so to think “I base my claim to attention,” she said, “on -quite another ground. Do not suppose, Sir, that I am appealing to your -pity. I scorn to do so. But I wish you should know my position as a -married woman, and that you should understand that my husband, though -unfortunately an invalid, has been long attached to a regiment which is -peculiarly the Duke of Sussex’s own. You cannot but be aware of the -connection which His Royal Highness has long maintained with -literature.” - -Mrs. Brumby could not write, but she could speak. The words she had just -uttered were absolutely devoid of sense. The absurdity of them was -ludicrous and gross. But they were not without a certain efficacy. They -did not fill us with any respect for her literary capacity because of -her connection with the Duke of Sussex, but they did make us feel that -she was able to speak up for herself. We are told sometimes that the -world accords to a man that treatment which he himself boldly demands; -and though the statement seems to be monstrous, there is much truth in -it. When Mrs. Brumby spoke of her husband’s regiment being “peculiarly -the Duke of Sussex’s own,” she used a tone which compelled from us more -courtesy than we had hitherto shown her. We knew that the duke was -neither a man of letters nor a warrior, though he had a library, and, as -we were now told, a regiment. Had he been both, his being so would have -formed no legitimate claim for Mrs. Brumby upon us. But, nevertheless, -the royal duke helped her to win her way. It was not his royalty, but -her audacity that was prevailing. She sat with us for more than an hour; -and when she left us the manuscript was with us, and we had no doubt -undertaken to read it. We are perfectly certain that at that time we had -not gone beyond this in the way of promising assistance to Mrs. Brumby. - -The would-be author, who cannot make his way either by intellect or -favour, can hardly do better, perhaps, than establish a grievance. Let -there be anything of a case of ill-usage against editor or publisher, -and the aspirant, if he be energetic and unscrupulous, will greatly -increase his chance of working his way into print. Mrs. Brumby was both -energetic and unscrupulous, and she did establish her grievance. As soon -as she brought her first visit to a close, the roll, which was still in -our hands, was chucked across our table to a corner commodiously -supported by the wall, so that occasionally there was accumulated in it -a heap of such unwelcome manuscripts. In the doing of this, in the -moment of our so chucking the parcel, it was always our conscientious -intention to make a clearance of the whole heap, at the very furthest, -by the end of the week. We knew that strong hopes were bound up in those -various little packets, that eager thoughts were imprisoned there the -owners of which believed that they were endowed with wings fit for -aërial soaring, that young hearts,--ay, and old hearts, too,--sore with -deferred hope, were waiting to know whether their aspirations might now -be realised, whether those azure wings might at last be released from -bondage and allowed to try their strength in the broad sunlight of -public favour. We think, too, that we had a conscience; and, perhaps, -the heap was cleared as frequently as are the heaps of other editors. -But there it would grow, in the commodious corner of our big table, too -often for our own peace of mind. The aspect of each individual little -parcel would be known to us, and we would allow ourselves to fancy that -by certain external signs we could tell the nature of the interior. Some -of them would promise well,--so well as to create even almost an -appetite for their perusal. But there would be others from which we -would turn with aversion, which we seemed to abhor, which, when we -handled the heap, our fingers would refuse to touch, and which, thus -lying there neglected and ill-used, would have the dust of many days -added to those other marks which inspired disgust. We confess that as -soon as Mrs. Brumby’s back was turned her roll was sent in upon this -heap with that determined force which a strong feeling of dislike can -lend even to a man’s little finger. And there it lay for,--perhaps a -fortnight. When during that period we extracted first one packet and -then another for judgment, we would still leave Mrs. Brumby’s roll -behind in the corner. On such occasions a pang of conscience will touch -the heart; some idea of neglected duty will be present to the mind; a -silent promise will perhaps be made that it shall be the next; some -momentary sudden resolve will be half formed that for the future a rigid -order of succession shall be maintained, which no favour shall be -allowed to infringe. But, alas! when the hand is again at work -selecting, the odious ugly thing is left behind, till at last it becomes -infested with strange terrors, with an absolute power of its own, and -the guilty conscience will become afraid. All this happened in regard to -Mrs. Brumby’s manuscript. “Dear, dear, yes;--Mrs. Brumby!” we would -catch ourselves exclaiming with that silent inward voice which -occasionally makes itself audible to most of us. And then, quite -silently, without even whispered violence, we would devote Mrs. Brumby -to the infernal gods. And so the packet remained amidst the -heap,--perhaps for a fortnight. - -“There’s a lady waiting in your room, Sir!” This was said to us one -morning on our reaching our office by the lad whom we used to call our -clerk. He is now managing a red-hot Tory newspaper down in Barsetshire, -has a long beard, a flaring eye, a round belly, and is upon the whole -the most arrogant personage we know. In the days of Mrs. Brumby he was a -little wizened fellow about eighteen years old, but looking three years -younger, modest, often almost dumb, and in regard to ourselves not only -reverential but timid. We turned upon him in great anger. What business -had any woman to be in our room in our absence? Were not our orders on -this subject exact and very urgent? Was he not kept at an expense of -14_s._ a week,--we did not actually throw the amount in his teeth, but -such was intended to be the effect of our rebuke,--at 14_s._ a week, -paid out of our own pocket,--nominally, indeed, as a clerk, but chiefly -for the very purpose of keeping female visitors out of our room? And -now, in our absence and in his, there was actually a woman among the -manuscripts! We felt from the first moment that it was Mrs. Brumby. - -With bated breath and downcast eyes the lad explained to us his -inability to exclude her. “She walked straight in, right over me,” he -said; “and as for being alone,--she hasn’t been alone. I haven’t left -her, not a minute.” - -We walked at once into our own room, feeling how fruitless it was to -discuss the matter further with the boy in the passage, and there we -found Mrs. Brumby seated in the chair opposite to our own. We had -gathered ourselves up, if we may so describe an action which was purely -mental, with a view to severity. We thought that her intrusion was -altogether unwarrantable, and that it behoved us to let her know that -such was the case. We entered the room with a clouded brow, and intended -that she should read our displeasure in our eyes. But Mrs. Brumby -could,--“gather herself up,” quite as well as we could do, and she did -so. She also could call clouds to her forehead and could flash anger -from her eyes. “Madam,” we exclaimed, as we paused for a moment, and -looked at her. - -But she cared nothing for our “Madam,” and condescended to no apology. -Rising from her chair, she asked us why we had not kept the promise we -had made her to use her article in our next number. We don’t know how -far our readers will understand all that was included in this -accusation. Use her contribution in our next number! It had never -occurred to us as probable, or hardly as possible, that we should use it -in any number. Our eye glanced at the heap to see whether her fingers -had been at work, but we perceived that the heap had not been touched. -We have always flattered ourselves that no one can touch our heap -without our knowing it. She saw the motion of our eye, and at once -understood it. Mrs. Brumby, no doubt, possessed great intelligence, and, -moreover, a certain majesty of demeanour. There was always something of -the helmet of Minerva in the bonnet which she wore. Her shawl was an old -shawl, but she was never ashamed of it; and she could always put herself -forward, as though there were nothing behind her to be concealed, the -concealing of which was a burden to her. “I cannot suppose,” she said, -“that my paper has been altogether neglected!” - -We picked out the roll with all the audacity we could assume, and -proceeded to explain how very much in error she was in supposing that we -had ever even hinted at its publication. We had certainly said that we -would read it, mentioning no time. We never did mention any time in -making any such promise. “You named a week, Sir,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and -now a month has passed by. You assured me that it would be accepted -unless returned within seven days. Of course it will be accepted now.” -We contradicted her flatly. We explained, we protested, we threatened. -We endeavoured to put the manuscript into her hand, and made a faint -attempt to stick it into her bag. She was indignant, dignified, and -very strong. She said nothing on that occasion about legal proceedings, -but stuck manfully to her assertion that we had bound ourselves to -decide upon her manuscript within a week. “Do you think, Sir,” said she, -“that I would entrust the very essence of my brain to the keeping of a -stranger, without some such assurance as that?” We acknowledged that we -had undertaken to read the paper, but again disowned the week. “And how -long would you be justified in taking?” demanded Mrs. Brumby. “If a -month, why not a year? Does it not occur to you, Sir, that when the very -best of my intellect, my inmost thoughts, lie there at your disposal,” -and she pointed to the heap, “it may be possible that a property has -been confided to you too valuable to justify neglect? Had I given you a -ring to keep you would have locked it up, but the best jewels of my mind -are left to the tender mercies of your charwoman.” What she said was -absolutely nonsense,--abominable, villanous trash; but she said it so -well that we found ourselves apologising for our own misconduct. There -had perhaps been a little undue delay. In our peculiar business such -would occasionally occur. When we had got to this, any expression of our -wrath at her intrusion was impossible. As we entered the room we had -intended almost to fling her manuscript at her head. We now found -ourselves handling it almost affectionately while we expressed regret -for our want of punctuality. Mrs. Brumby was gracious, and pardoned us, -but her forgiveness was not of the kind which denotes the intention of -the injured one to forget as well as forgive the trespass. She had -suffered from us a great injustice; but she would say no more on that -score now, on the condition that we would at once attend to her essay. -She thrice repeated the words, “at once,” and she did so without rebuke -from us. And then she made us a proposition, the like of which never -reached us before or since. Would we fix an hour within the next day or -two at which we would call upon her in Harpur Street and arrange as to -terms? The lieutenant, she said, would be delighted to make our -acquaintance. Call upon her!--upon Mrs. Brumby! Travel to Harpur Street, -Theobald’s Road, on the business of a chance bit of scribbling, which -was wholly indifferent to us except in so far as it was a trouble to us! -And then we were invited to make arrangements as to terms! Terms!! Had -the owner of the most illustrious lips in the land offered to make us -known in those days to the partner of her greatness, she could not have -done so with more assurance that she was conferring on us an honour, -than was assumed by Mrs. Brumby when she proposed to introduce us to the -lieutenant. - -When many wrongs are concentrated in one short speech, and great -injuries inflicted by a few cleverly-combined words, it is generally -difficult to reply so that some of the wrongs shall not pass unnoticed. -We cannot always be so happy as was Mr. John Robinson, when in saying -that he hadn’t been “dead at all,” he did really say everything that the -occasion required. We were so dismayed by the proposition that we should -go to Harpur Street, so hurt in our own personal dignity, that we lost -ourselves in endeavouring to make it understood that such a journey on -our part was quite out of the question. “Were we to do that, Mrs. -Brumby, we should live in cabs and spend our entire days in making -visits.” She smiled at us as we endeavoured to express our indignation, -and said something as to circumstances being different in different -cases;--something also, if we remember right, she hinted as to the -intelligence needed for discovering the differences. She left our office -quicker than we had expected, saying that as we could not afford to -spend our time in cabs she would call again on the day but one -following. Her departure was almost abrupt, but she went apparently in -good-humour. It never occurred to us at the moment to suspect that she -hurried away before we should have had time to repudiate certain -suggestions which she had made. - -When we found ourselves alone with the roll of paper in our hands, we -were very angry with Mrs. Brumby, but almost more angry with ourselves. -We were in no way bound to the woman, and yet she had in some degree -substantiated a claim upon us. We piqued ourselves specially on never -making any promise beyond the vaguest assurance that this or that -proposed contribution should receive consideration at some altogether -undefined time; but now we were positively pledged to read Mrs. Brumby’s -effusion and have our verdict ready by the day after to-morrow. We were -wont, too, to keep ourselves much secluded from strangers; and here was -Mrs. Brumby, who had already been with us twice, positively entitled to -a third audience. We had been scolded, and then forgiven, and then -ridiculed by a woman who was old, and ugly, and false! And there was -present to us a conviction that though she was old, and ugly, and false, -Mrs. Brumby was no ordinary woman. Perhaps it might be that she was -really qualified to give us valuable assistance in regard to the -magazine, as to which we must own we were sometimes driven to use -matter that was not quite so brilliant as, for our readers’ sakes, we -would have wished it to be. We feel ourselves compelled to admit that -old and ugly women, taken on the average, do better literary work than -they who are young and pretty. I did not like Mrs. Brumby, but it might -be that in her the age would find another De Staël. So thinking, we cut -the little string, and had the manuscript open in our own hands. We -cannot remember whether she had already indicated to us the subject of -the essay, but it was headed, “Costume in 18--.” There were perhaps -thirty closely-filled pages, of which we read perhaps a third. The -handwriting was unexceptionable, orderly, clean, and legible; but the -matter was undeniable twaddle. It proffered advice to women that they -should be simple, and to men that they should be cleanly in their -attire. Anything of less worth for the purpose of amusement or of -instruction could not be imagined. There was, in fact, nothing in it. It -has been our fate to look at a great many such essays, and to cause them -at once either to be destroyed or returned. There could be no doubt at -all as to Mrs. Brumby’s essay. - -She came punctual as the clock. As she seated herself in our chair and -made some remark as to her hope that we were satisfied, we felt -something like fear steal across our bosom. We were about to give -offence, and dreaded the arguments that would follow. It was, however, -quite clear that we could not publish Mrs. Brumby’s essay on Costume, -and therefore, though she looked more like Minerva now than ever, we -must go through our task. We told her in half-a-dozen words that we had -read the paper, and that it would not suit our columns. - -“Not suit your columns!” she said, looking at us by no means in sorrow, -but in great anger. “You do not mean to trifle with me like that after -all you have made me suffer?” We protested that we were responsible for -none of her sufferings. “Sir,” she said, “when I was last here you owned -the wrong you had done me.” We felt that we must protest against this, -and we rose in our wrath. There were two of us angry now. - -“Madam,” we said, “you have kindly offered us your essay, and we have -courteously declined it. You will allow us to say that this must end the -matter.” There were allusions here to kindness and courtesy, but the -reader will understand that the sense of the words was altogether -changed by the tone of the voice. - -“Indeed, Sir, the matter will not be ended so. If you think that your -position will enable you to trample upon those who make literature -really a profession, you are very much mistaken.” - -“Mrs. Brumby,” we said, “we can give you no other answer, and as our -time is valuable----” - -“Time valuable!” she exclaimed,--and as she stood up an artist might -have taken her for a model of Minerva had she only held a spear in her -hand. “And is no time valuable, do you think, but yours? I had, Sir, -your distinct promise that the paper should be published if it was left -in your hands above a week.” - -“That is untrue, Madam.” - -“Untrue, Sir?” - -“Absolutely untrue.” Mrs. Brumby was undoubtedly a woman, and might be -very like a goddess, but we were not going to allow her to palm off upon -us without flat contradiction so absolute a falsehood as that. “We never -dreamed of publishing your paper.” - -“Then why, Sir, have you troubled yourself to read it,--from the -beginning to the end?” We had certainly intimated that we had made -ourselves acquainted with the entire essay, but we had in fact skimmed -and skipped through about a third of it. - -“How dare you say, Sir, you have never dreamed of publishing it, when -you know that you studied it with that view?” - -“We didn’t read it all,” we said, “but we read quite enough.” - -“And yet but this moment ago you told me that you had perused it -carefully.” The word peruse we certainly never used in our life. We -object to “perusing,” as we do to “commencing” and “performing.” We -“read,” and we “begin,” and we “do.” As to that assurance which the word -“carefully” would intend to convey, we believe that we were to that -extent guilty. “I think, Sir,” she continued, “that you had better see -the lieutenant.” - -“With a view to fighting the gentleman?” we asked. - -“No, Sir. An officer in the Duke of Sussex’s Own draws his sword against -no enemy so unworthy of his steel.” She had told me at a former -interview that the lieutenant was so confirmed an invalid as to be -barely able, on his best days, to drag himself out of bed. “One fights -with one’s equal, but the law gives redress from injury, whether it be -inflicted by equal, by superior, or by,--INFERIOR.” And Mrs. Brumby, as -she uttered the last word, wagged her helmet at us in a manner which -left no doubt as to the position which she assigned to us. - -It became clearly necessary that an end should be put to an intercourse -which had become so very unpleasant. We told our Minerva very plainly -that we must beg her to leave us. There is, however, nothing more -difficult to achieve than the expulsion of a woman who is unwilling to -quit the place she occupies. We remember to have seen a lady take -possession of a seat in a mail coach to which she was not entitled, and -which had been booked and paid for by another person. The agent for the -coaching business desired her with many threats to descend, but she -simply replied that the journey to her was a matter of such moment that -she felt herself called upon to keep her place. The agent sent the -coachman to pull her out. The coachman threatened,--with his hands as -well as with his words,--and then set the guard at her. The guard -attacked her with inflamed visage and fearful words about Her Majesty’s -mails, and then set the ostlers at her. We thought the ostlers were -going to handle her roughly, but it ended by their scratching their -heads, and by a declaration on the part of one of them that she was “the -rummest go he’d ever seen.” She was a woman, and they couldn’t touch -her. A policeman was called upon for assistance, who offered to lock her -up, but he could only do so if allowed to lock up the whole coach as -well. It was ended by the production of another coach, by an exchange of -the luggage and passengers, by a delay of two hours, and an embarrassing -possession of the original vehicle by the lady in the midst of a crowd -of jeering boys and girls. We could tell Mrs. Brumby to go, and we could -direct our boy to open the door, and we could make motions indicatory of -departure with our left hand, but we could not forcibly turn her out of -the room. She asked us for the name of our lawyer, and we did write down -for her on a slip of paper the address of a most respectable firm, whom -we were pleased to regard as our attorneys, but who had never yet earned -six and eightpence from the magazine. Young Sharp, of the firm of Sharp -and Butterwell, was our friend, and would no doubt see to the matter for -us should it be necessary;--but we could not believe that the woman -would be so foolish. She made various assertions to us as to her -position in the world of literature, and it was on this occasion that -she brought out those printed slips which we have before mentioned. She -offered to refer the matter in dispute between us to the arbitration of -the editor of the “Curricle;” and when we indignantly declined such -interference, protesting that there was no matter in dispute, she again -informed us that if we thought to trample upon her we were very much -mistaken. Then there occurred a little episode which moved us to -laughter in the midst of our wrath. Our boy, in obedience to our -pressing commands that he should usher Mrs. Brumby out of our presence, -did lightly touch her arm. Feeling the degradation of the assault, -Minerva swung round upon the unfortunate lad and gave him a box on the -ear which we’ll be bound the editor of the “West Barsetshire Gazette” -remembers to this day. “Madam,” we said, as soon as we had swallowed -down the first involuntary attack of laughter, “if you conduct yourself -in this manner we must send for the police.” - -“Do, Sir, if you dare,” replied Minerva, “and every man of letters in -the metropolis shall hear of your conduct.” There was nothing in her -threat to move us, but we confess that we were uncomfortable. “Before I -leave you, Sir,” she said, “I will give you one more chance. Will you -perform your contract with me and accept my contribution?” - -“Certainly not,” we replied. She afterwards quoted this answer as -admitting a contract. - -We are often told that everything must come to an end,--and there was an -end at last to Mrs. Brumby’s visit. She went from us with an assurance -that she should at once return home, pick up the lieutenant,--hinting -that the exertion, caused altogether by our wickedness, might be the -death of that gallant officer,--and go with him direct to her attorney. -The world of literature should hear of the terrible injustice which had -been done to her, and the courts of law should hear of it too. - -We confess that we were grievously annoyed. By the time that Mrs. Brumby -had left the premises, our clerk had gone also. He had rushed off to the -nearest police-court to swear an information against her on account of -the box on the ear which she had given him, and we were unable to leave -our desk till he had returned. We found that for the present the doing -of any work in our line of business was quite out of the question. A -calm mind is required for the critical reading of manuscripts, and whose -mind could be calm after such insults as those we had received? We sat -in our chair, idle, reflective, indignant, making resolutions that we -would never again open our lips to a woman coming to us with a letter of -introduction and a contribution, till our lad returned to us. We were -forced to give him a sovereign before we could induce him to withdraw -his information. We object strongly to all bribery, but in this case we -could see the amount of ridicule which would be heaped upon our whole -establishment if some low-conditioned lawyer were allowed to -cross-examine us as to our intercourse with Mrs. Brumby. It was with -difficulty that the clerk arranged the matter the next day at the police -office, and his object was not effected without the farther payment by -us of £1 2s. 6d. for costs. - -It was then understood between us and the clerk that on no excuse -whatever should Mrs. Brumby be again admitted to my room, and I thought -that the matter was over. “She shall have to fight her way through if -she does get in,” said the lad. “She aint going to knock me about any -more,--woman or no woman.” “O, dea, certe,” we exclaimed. “It shall be a -dear job to her if she touches me again,” said the clerk, catching up -the sound. - -We really thought we had done with Mrs. Brumby, but at the end of four -or five days there came to us a letter, which we have still in our -possession, and which we will now venture to make public. It was as -follows. It was addressed not to ourselves but to Messrs. X., Y., and -Z., the very respectable proprietors of the periodical which we were -managing on their behalf. - -“Pluck Court, Gray’s Inn, 31st March, 18--. - -“GENTLEMEN, - - “We are instructed by our client, Lieutenant Brumby, late of the - Duke of Sussex’s Own regiment, to call upon you for payment of the - sum of twenty-five guineas due to him for a manuscript essay on - Costume, supplied by his wife to the ---- Magazine, which is, we - believe, your property, by special contract with Mr. ----, the - Editor. We are also directed to require from you and from Mr. ---- - a full apology in writing for the assault committed on Mrs. Brumby - in your Editor’s room on the 27th instant; and an assurance also - that the columns of your periodical shall not be closed against - that lady because of this transaction. We request that £1 13s. 8d., - our costs, may be forwarded to us, together with the above-named - sum of twenty-five guineas. - -“We are, gentlemen, - -“Your obedient servants, - -“BADGER AND BLISTER. - -“Messrs. X., Y., Z., Paternoster Row.” - -We were in the habit of looking in at the shop in Paternoster Row on the -first of every month, and on that inauspicious first of April the above -letter was handed to us by our friend Mr. X. “I hope you haven’t been -and put your foot in it,” said Mr. X. We protested that we had not put -our foot in it at all, and we told him the whole story. “Don’t let us -have a lawsuit, whatever you do,” said Mr. X. “The magazine isn’t worth -it.” We ridiculed the idea of a lawsuit, but we took away with us -Messrs. Badger and Blister’s letter and showed it to our legal adviser, -Mr. Sharp. Mr. Sharp was of opinion that Badger and Blister meant -fighting. When we pointed out to him the absolute absurdity of the whole -thing, he merely informed us that we did not know Badger and Blister. -“They’ll take up any case,” said he, “however hopeless, and work it with -superhuman energy, on the mere chance of getting something out of the -defendant. Whatever is got out of him becomes theirs. They never -disgorge.” We were quite confident that nothing could be got out of the -magazine on behalf of Mrs. Brumby, and we left the case in Mr. Sharp’s -hands, thinking that our trouble in the matter was over. - -A fortnight elapsed, and then we were called upon to meet Mr. Sharp in -Paternoster Row. We found our friend Mr. X. with a somewhat unpleasant -visage. Mr. X. was a thriving man, usually just, and sometimes generous -but he didn’t like being “put upon.” Mr. Sharp had actually recommended -that some trifle should be paid to Mrs. Brumby, and Mr. X. seemed to -think that this expense would, in case that advice were followed, have -been incurred through fault on our part. “A ten-pound note will set it -all right,” said Mr. Sharp. - -“Yes;--a ten-pound note,--just flung into the gutter. I wonder that you -allowed yourself to have anything to do with such a woman.” We protested -against this injustice, giving Mr. X. to know that he didn’t understand -and couldn’t understand our business. “I’m not so sure of that,” said -Mr. X. There was almost a quarrel, and we began to doubt whether Mrs. -Brumby would not be the means of taking the very bread from out of our -mouths. Mr. Sharp at last suggested that in spite of what he had seen -from Mrs. Brumby, the lieutenant would probably be a gentleman. “Not a -doubt about it,” said Mr. X., who was always fond of officers and of the -army, and at the moment seemed to think more of a paltry lieutenant than -of his own Editor. - -Mr. Sharp actually pressed upon us and upon Mr. X. that we should call -upon the lieutenant and explain matters to him. Mrs. Brumby had always -been with us at twelve o’clock. “Go at noon,” said Mr. Sharp, “and -you’ll certainly find her out.” He instructed us to tell the lieutenant -“just the plain truth,” as he called it, and to explain that in no way -could the proprietors of a magazine be made liable to payment for an -article because the Editor in discharge of his duty had consented to -read it. “Perhaps the lieutenant doesn’t know that his name has been -used at all,” said Mr. Sharp. “At any rate, it will be well to learn -what sort of a man he is.” - -“A high minded gentleman, no doubt,” said Mr. X. the name of whose -second boy was already down at the Horse Guards for a commission. - -Though it was sorely against the grain, and in direct opposition to our -own opinion, we were constrained to go to Harpur Street, Theobald’s -Road, and to call upon Lieutenant Brumby. We had not explained to Mr. X. -or to Mr. Sharp what had passed between Mrs. Brumby and ourselves when -she suggested such a visit, but the memory of the words which we and she -had then spoken was on us as we endeavoured to dissuade our lawyer and -our publisher. Nevertheless, at their instigation, we made the visit. -The house in Harpur Street was small, and dingy, and old. The door was -opened for us by the normal lodging-house maid-of-all-work, who when we -asked for the lieutenant, left us in the passage, that she might go and -see. We sent up our name, and in a few minutes were ushered into a -sitting-room up two flights of stairs. The room was not untidy, but it -was as comfortless as any chamber we ever saw. The lieutenant was lying -on an old horsehair sofa, but we had been so far lucky as to find him -alone. Mr. Sharp had been correct in his prediction as to the customary -absence of the lady at that hour in the morning. In one corner of the -room we saw an old ram-shackle desk, at which, we did not doubt, were -written those essays on costume and other subjects, in the disposing of -which the lady displayed so much energy. The lieutenant himself was a -small gray man, dressed, or rather enveloped, in what I supposed to be -an old wrapper of his wife’s. He held in his hands a well-worn volume of -a novel, and when he rose to greet us he almost trembled with dismay and -bashfulness. His feet were thrust into slippers which were too old to -stick on them, and round his throat he wore a dirty, once white, woollen -comforter. We never learned what was the individual character of the -corps which specially belonged to H.R.H. the Duke of Sussex; but if it -was conspicuous for dash and gallantry, Lieutenant Brumby could hardly -have held his own among his brother officers. We knew, however, from his -wife that he had been invalided, and as an invalid we respected him. We -proceeded to inform him that we had been called upon to pay him a sum of -twenty-five guineas, and to explain how entirely void of justice any -such claim must be. We suggested to him that he might be made to pay -some serious sum by the lawyers he employed, and that the matter to us -was an annoyance and a trouble,--chiefly because we had no wish to be -brought into conflict with any one so respectable as Lieutenant Brumby. -He looked at us with imploring eyes, as though begging us not to be too -hard upon him in the absence of his wife, trembled from head to foot, -and muttered a few words which were nearly inaudible. We will not state -as a fact that the lieutenant had taken to drinking spirits early in -life, but that certainly was our impression during the only interview we -ever had with him. When we pressed upon him as a question which he must -answer whether he did not think that he had better withdraw his claim, -he fell back upon his sofa, and began to sob. While he was thus weeping -Mrs. Brumby entered the room. She had in her hand the card which we had -given to the maid-of-all-work, and was therefore prepared for the -interview. “Sir,” she said, “I hope you have come to settle my husband’s -just demands.” - -Amidst the husband’s wailings there had been one little sentence which -reached our ears. “She does it all,” he had said, throwing his eyes up -piteously towards our face. At that moment the door had been opened, and -Mrs. Brumby had entered the room. When she spoke of her husband’s “just -demands,” we turned to the poor prostrate lieutenant, and were deterred -from any severity towards him by the look of supplication in his eye,. -“The lieutenant is not well this morning,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and you -will therefore be pleased to address yourself to me.” We explained that -the absurd demand for payment had been made on the proprietors of the -magazine in the name of Lieutenant Brumby, and that we had therefore -been obliged, in the performance of a most unpleasant duty, to call upon -that gentleman; but she laughed our argument to scorn. “You have driven -me to take legal steps,” she said, “and as I am only a woman I must take -them in the name of my husband. But I am the person aggrieved, and if -you have any excuse to make you can make it to me. Your safer course, -Sir, will be to pay me the money that you owe me.” - -I had come there on a fool’s errand, and before I could get away was -very angry both with Mr. Sharp and Mr. X. I could hardly get a word in -amidst the storm of indignant reproaches which was bursting over my head -during the whole of the visit. One would have thought from hearing her -that she had half filled the pages of the magazine for the last six -months, and that we, individually, had pocketed the proceeds of her -labour. She laughed in our face when we suggested that she could not -really intend to prosecute the suit, and told us to mind our own -business when we hinted that the law was an expensive amusement. “We, -Sir,” she said, “will have the amusement, and you will have to pay the -bill.” When we left her she was indignant, defiant, and self-confident. - -And what will the reader suppose was the end of all this? The whole -truth has been told as accurately as we can tell it. As far as we know -our own business we were not wrong in any single step we took. Our -treatment of Mrs. Brumby was courteous, customary, and conciliatory. We -had treated her with more consideration than we had perhaps ever before -shown to an unknown, would-be contributor. She had been admitted thrice -to our presence. We had read at any rate enough of her trash to be sure -of its nature. On the other hand, we had been insulted, and our clerk -had had his ears boxed. What should have been the result? We will tell -the reader what was the result. Mr. X. paid £10 to Messrs. Badger and -Blister on behalf of the lieutenant; and we, under Mr. Sharp’s advice, -wrote a letter to Mrs. Brumby in which we expressed deep sorrow for our -clerk’s misconduct, and our own regret that we should have -delayed,--“the perusal of her manuscript.” We could not bring ourselves -to write the words ourselves with our own fingers, but signed the -document which Mr. Sharp put before us. Mr. Sharp had declared to -Messrs. X., Y., and Z., that unless some such arrangement were made, he -thought that we should be cast for a much greater sum before a jury. For -one whole morning in Paternoster Row we resisted this infamous tax, not -only on our patience, but,--as we then felt it,--on our honour. We -thought that our very old friend Mr. X. should have stood to us more -firmly, and not have demanded from us a task that was so peculiarly -repugnant to our feelings. “And it is peculiarly repugnant to my -feelings to pay £10 for nothing,” said Mr. X., who was not, we think, -without some little feeling of revenge against us; “but I prefer that to -a lawsuit.” And then he argued that the simple act on our part of -signing such a letter as that presented to us could cost us no trouble, -and ought to occasion us no sorrow. “What can come of it? Who’ll know -it?” said Mr. X. “We’ve got to pay £10, and that we shall feel.” It came -to that at last, that we were constrained to sign the letter,--and did -sign it. It did us no harm, and can have done Mrs. Brumby no good but -the moment in which we signed it was perhaps the bitterest we ever knew. - -That in such a transaction Mrs. Brumby should have been so thoroughly -successful, and that we should have been so shamefully degraded, has -always appeared to us to be an injury too deep to remain unredressed for -ever. Can such wrongs be, and the heavens not fall! Our greatest comfort -has been in the reflection that neither the lieutenant nor his wife ever -saw a shilling of the £10. That, doubtless, never went beyond Badger and -Blister. - - THE END. - - PRINTED BY W. H. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Mary Gresley and an Editor’s Tales</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Anthony Trollope</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 25, 2017 [eBook #54783]<br /> -[Most recently updated: September 27, 2021]</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY GRESLEY AND AN EDITOR’S TALES ***</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="309" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>M A R Y G R E S L E Y<br /><br /> -<small><small>AND</small></small><br /><br /> -<small>AN EDITOR’S TALES.</small></h1> - -<p class="c">BY -ANTHONY TROLLOPE,<br /> -AUTHOR OF<br /> -“DOCTOR THORNE,”<br /> -“PHINEAS FINN,”<br /> -“LOTTA SCHMIDT,”<br /> -“ORLEY FARM,”<br /> -ETC.<br /><br /> -NEW EDITION.<br /><br /> -LONDON: -CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.<br /> -1873.</p> - -<p class="c">[<i>The right of translation is reserved.</i>] -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#MARY_GRESLEY">MARY GRESLEY</a> </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_TURKISH_BATH">THE TURKISH BATH</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_049">49</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#JOSEPHINE_DE_MONTMORENCI">JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_095">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_PANJANDRUM">THE PANJANDRUM—</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd"><a href="#Part_I_Hope">PART I.—HOPE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_141">141</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd"><a href="#Part_II_Despair">PART II.—DESPAIR</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_SPOTTED_DOG">THE SPOTTED DOG—</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd"><a href="#Part_I_the_Attempt">PART I.—THE ATTEMPT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_227">227</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd"><a href="#Part_II_The_Result">PART II.—THE RESULT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_275">275</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#MRS_BRUMBY">MRS. BRUMBY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_321">321</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="MARY_GRESLEY" id="MARY_GRESLEY"></a>MARY GRESLEY.</h2> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/mary.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>MARY GRESLEY.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>E have known many prettier girls than Mary Gresley, and many handsomer -women—but we never knew girl or woman gifted with a face which in -supplication was more suasive, in grief more sad, in mirth more merry. -It was a face that compelled sympathy, and it did so with the conviction -on the mind of the sympathiser that the girl was altogether unconscious -of her own power. In her intercourse with us there was, alas! much more -of sorrow than of mirth, and we may truly say that in her sufferings we -suffered; but still there came to us from our intercourse with her much -of delight mingled with the sorrow; and that delight arose, partly no -doubt from her woman’s charms, from the bright eye, the beseeching -mouth, the soft little hand, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a></span> feminine grace of her unpretending -garments; but chiefly, we think, from the extreme humanity of the girl. -She had little, indeed none, of that which the world calls society, but -yet she was pre-eminently social. Her troubles were very heavy, but she -was making ever an unconscious effort to throw them aside, and to be -jocund in spite of their weight. She would even laugh at them, and at -herself as bearing them. She was a little fair-haired creature, with -broad brow and small nose and dimpled chin, with no brightness of -complexion, no luxuriance of hair, no swelling glory of bust and -shoulders; but with a pair of eyes which, as they looked at you, would -be gemmed always either with a tear or with some spark of laughter, and -with a mouth in the corners of which was ever lurking some little spark -of humour, unless when some unspoken prayer seemed to be hanging on her -lips. Of woman’s vanity she had absolutely none. Of her corporeal self, -as having charms to rivet man’s love, she thought no more than does a -dog. It was a fault with her that she lacked that quality of womanhood. -To be loved was to her all the world; unconscious desire for the -admiration of men was as strong in her as in other women; and her -instinct taught her, as such instincts do teach all women, that such -love and admiration was to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a></span> the fruit of what feminine gifts she -possessed; but the gifts on which she depended,—depending on them -without thinking on the matter,—were her softness, her trust, her -woman’s weakness, and that power of supplicating by her eye without -putting her petition into words which was absolutely irresistible. Where -is the man of fifty, who in the course of his life has not learned to -love some woman simply because it has come in his way to help her, and -to be good to her in her struggles? And if added to that source of -affection there be brightness, some spark of humour, social gifts, and a -strong flavour of that which we have ventured to call humanity, such -love may become almost a passion without the addition of much real -beauty.</p> - -<p>But in thus talking of love we must guard ourselves somewhat from -miscomprehension. In love with Mary Gresley, after the common sense of -the word, we never were, nor would it have become us to be so. Had such -a state of being unfortunately befallen us, we certainly should be -silent on the subject. We were married and old; she was very young, and -engaged to be married, always talking to us of her engagement as a thing -fixed as the stars. She looked upon us, no doubt,—after she had ceased -to regard us simply in our editorial capacity,—as a subsidiary old -uncle whom Providence had supplied to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a></span> her, in order that, if it were -possible, the troubles of her life might be somewhat eased by assistance -to her from that special quarter. We regarded her first almost as a -child, and then as a young woman to whom we owed that sort of protecting -care which a graybeard should ever be ready to give to the weakness of -feminine adolescence. Nevertheless we were in love with her, and we -think such a state of love to be a wholesome and natural condition. We -might, indeed, have loved her grandmother,—but the love would have been -very different. Had circumstances brought us into connection with her -grandmother, we hope we should have done our duty, and had that old lady -been our friend we should, we trust, have done it with alacrity. But in -our intercourse with Mary Gresley there was more than that. She charmed -us. We learned to love the hue of that dark gray stuff frock which she -seemed always to wear. When she would sit in the low arm-chair opposite -to us, looking up into our eyes as we spoke to her words which must -often have stabbed her little heart, we were wont to caress her with -that inward undemonstrative embrace that one spirit is able to confer -upon another. We thought of her constantly, perplexing our mind for her -succour. We forgave all her faults. We exaggerated her virtues. We -exerted ourselves for her with a zeal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a></span> that was perhaps fatuous. Though -we attempted sometimes to look black at her, telling her that our time -was too precious to be wasted in conversation with her, she soon learned -to know how welcome she was to us. Her glove,—which, by-the-bye, was -never tattered, though she was very poor,—was an object of regard to -us. Her grandmother’s gloves would have been as unacceptable to us as -any other morsel of old kid or cotton. Our heart bled for her. Now the -heart may suffer much for the sorrows of a male friend, but it may -hardly for such be said to bleed. We loved her, in short, as we should -not have loved her, but that she was young and gentle, and could -smile,—and, above all, but that she looked at us with those bright, -beseeching, tear-laden eyes.</p> - -<p>Sterne, in his latter days, when very near his end, wrote passionate -love-letters to various women, and has been called hard names by -Thackeray,—not for writing them, but because he thus showed himself to -be incapable of that sincerity which should have bound him to one love. -We do not ourselves much admire the sentimentalism of Sterne, finding -the expression of it to be mawkish, and thinking that too often he -misses the pathos for which he strives from a want of appreciation on -his own part of that which is really vigorous in language and touching<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a></span> -in sentiment. But we think that Thackeray has been somewhat wrong in -throwing that blame on Sterne’s heart which should have been attributed -to his taste. The love which he declared when he was old and sick and -dying,—a worn-out wreck of a man,—disgusts us, not because it was -felt, or not felt, but because it was told;—and told as though the -teller meant to offer more than that warmth of sympathy which woman’s -strength and woman’s weakness combined will ever produce in the hearts -of certain men. This is a sympathy with which neither age, nor crutches, -nor matrimony, nor position of any sort need consider itself to be -incompatible. It is unreasoning, and perhaps irrational. It gives to -outward form and grace that which only inward merit can deserve. It is -very dangerous because, unless watched, it leads to words which express -that which is not intended. But, though it may be controlled, it cannot -be killed. He, who is of his nature open to such impression, will feel -it while breath remains to him. It was that which destroyed the -character and happiness of Swift, and which made Sterne contemptible. We -do not doubt that such unreasoning sympathy, exacted by feminine -attraction, was always strong in Johnson’s heart;—but Johnson was -strong all over, and could guard himself equally from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></span> misconduct and -from ridicule. Such sympathy with women, such incapability of -withstanding the feminine magnet, was very strong with Goethe,—who -could guard himself from ridicule, but not from misconduct. To us the -child of whom we are speaking—for she was so then—was ever a child. -But she bore in her hand the power of that magnet, and we admit that the -needle within our bosom was swayed by it. Her story,—such as we have to -tell it,—was as follows.</p> - -<p>Mary Gresley, at the time when we first knew her, was eighteen years -old, and was the daughter of a medical practitioner, who had lived and -died in a small town in one of the northern counties. For facility in -telling our story we will call that town Cornboro. Dr. Gresley, as he -seemed to have been called, though without proper claim to the title, -had been a diligent man, and fairly successful,—except in this, that he -died before he had been able to provide for those whom he left behind -him. The widow still had her own modest fortune, amounting to some -eighty pounds a year; and that, with the furniture of her house, was her -whole wealth, when she found herself thus left with the weight of the -world upon her shoulders. There was one other daughter older than Mary, -whom we never saw, but who was always mentioned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a></span> as poor Fanny. There -had been no sons, and the family consisted of the mother and the two -girls. Mary had been only fifteen when her father died, and up to that -time had been regarded quite as a child by all who had known her. Mrs. -Gresley, in the hour of her need, did as widows do in such cases. She -sought advice from her clergyman and neighbours, and was counselled to -take a lodger into her house. No lodger could be found so fitting as the -curate, and when Mary was seventeen years old she and the curate were -engaged to be married. The curate paid thirty pounds a year for his -lodgings, and on this, with their own little income, the widow and her -two daughters had managed to live. The engagement was known to them all -as soon as it had been known to Mary. The love-making, indeed, had gone -on beneath the eyes of the mother. There had been not only no deceit, no -privacy, no separate interests, but, as far as we ever knew, no question -as to prudence in the making of the engagement. The two young people had -been brought together, had loved each other, as was so natural, and had -become engaged as a matter of course. It was an event as easy to be -foretold, or at least as easy to be believed, as the pairing of two -birds. From what we heard of this curate, the Rev. Arthur Donne,—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a></span> -we never saw him,—we fancy that he was a simple, pious, commonplace -young man, imbued with a strong idea that in being made a priest he had -been invested with a nobility and with some special capacity beyond that -of other men, slight in body, weak in health, but honest, true, and -warm-hearted. Then, the engagement having been completed, there arose -the question of matrimony. The salary of the curate was a hundred a -year. The whole income of the vicar, an old man, was, after payment made -to his curate, two hundred a year. Could the curate, in such -circumstances, afford to take to himself a penniless wife of seventeen? -Mrs. Gresley was willing that the marriage should take place, and that -they should all do as best they might on their joint income. The vicar’s -wife, who seems to have been a strong-minded, sage, though somewhat hard -woman, took Mary aside, and told her that such a thing must not be. -There would come, she said, children, and destitution, and ruin. She -knew perhaps more than Mary knew when Mary told us her story, sitting -opposite to us in the low arm-chair. It was the advice of the vicar’s -wife that the engagement should be broken off; but that, if the -breaking-off of the engagement were impossible, there should be an -indefinite period of waiting. Such engagements cannot be broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></span> off. -Young hearts will not consent to be thus torn asunder. The vicar’s wife -was too strong for them to get themselves married in her teeth, and the -period of indefinite waiting was commenced.</p> - -<p>And now for a moment we will go further back among Mary’s youthful days. -Child as she seemed to be, she had in very early years taken a pen in -her hand. The reader need hardly be told that had not such been the case -there would not have arisen any cause for friendship between her and us. -We are telling an Editor’s tale, and it was in our editorial capacity -that Mary first came to us. Well;—in her earliest attempts, in her very -young days, she wrote—Heaven knows what; poetry first, no doubt; then, -God help her, a tragedy; after that, when the curate-influence first -commenced, tales for the conversion of the ungodly;—and at last, before -her engagement was a fact, having tried her wing at fiction, in the form -of those false little dialogues between Tom the Saint and Bob the -Sinner, she had completed a novel in one volume. She was then seventeen, -was engaged to be married, and had completed her novel! Passing her in -the street you would almost have taken her for a child to whom you might -give an orange.</p> - -<p>Hitherto her work had come from ambition,—or from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a></span> a feeling of -restless piety inspired by the curate. Now there arose in her young mind -the question whether such talent as she possessed might not be turned to -account for ways and means, and used to shorten, perhaps absolutely to -annihilate, that uncertain period of waiting. The first novel was seen -by “a man of letters” in her neighbourhood, who pronounced it to be very -clever;—not indeed fit as yet for publication, faulty in grammar, -faulty even in spelling,—how I loved the tear that shone in her eye as -she confessed this delinquency!—faulty of course in construction, and -faulty in character;—but still clever. The man of letters had told her -that she must begin again.</p> - -<p>Unfortunate man of letters in having thrust upon him so terrible a task! -In such circumstances what is the candid, honest, soft-hearted man of -letters to do? “Go, girl, and mend your stockings. Learn to make a pie. -If you work hard, it may be that some day your intellect will suffice to -you to read a book and understand it. For the writing of a book that -shall either interest or instruct a brother human being many gifts are -required. Have you just reason to believe that they have been given to -you?” That is what the candid, honest man of letters says who is not -soft-hearted;—and in ninety-nine cases<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a></span> out of a hundred it will -probably be the truth. The soft-hearted man of letters remembers that -this special case submitted to him may be the hundredth; and, unless the -blotted manuscript is conclusive against such possibility, he reconciles -it to his conscience to tune his counsel to that hope. Who can say that -he is wrong? Unless such evidence be conclusive, who can venture to -declare that this aspirant may not be the one who shall succeed? Who in -such emergency does not remember the day in which he also was one of the -hundred of whom the ninety-and-nine must fail;—and will not remember -also the many convictions on his own mind that he certainly would not be -the one appointed? The man of letters in the neighbourhood of Cornboro -to whom poor Mary’s manuscript was shown was not sufficiently -hard-hearted to make any strong attempt to deter her. He made no -reference to the easy stockings, or the wholesome pie,—pointed out the -manifest faults which he saw, and added, we do not doubt with much more -energy than he threw into his words of censure,—his comfortable -assurance that there was great promise in the work. Mary Gresley that -evening burned the manuscript, and began another, with the dictionary -close at her elbow.</p> - -<p>Then, during her work, there occurred two circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a></span> which brought -upon her,—and, indeed, upon the household to which she -belonged,—intense sorrow and greatly-increased trouble. The first of -these applied more especially to herself. The Rev. Arthur Donne did not -approve of novels,—of other novels than those dialogues between Tom and -Bob, of the falsehood of which he was unconscious,—and expressed a -desire that the writing of them should be abandoned. How far the lover -went in his attempt to enforce obedience we, of course, could not know; -but he pronounced the edict, and the edict, though not obeyed, created -tribulation. Then there came forth another edict which had to be -obeyed,—an edict from the probable successor of the late Dr. -Gresley,—ordering the poor curate to seek employment in some clime more -congenial to his state of health than that in which he was then living. -He was told that his throat and lungs and general apparatus for living -and preaching were not strong enough for those hyperborean regions, and -that he must seek a southern climate. He did do so, and, before I became -acquainted with Mary, had transferred his services to a small town in -Dorsetshire. The engagement, of course, was to be as valid as ever, -though matrimony must be postponed, more indefinitely even than -heretofore. But if Mary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a></span> could write novels and sell them, then how -glorious would it be to follow her lover into Dorsetshire! The Rev. -Arthur Donne went, and the curate who came in his place was a married -man, wanting a house, and not lodgings. So Mary Gresley persevered with -her second novel, and completed it before she was eighteen.</p> - -<p>The literary friend in the neighbourhood,—to the chance of whose -acquaintance I was indebted for my subsequent friendship with Mary -Gresley,—found this work to be a great improvement on the first. He was -an elderly man, who had been engaged nearly all his life in the conduct -of a scientific and agricultural periodical, and was the last man whom I -should have taken as a sound critic on works of fiction;—but with -spelling, grammatical construction, and the composition of sentences he -was acquainted; and he assured Mary that her progress had been great. -Should she burn that second story? she asked him. She would if he so -recommended, and begin another the next day. Such was not his advice.</p> - -<p>“I have a friend in London,” said he, “who has to do with such things, -and you shall go to him. I will give you a letter.” He gave her the -fatal letter, and she came to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a></span></p> - -<p>She came up to town with her novel; but not only with her novel, for she -brought her mother with her. So great was her eloquence, so excellent -her suasive power either with her tongue or by that look of supplication -in her face, that she induced her mother to abandon her home in -Cornboro, and trust herself to London lodgings. The house was let -furnished to the new curate, and when I first heard of the Gresleys they -were living on the second floor in a small street near to the Euston -Square station. Poor Fanny, as she was called, was left in some humble -home at Cornboro, and Mary travelled up to try her fortune in the great -city. When we came to know her well we expressed our doubts as to the -wisdom of such a step. Yes; the vicar’s wife had been strong against the -move. Mary confessed as much. That lady had spoken most forcible words, -had uttered terrible predictions, had told sundry truths. But Mary had -prevailed, and the journey was made, and the lodgings were taken.</p> - -<p>We can now come to the day on which we first saw her. She did not write, -but came direct to us with her manuscript in her hand. “A young woman, -Sir, wants to see you,” said the clerk, in that tone to which we were so -well accustomed, and which indicated the dislike<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a></span> which he had learned -from us to the reception of unknown visitors.</p> - -<p>“Young woman! What young woman?”</p> - -<p>“Well, Sir; she is a very young woman;—quite a girl like.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose she has got a name. Who sent her? I cannot see any young -woman without knowing why. What does she want?”</p> - -<p>“Got a manuscript in her hand, Sir.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve no doubt she has, and a ton of manuscripts in drawers and -cupboards. Tell her to write. I won’t see any woman, young or old, -without knowing who she is.”</p> - -<p>The man retired, and soon returned with an envelope belonging to the -office, on which was written, “Miss Mary Gresley, late of Cornboro.” He -also brought me a note from “the man of letters” down in Yorkshire. “Of -what sort is she?” I asked, looking at the introduction.</p> - -<p>“She aint amiss as to looks,” said the clerk; “and she’s modest-like.” -Now certainly it is the fact that all female literary aspirants are not -“modest-like.” We read our friend’s letter through, while poor Mary was -standing at the counter below. How eagerly should we have run<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></span> to greet -her, to save her from the gaze of the public, to welcome her at least -with a chair and the warmth of our editorial fire, had we guessed then -what were her qualities! It was not long before she knew the way up to -our sanctum without any clerk to show her, and not long before we knew -well the sound of that low but not timid knock at our door made always -with the handle of the parasol, with which her advent was heralded. We -will confess that there was always music to our ears in that light tap -from the little round wooden knob. The man of letters in Yorkshire, whom -we had known well for many years, had been never known to us with -intimacy. We had bought with him and sold with him, had talked with him, -and perhaps, walked with him; but he was not one with whom we had eaten, -or drunk, or prayed. A dull, well-instructed, honest man he was, fond of -his money, and, as we had thought, as unlikely as any man to be waked to -enthusiasm by the ambitious dreams of a young girl. But Mary had been -potent even over him, and he had written to me, saying that Miss Gresley -was a young lady of exceeding promise, in respect of whom he had a -strong presentiment that she would rise, if not to eminence, at least to -a good position as a writer. “But she is very young,” he added. Having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a></span> -read this letter, we at last desired our clerk to send the lady up.</p> - -<p>We remember her step as she came to the door, timid enough -then,—hesitating, but yet with an assumed lightness as though she was -determined to show us that she was not ashamed of what she was doing. -She had on her head a light straw hat, such as then was very unusual in -London,—and is not now, we believe, commonly worn in the streets of the -metropolis by ladies who believe themselves to know what they are about. -But it was a hat, worn upon her head, and not a straw plate done up with -ribbons, and reaching down the incline of the forehead as far as the top -of the nose. And she was dressed in a gray stuff frock, with a little -black band round her waist. As far as our memory goes, we never saw her -in any other dress, or with other hat or bonnet on her head. “And what -can we do for you,—Miss Gresley?” we said, standing up and holding the -literary gentleman’s letter in our hand. We had almost said, “my dear,” -seeing her youth and remembering our own age. We were afterwards glad -that we had not so addressed her; though it came before long that we did -call her “my dear,”—in quite another spirit.</p> - -<p>She recoiled a little from the tone of our voice, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a></span> recovered herself -at once. “Mr. —— thinks that you can do something for me. I have -written a novel, and I have brought it to you.”</p> - -<p>“You are very young, are you not, to have written a novel?”</p> - -<p>“I am young,” she said, “but perhaps older than you think. I am -eighteen.” Then for the first time there came into her eye that gleam of -a merry humour which never was allowed to dwell there long, but which -was so alluring when it showed itself.</p> - -<p>“That is a ripe age,” we said laughing, and then we bade her seat -herself. At once we began to pour forth that long and dull and ugly -lesson which is so common to our life, in which we tried to explain to -our unwilling pupil that of all respectable professions for young women -literature is the most uncertain, the most heart-breaking, and the most -dangerous. “You hear of the few who are remunerated,” we said; “but you -hear nothing of the thousands that fail.”</p> - -<p>“It is so noble!” she replied.</p> - -<p>“But so hopeless.”</p> - -<p>“There are those who succeed.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed. Even in a lottery one must gain the prize; but they who -trust to lotteries break their hearts.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a></span></p> - -<p>“But literature is not a lottery. If I am fit, I shall succeed. Mr. —— -thinks I may succeed.” Many more words of wisdom we spoke to her, and -well do we remember her reply when we had run all our line off the reel, -and had completed our sermon. “I shall go on all the same,” she said. “I -shall try, and try again,—and again.”</p> - -<p>Her power over us, to a certain extent, was soon established. Of course -we promised to read the MS., and turned it over, no doubt with an -anxious countenance, to see of what kind was the writing. There is a -feminine scrawl of a nature so terrible that the task of reading it -becomes worse than the treadmill. “I know I can write well,—though I am -not quite sure about the spelling,” said Mary, as she observed the -glance of our eyes. She spoke truly. The writing was good, though the -erasures and alterations were very numerous. And then the story was -intended to fill only one volume. “I will copy it for you if you wish -it,” said Mary. “Though there are so many scratchings out, it has been -copied once.” We would not for worlds have given her such labour, and -then we promised to read the tale. We forget how it was brought about, -but she told us at that interview that her mother had obtained leave -from the pastrycook round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a></span> the corner to sit there waiting till Mary -should rejoin her. “I thought it would be trouble enough for you to have -one of us here,” she said with her little laugh when I asked her why she -had not brought her mother on with her. I own that I felt that she had -been wise; and when I told her that if she would call on me again that -day week I would then have read at any rate so much of her work as would -enable me to give her my opinion, I did not invite her to bring her -mother with her. I knew that I could talk more freely to the girl -without the mother’s presence. Even when you are past fifty, and intend -only to preach a sermon, you do not wish to have a mother present.</p> - -<p>When she was gone we took up the roll of paper and examined it. We -looked at the division into chapters, at the various mottoes the poor -child had chosen, pronounced to ourselves the name of the story,—it was -simply the name of the heroine, an easy-going, unaffected, well-chosen -name,—and read the last page of it. On such occasions the reader of the -work begins his task almost with a conviction that the labour which he -is about to undertake will be utterly thrown away. He feels all but sure -that the matter will be bad, that it will be better for all parties, -writer, intended readers, and intended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a></span> publisher, that the written -words should not be conveyed into type,—that it will be his duty after -some fashion to convey that unwelcome opinion to the writer, and that -the writer will go away incredulous, and accusing mentally the Mentor of -the moment of all manner of literary sins, among which ignorance, -jealousy, and falsehood, will, in the poor author’s imagination, be most -prominent. And yet when the writer was asking for that opinion, -declaring his especial desire that the opinion should be candid, -protesting that his present wish is to have some gauge of his own -capability, and that he has come to you believing you to be above others -able to give him that gauge,—while his petition to you was being made, -he was in every respect sincere. He had come desirous to measure -himself, and had believed that you could measure him. When coming he did -not think that you would declare him to be an Apollo. He had told -himself, no doubt, how probable it was that you would point out to him -that he was a dwarf. You find him to be an ordinary man, measuring -perhaps five feet seven, and unable to reach the standard of the -particular regiment in which he is ambitious of serving. You tell him so -in what civillest words you know, and you are at once convicted in his -mind of jealousy, ignorance, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a></span> falsehood! And yet he is perhaps a -most excellent fellow, and capable of performing the best of -service,—only in some other regiment! As we looked at Miss Gresley’s -manuscript, tumbling it through our hands, we expected even from her -some such result. She had gained two things from us already by her -outward and inward gifts, such as they were,—first that we would read -her story, and secondly that we would read it quickly; but she had not -as yet gained from us any belief that by reading it we could serve it.</p> - -<p>We did read it,—the most of it before we left our editorial chair on -that afternoon, so that we lost altogether the daily walk so essential -to our editorial health, and were put to the expense of a cab on our -return home. And we incurred some minimum of domestic discomfort from -the fact that we did not reach our own door till twenty minutes after -our appointed dinner hour. “I have this moment come from the office as -hard as a cab could bring me,” we said in answer to the mildest of -reproaches, explaining nothing as to the nature of the cause which had -kept us so long at our work.</p> - -<p>We must not allow our readers to suppose that the intensity of our -application had arisen from the overwhelming interest of the story. It -was not that the story<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a></span> entranced us, but that our feeling for the -writer grew as we read the story. It was simple, unaffected, and almost -painfully unsensational. It contained, as I came to perceive afterwards, -little more than a recital of what her imagination told her might too -probably be the result of her own engagement. It was the story of two -young people who became engaged and could not be married. After a course -of years the man, with many true arguments, asked to be absolved. The -woman yields with an expressed conviction that her lover is right, -settles herself down for maiden life, then breaks her heart and dies. -The character of the man was utterly untrue to nature. That of the woman -was true, but commonplace. Other interest, or other character there was -none. The dialogues between the lovers were many and tedious, and hardly -a word was spoken between them which two lovers really would have -uttered. It was clearly not a work as to which I could tell my little -friend that she might depend upon it for fame or fortune. When I had -finished it I was obliged to tell myself that I could not advise her -even to publish it. But yet I could not say that she had mistaken her -own powers or applied herself to a profession beyond her reach. There -were a grace and delicacy in her work which were charming. Occasionally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a></span> -she escaped from the trammels of grammar, but only so far that it would -be a pleasure to point out to her her errors. There was not a word that -a young lady should not have written; and there were throughout the -whole evident signs of honest work. We had six days to think it over -between our completion of the task and her second visit.</p> - -<p>She came exactly at the hour appointed, and seated herself at once in -the arm-chair before us as soon as the young man had closed the door -behind him. There had been no great occasion for nervousness at her -first visit, and she had then, by an evident effort, overcome the -diffidence incidental to a meeting with a stranger. But now she did not -attempt to conceal her anxiety. “Well,” she said, leaning forward, and -looking up into our face, with her two hands folded together.</p> - -<p>Even though Truth, standing full panoplied at our elbow, had positively -demanded it, we could not have told her then to mend her stockings and -bake her pies and desert the calling that she had chosen. She was simply -irresistible, and would, we fear, have constrained us into falsehood had -the question been between falsehood and absolute reprobation of her -work. To have spoken hard, heart-breaking words to her, would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a></span> been -like striking a child when it comes to kiss you. We fear that we were -not absolutely true at first, and that by that absence of truth we made -subsequent pain more painful. “Well,” she said, looking up into our -face. “Have you read it?” We told her that we had read every word of it. -“And it is no good?”</p> - -<p>We fear that we began by telling her that it certainly was good,—after -a fashion, very good,—considering her youth and necessary inexperience, -very good indeed. As we said this she shook her head, and sent out a -spark or two from her eyes, intimating her conviction that excuses or -quasi praise founded on her youth would avail her nothing. “Would -anybody buy it from me?” she asked. No;—we did not think that any -publisher would pay her money for it. “Would they print it for me -without costing me anything?” Then we told her the truth as nearly as we -could. She lacked experience; and if, as she had declared to us before, -she was determined to persevere, she must try again, and must learn more -of that lesson of the world’s ways which was so necessary to those who -attempted to teach that lesson to others. “But I shall try again at -once,” she said. We shook our head, endeavouring to shake it kindly. -“Currer Bell was only a young girl when she succeeded,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a></span> added. The -injury which Currer Bell did after this fashion was almost equal to that -perpetrated by Jack Sheppard, and yet Currer Bell was not very young -when she wrote.</p> - -<p>She remained with us then for above an hour;—for more than two -probably, though the time was not specially marked by us; and before her -visit was brought to a close she had told us of her engagement with the -curate. Indeed, we believe that the greater part of her little history -as hitherto narrated was made known to us on that occasion. We asked -after her mother early in the interview, and learned that she was not on -this occasion kept waiting at the pastrycook’s shop. Mary had come -alone, making use of some friendly omnibus, of which she had learned the -route. When she told us that she and her mother had come up to London -solely with the view of forwarding her views in her intended profession, -we ventured to ask whether it would not be wiser for them to return to -Cornboro, seeing how improbable it was that she would have matter fit -for the press within any short period. Then she explained that they had -calculated that they would be able to live in London for twelve months, -if they spent nothing except on absolute necessaries. The poor girl -seemed to keep back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a></span> nothing from us. “We have clothes that will carry -us through, and we shall be very careful. I came in an omnibus;—but I -shall walk if you will let me come again.” Then she asked me for advice. -How was she to set about further work with the best chance of turning it -to account?</p> - -<p>It had been altogether the fault of that retired literary gentleman down -in the north, who had obtained what standing he had in the world of -letters by writing about guano and the cattle plague! Divested of all -responsibility, and fearing no further trouble to himself, he had -ventured to tell this girl that her work was full of promise. Promise -means probability, and in this case there was nothing beyond a remote -chance. That she and her mother should have left their little household -gods, and come up to London on such a chance, was a thing terrible to -the mind. But we felt before these two hours were over that we could not -throw her off now. We had become old friends, and there had been that -between us which gave her a positive claim upon our time. She had sat in -our arm-chair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her -hands stretched out, till we, caught by the charm of her unstudied -intimacy, had wheeled round our chair, and had placed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a></span> ourselves, as -nearly as the circumstances would admit, in the same position. The -magnetism had already begun to act upon us. We soon found ourselves -taking it for granted that she was to remain in London and begin another -book. It was impossible to resist her. Before the interview was over, -we, who had been conversant with all these matters before she was born; -we, who had latterly come to regard our own editorial fault as being -chiefly that of personal harshness; we, who had repulsed aspirant -novelists by the score,—we had consented to be a party to the creation, -if not to the actual writing, of this new book!</p> - -<p>It was to be done after this fashion. She was to fabricate a plot, and -to bring it to us, written on two sides of a sheet of letter paper. On -the reverse sides we were to criticise this plot, and prepare -emendations. Then she was to make out skeletons of the men and women who -were afterwards to be clothed with flesh and made alive with blood, and -covered with cuticles. After that she was to arrange her proportions; -and at last, before she began to write the story, she was to describe in -detail such part of it as was to be told in each chapter. On every -advancing wavelet of the work we were to give her our written remarks. -All this we promised to do because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a></span> of the quiver in her lip, and the -alternate tear and sparkle in her eye. “Now that I have found a friend, -I feel sure that I can do it,” she said, as she held our hand tightly -before she left us.</p> - -<p>In about a month, during which she had twice written to us and twice -been answered, she came with her plot. It was the old story, with some -additions and some change. There was matrimony instead of death at the -end, and an old aunt was brought in for the purpose of relenting and -producing an income. We added a few details, feeling as we did so that -we were the very worst of botchers. We doubt now whether the old, sad, -simple story was not the better of the two. Then, after another -lengthened interview, we sent our pupil back to create her skeletons. -When she came with the skeletons we were dear friends and learned to -call her Mary. Then it was that she first sat at our editorial table, -and wrote a love-letter to the curate. It was then mid-winter, wanting -but a few days to Christmas, and Arthur, as she called him, did not like -the cold weather. “He does not say so,” she said, “but I fear he is ill. -Don’t you think there are some people with whom everything is -unfortunate?” She wrote her letter, and had recovered her spirits before -she took her leave.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a></span></p> - -<p>We then proposed to her to bring her mother to dine with us on Christmas -Day. We had made a clean breast of it at home in regard to our -heart-flutterings, and had been met with a suggestion that some kindness -might with propriety be shown to the old lady as well as to the young -one. We had felt grateful to the old lady for not coming to our office -with her daughter, and had at once assented. When we made the suggestion -to Mary there came first a blush over all her face, and then there -followed the well-known smile before the blush was gone. “You’ll all be -dressed fine,” she said. We protested that not a garment would be -changed by any of the family after the decent church-going in the -morning. “Just as I am?” she asked. “Just as you are,” we said, looking -at the dear gray frock, adding some mocking assertion that no possible -combination of millinery could improve her. “And mamma will be just the -same? Then we will come,” she said. We told her an absolute falsehood, -as to some necessity which would take us in a cab to Euston Square on -the afternoon of that Christmas Day, so that we could call and bring -them both to our house without trouble or expense. “You sha’n’t do -anything of the kind,” she said. However, we swore to our -falsehood,—perceiving, as we did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a></span> so, that she did not believe a word -of it; but in the matter of the cab we had our own way.</p> - -<p>We found the mother to be what we had expected,—a weak, ladylike, -lachrymose old lady, endowed with a profound admiration for her -daughter, and so bashful that she could not at all enjoy her -plum-pudding. We think that Mary did enjoy hers thoroughly. She made a -little speech to the mistress of the house, praising ourselves with warm -words and tearful eyes, and immediately won the heart of a new friend. -She allied herself warmly to our daughters, put up with the schoolboy -pleasantries of our sons, and before the evening was over was dressed up -as a ghost for the amusement of some neighbouring children who were -brought in to play snapdragon. Mrs. Gresley, as she drank her tea and -crumbled her bit of cake, seated on a distant sofa, was not so happy, -partly because she remembered her old gown, and partly because our wife -was a stranger to her. Mary had forgotten both circumstances before the -dinner was half over. She was the sweetest ghost that ever was seen. How -pleasant would be our ideas of departed spirits if such ghosts would -visit us frequently!</p> - -<p>They repeated their visits to us not unfrequently during the twelve -months; but as the whole interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a></span> attaching to our intercourse had -reference to circumstances which took place in that editorial room of -ours, it will not be necessary to refer further to the hours, very -pleasant to ourselves, which she spent with us in our domestic life. She -was ever made welcome when she came, and was known by us as a dear, -well-bred, modest, clever little girl. The novel went on. That catalogue -of the skeletons gave us more trouble than all the rest, and many were -the tears which she shed over it, and sad were the misgivings by which -she was afflicted, though never vanquished! How was it to be expected -that a girl of eighteen should portray characters such as she had never -known? In her intercourse with the curate all the intellect had been on -her side. She had loved him because it was requisite to her to love some -one; and now, as she had loved him, she was as true as steel to him. But -there had been almost nothing for her to learn from him. The plan of the -novel went on, and as it did so we became more and more despondent as to -its success. And through it all we knew how contrary it was to our own -judgment to expect, even to dream of, anything but failure. Though we -went on working with her, finding it to be quite impossible to resist -her entreaties, we did tell her from day to day that, even presuming she -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a></span> entitled to hope for ultimate success, she must go through an -apprenticeship of ten years before she could reach it. Then she would -sit silent, repressing her tears, and searching for arguments with which -to support her cause.</p> - -<p>“Working hard is apprenticeship,” she said to us once.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mary; but the work will be more useful, and the apprenticeship -more wholesome, if you will take them for what they are worth.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be dead in ten years,” she said.</p> - -<p>“If you thought so you would not intend to marry Mr. Donne. But even -were it certain that such would be your fate, how can that alter the -state of things? The world would know nothing of that; and if it did, -would the world buy your book out of pity?”</p> - -<p>“I want no one to pity me,” she said; “but I want you to help me.” So we -went on helping her. At the end of four months she had not put pen to -paper on the absolute body of her projected novel; and yet she had -worked daily at it, arranging its future construction.</p> - -<p>During the next month, when we were in the middle of March, a gleam of -real success came to her. We had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a></span> told her frankly that we would publish -nothing of hers in the periodical which we were ourselves conducting. -She had become too dear to us for us not to feel that were we to do so, -we should be doing it rather for her sake than for that of our readers. -But we did procure for her the publication of two short stories -elsewhere. For these she received twelve guineas, and it seemed to her -that she had found an El Dorado of literary wealth. I shall never forget -her ecstasy when she knew that her work would be printed, or her renewed -triumph when the first humble cheque was given into her hands. There are -those who will think that such a triumph, as connected with literature, -must be sordid. For ourselves, we are ready to acknowledge that money -payment for work done is the best and most honest test of success. We -are sure that it is so felt by young barristers and young doctors, and -we do not see why rejoicing on such realisation of long-cherished hope -should be more vile with the literary aspirant than with them. “What do -you think I’ll do first with it?” she said. We thought she meant to send -something to her lover, and we told her so. “I’ll buy mamma a bonnet to -go to church in. I didn’t tell you before, but she hasn’t been these -three Sundays because she hasn’t one fit to be seen.” I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a></span> changed the -cheque for her, and she went off and bought the bonnet.</p> - -<p>Though I was successful for her in regard to the two stories, I could -not go beyond that. We could have filled pages of periodicals with her -writing had we been willing that she should work without remuneration. -She herself was anxious for such work, thinking that it would lead to -something better. But we opposed it, and, indeed, would not permit it, -believing that work so done can be serviceable to none but those who -accept it that pages may be filled without cost.</p> - -<p>During the whole winter, while she was thus working, she was in a state -of alarm about her lover. Her hope was ever that when warm weather came -he would again be well and strong. We know nothing sadder than such hope -founded on such source. For does not the winter follow the summer, and -then again comes the killing spring? At this time she used to read us -passages from his letters, in which he seemed to speak of little but his -own health.</p> - -<p>In her literary ambition he never seemed to have taken part since she -had declared her intention of writing profane novels. As regarded him, -his sole merit to us seemed to be in his truth to her. He told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a></span> her that -in his opinion they two were as much joined together as though the -service of the Church had bound them; but even in saying that he spoke -ever of himself and not of her. Well;—May came, dangerous, doubtful, -deceitful May, and he was worse. Then, for the first time, the dread -word, consumption, passed her lips. It had already passed ours, -mentally, a score of times. We asked her what she herself would wish to -do. Would she desire to go down to Dorsetshire and see him? She thought -awhile, and said that she would wait a little longer.</p> - -<p>The novel went on, and at length, in June, she was writing the actual -words on which, as she thought, so much depended. She had really brought -the story into some shape in the arrangement of her chapters; and -sometimes even I began to hope. There were moments in which with her -hope was almost certainty. Towards the end of June Mr. Donne declared -himself to be better. He was to have a holiday in August, and then he -intended to run up to London and see his betrothed. He still gave -details, which were distressing to us, of his own symptoms; but it was -manifest that he himself was not desponding, and she was governed in her -trust or in her despair altogether by him. But when August came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a></span> the -period of his visit was postponed. The heat had made him weak, and he -was to come in September.</p> - -<p>Early in August we ourselves went away for our annual recreation:—not -that we shoot grouse, or that we have any strong opinion that August and -September are the best months in the year for holiday-making,—but that -everybody does go in August. We ourselves are not specially fond of -August. In many places to which one goes a-touring mosquitoes bite in -that month. The heat, too, prevents one from walking. The inns are all -full, and the railways crowded. April and May are twice pleasanter -months in which to see the world and the country. But fashion is -everything, and no man or woman will stay in town in August for whom -there exists any practicability of leaving it. We went on the -10th,—just as though we had a moor, and one of the last things we did -before our departure was to read and revise the last-written chapter of -Mary’s story.</p> - -<p>About the end of September we returned, and up to that time the lover -had not come to London. Immediately on our return we wrote to Mary, and -the next morning she was with us. She had seated herself on her usual -chair before she spoke, and we had taken her hand asked after herself -and her mother. Then, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a></span> something of mirth in our tone, we demanded -the work which she had done since our departure. “He is dying,” she -replied.</p> - -<p>She did not weep as she spoke. It was not on such occasions as this that -the tears filled her eyes. But there was in her face a look of fixed and -settled misery which convinced us that she at least did not doubt the -truth of her own assertion. We muttered something as to our hope that -she was mistaken. “The doctor, there, has written to tell mamma that it -is so. Here is his letter.” The doctor’s letter was a good letter, -written with more of assurance than doctors can generally allow -themselves to express. “I fear that I am justified in telling you,” said -the doctor, “that it can only be a question of weeks.” We got up and -took her hand. There was not a word to be uttered.</p> - -<p>“I must go to him,” she said, after a pause.</p> - -<p>“Well;—yes. It will be better.”</p> - -<p>“But we have no money.” It must be explained now that offers of slight, -very slight, pecuniary aid had been made by us both to Mary and to her -mother on more than one occasion. These had been refused with adamantine -firmness, but always with something of mirth, or at least of humour, -attached to the refusal. The mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a></span> would simply refer to the daughter, -and Mary would declare that they could manage to see the twelvemonth -through and go back to Cornboro, without becoming absolute beggars. She -would allude to their joint wardrobe, and would confess that there would -not have been a pair of boots between them but for that twelve guineas; -and indeed she seemed to have stretched that modest incoming so as to -cover a legion of purchases. And of these things she was never ashamed -to speak. We think there must have been at least two gray frocks, -because the frock was always clean, and never absolutely shabby. Our -girls at home declared that they had seen three. Of her frock, as it -happened, she never spoke to us, but the new boots and the new gloves, -“and ever so many things that I can’t tell you about, which we really -couldn’t have gone without,” all came out of the twelve guineas. That -she had taken, not only with delight, but with triumph. But pecuniary -assistance from ourselves she had always refused. “It would be a gift,” -she would say.</p> - -<p>“Have it as you like.”</p> - -<p>“But people don’t give other people money.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t they? That’s all you know about the world.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; to beggars. We hope we needn’t come to that.” It was thus that she -always answered us, but always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></span> with something of laughter in her eye, -as though their poverty was a joke. Now, when the demand upon her was -for that which did not concern her personal comfort, which referred to a -matter felt by her to be vitally important, she declared, without a -minute’s hesitation, that she had not money for the journey.</p> - -<p>“Of course you can have money,” we said. “I suppose you will go at -once?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,—at once. That is, in a day or two,—after he shall have -received my letter. Why should I wait?” We sat down to write a cheque, -and she, seeing what we were doing, asked how much it was to be. -“No;—half that will do,” she said. “Mamma will not go. We have talked -it over and decided it. Yes; I know all about that. I am going to see my -lover,—my dying lover; and I have to beg for the money to take me to -him. Of course I am a young girl; but in such a condition am I to stand -upon the ceremony of being taken care of? A housemaid wouldn’t want to -be taken care of at eighteen.” We did exactly as she bade us, and then -attempted to comfort her while the young man went to get money for the -cheque. What consolation was possible? It was simply necessary to admit -with frankness that sorrow had come from which there could be no present -release.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a></span> “Yes,” she said. “Time will cure it,—in a way. One dies in -time, and then of course it is all cured.” “One hears of this kind of -thing often,” she said afterwards, still leaning forward in her chair, -still with something of the old expression in her eyes,—something -almost of humour in spite of her grief; “but it is the girl who dies. -When it is the girl, there isn’t, after all, so much harm done. A man -goes about the world and can shake it off; and then, there are plenty of -girls.” We could not tell her how infinitely more important, to our -thinking, was her life than that of him whom she was going to see now -for the last time; but there did spring up within our mind a feeling, -greatly opposed to that conviction which formerly we had endeavoured to -impress upon herself,—that she was destined to make for herself a -successful career.</p> - -<p>She went, and remained by her lover’s bed-side for three weeks. She -wrote constantly to her mother, and once or twice to ourselves. She -never again allowed herself to entertain a gleam of hope, and she spoke -of her sorrow as a thing accomplished. In her last interview with us she -had hardly alluded to her novel, and in her letters she never mentioned -it. But she did say one word which made us guess what was coming. “You -will find<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a></span> me greatly changed in one thing,” she said; “so much changed -that I need never have troubled you.” The day for her return to London -was twice postponed, but at last she was brought to leave him. Stern -necessity was too strong for her. Let her pinch herself as she might, -she must live down in Dorsetshire,—and could not live on his means, -which were as narrow as her own. She left him; and on the day after her -arrival in London she walked across from Euston Square to our office.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “it is all over. I shall never see him again on this -side of heaven’s gates.” We do not know that we ever saw a tear in her -eyes produced by her own sorrow. She was possessed of some wonderful -strength which seemed to suffice for the bearing of any burden. Then she -paused, and we could only sit silent, with our eyes fixed upon the rug. -“I have made him a promise,” she said at last. Of course we asked her -what was the promise, though at the moment we thought that we knew. “I -will make no more attempt at novel writing.”</p> - -<p>“Such a promise should not have been asked,—or given,” we said -vehemently.</p> - -<p>“It should have been asked,—because he thought it right,” she answered. -“And of course it was given.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a></span> Must he not know better than I do? Is he -not one of God’s ordained priests? In all the world is there one so -bound to obey him as I?” There was nothing to be said for it at such a -moment as that. There is no enthusiasm equal to that produced by a -death-bed parting. “I grieve greatly,” she said, “that you should have -had so much vain labour with a poor girl who can never profit by it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe the labour will have been vain,” we answered, having -altogether changed those views of ours as to the futility of the pursuit -which she had adopted.</p> - -<p>“I have destroyed it all,” she said.</p> - -<p>“What;—burned the novel?”</p> - -<p>“Every scrap of it. I told him that I would do so, and that he should -know that I had done it. Every page was burned after I got home last -night, and then I wrote to him before I went to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you think it wicked that people should write novels?” -we asked.</p> - -<p>“He thinks it to be a misapplication of God’s gifts, and that has been -enough for me. He shall judge for me, but I will not judge for others. -And what does it matter? I do not want to write a novel now.”</p> - -<p>They remained in London till the end of the year for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a></span> which the married -curate had taken their house, and then they returned to Cornboro. We saw -them frequently while they were still in town, and despatched them by -the train to the north just when the winter was beginning. At that time -the young clergyman was still living down in Dorsetshire, but he was -lying in his grave when Christmas came. Mary never saw him again, nor -did she attend his funeral. She wrote to us frequently then, as she did -for years afterwards. “I should have liked to have stood at his grave,” -she said; “but it was a luxury of sorrow that I wished to enjoy, and -they who cannot earn luxuries should not have them. They were going to -manage it for me here, but I knew I was right to refuse it.” Right, -indeed! As far as we knew her, she never moved a single point from what -was right.</p> - -<p>All these things happened many years ago. Mary Gresley, on her return to -Cornboro, apprenticed herself, as it were, to the married curate there, -and called herself, I think, a female Scripture reader. I know that she -spent her days in working hard for the religious aid of the poor around -her. From time to time we endeavoured to instigate her to literary work; -and she answered our letters by sending us wonderful little dialogues -between Tom the Saint and Bob the Sinner. We are in no humour to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a></span> -criticise them now; but we can assert, that though that mode of -religious teaching is most distasteful to us, the literary merit shown -even in such works as these was very manifest. And there came to be -apparent in them a gleam of humour which would sometimes make us think -that she was sitting opposite to us and looking at us, and that she was -Tom the Saint, and that we were Bob the Sinner. We said what we could to -turn her from her chosen path, throwing into our letters all the -eloquence and all the thought of which we were masters: but our -eloquence and our thought were equally in vain.</p> - -<p>At last, when eight years had passed over her head after the death of -Mr. Donne, she married a missionary who was going out to some forlorn -country on the confines of African colonisation; and there she died. We -saw her on board the ship in which she sailed, and before we parted -there had come that tear into her eyes, the old look of supplication on -her lips, and the gleam of mirth across her face. We kissed her -once,—for the first and only time,—as we bade God bless her!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_TURKISH_BATH" id="THE_TURKISH_BATH"></a>THE TURKISH BATH.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a></span></p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/turkish.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>THE TURKISH BATH.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was in the month of August. The world had gone to the moors and the -Rhine, but we were still kept in town by the exigencies of our position. -We had been worked hard during the preceding year, and were not quite as -well as our best friends might have wished us;—and we resolved upon -taking a Turkish bath. This little story records the experience of one -individual man; but our readers, we hope, will, without a grudge, allow -us the use of the editorial we. We doubt whether the story could be told -at all in any other form. We resolved upon taking a Turkish bath, and at -about three o’clock in the day we strutted from the outer to the inner -room of the establishment in that light costume and with that air of -Arab dignity which are peculiar to the place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a></span></p> - -<p>As everybody has not taken a Turkish bath in Jermyn Street, we will give -the shortest possible description of the position. We had entered of -course in the usual way, leaving our hat and our boots and our -“valuables” among the numerous respectable assistants who throng the -approaches; and as we had entered we had observed a stout, middle-aged -gentleman on the other side of the street, clad in vestments somewhat -the worse for wear, and to our eyes particularly noticeable by reason of -the tattered condition of his gloves. A well-to-do man may have no -gloves, or may simply carry in his hands those which appertain to him -rather as a thing of custom than for any use for which he requires them. -But a tattered glove, worn on the hand, is to our eyes the surest sign -of a futile attempt at outer respectability. It is melancholy to us -beyond expression. Our brother editors, we do not doubt, are acquainted -with the tattered glove, and have known the sadness which it produces. -If there be an editor whose heart has not been softened by the feminine -tattered glove, that editor is not our brother. In this instance the -tattered glove was worn by a man; and though the usual indication of -poor circumstances was conveyed, there was nevertheless something jaunty -in the gentleman’s step which preserved him from the desecration of -pity. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a></span> barely saw him, but still were thinking of him as we passed -into the building with the oriental letters on it, and took off our -boots, and pulled out our watch and purse.</p> - -<p>We were of course accommodated with two checked towels; and, having in -vain attempted to show that we were to the manner born by fastening the -larger of them satisfactorily round our own otherwise naked person, had -obtained the assistance of one of those very skilful eastern boys who -glide about the place and create envy by their familiarity with its -mysteries. With an absence of all bashfulness which soon grows upon one, -we had divested ourselves of our ordinary trappings beneath the gaze of -five or six young men lying on surrounding sofas,—among whom we -recognised young Walker of the Treasury, and hereby testify on his -behalf that he looks almost as fine a fellow without his clothes as he -does with them,—and had strutted through the doorway into the -bath-room, trailing our second towel behind us. Having observed the -matter closely in the course of perhaps half-a-dozen visits, we are -prepared to recommend that mode of entry to our young friends as being -at the same time easy and oriental. There are those who wear the second -towel as a shawl, thereby no doubt achieving a certain decency of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a></span> garb; -but this is done to the utter loss of all dignity; and a feminine -appearance is produced, such as is sometimes that of a lady of fifty -looking after her maid-servants at seven o’clock in the morning and -intending to dress again before breakfast. And some there are who carry -it under the arm,—simply as a towel; but these are they who, from -English perversity, wilfully rob the institution of that picturesque -orientalism which should be its greatest charm. A few are able to wear -the article as a turban, and that no doubt should be done by all who are -competent to achieve the position. We have observed that men who can do -so enter the bath-room with an air and are received there with a respect -which no other arrangement of the towel will produce. We have tried -this; but as the turban gets over our eyes, and then falls altogether -off our brow, we have abandoned it. In regard to personal deportment, -depending partly on the step, somewhat on the eye, but chiefly on the -costume, it must be acknowledged that “the attempt and not the deed -confounds us.” It is not every man who can carry a blue towel as a -turban, and look like an Arab in the streets of Cairo, as he walks -slowly down the room in Jermyn Street with his arms crossed on his naked -breast. The attempt and not the deed does confound one shockingly. We,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a></span> -therefore, recommend that the second towel should be trailed. The effect -is good, and there is no difficulty in the trailing which may not be -overcome.</p> - -<p>We had trailed our way into the bath-room, and had slowly walked to one -of those arm-chairs in which it is our custom on such occasions to seat -ourselves and to await sudation. There are marble couches; and if a man -be able to lie on stone for half an hour without a movement beyond that -of clapping his hands, or a sound beyond a hollow-voiced demand for -water, the effect is not bad. But he loses everything if he tosses -himself uneasily on his hard couch, and we acknowledge that our own -elbows are always in the way of our own comfort, and that our bones -become sore. We think that the marble sofas must be intended for the -younger Turks. If a man can stretch himself on stone without suffering -for the best part of an hour,—or, more bravely perhaps, without -appearing to suffer, let him remember that all is not done even then. -Very much will depend on the manner in which he claps his hands, and the -hollowness of the voice in which he calls for water. There should, we -think, be two blows of the palms. One is very weak and proclaims its own -futility. Even to dull London ears it seems at once to want the eastern -tone. We have heard three given<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a></span> effectively, but we think that it -requires much practice; and even when it is perfect, the result is that -of western impatience rather than of eastern gravity. No word should be -pronounced, beyond that one word,—Water. The effect should be as though -the whole mind were so devoted to the sudorific process as to admit of -no extraneous idea. There should seem to be almost an agony in the -effort,—as though the man enduring it, conscious that with success he -would come forth a god, was aware that being as yet but mortal he may -perish in the attempt. Two claps of the hand and a call for water, and -that repeated with an interval of ten minutes, are all the external -signs of life that the young Turkish bather may allow to himself while -he is stretched upon his marble couch.</p> - -<p>We had taken a chair,—well aware that nothing god-like could be thus -achieved, and contented to obtain the larger amount of human comfort. -The chairs are placed two and two, and a custom has grown up,—of which -we scarcely think that the origin has been eastern,—in accordance with -which friends occupying these chairs will spend their time in -conversation. The true devotee to the Turkish bath will, we think, never -speak at all; but when the speaking is low in tone, just something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a></span> -between a whisper and an articulate sound, the slight murmuring hum -produced is not disagreeable. We cannot quite make up our mind whether -this use of the human voice be or be not oriental; but we think that it -adds to the mystery, and upon the whole it gratifies. Let it be -understood, however, that harsh, resonant, clearly-expressed speech is -damnable. The man who talks aloud to his friend about the trivial -affairs of life is selfish, ignorant, unpoetical,—and English in the -very worst sense of the word. Who but an ass proud of his own capacity -for braying would venture to dispel the illusions of a score of bathers -by observing aloud that the House sat till three o’clock that morning?</p> - -<p>But though friends may talk in low voices, a man without a friend will -hardly fall into conversation at the Turkish bath. It is said that our -countrymen are unapt to speak to each other without introduction, and -this inaptitude is certainly not decreased by the fact that two men meet -each other with nothing on but a towel a piece. Finding yourself next to -a man in such a garb you hardly know where to begin. And then there lies -upon you the weight of that necessity of maintaining a certain dignity -of deportment which has undoubtedly grown upon you since you succeeded -in freeing yourself from your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a></span> socks and trousers. For ourselves we have -to admit that the difficulty is much increased by the fact that we are -short-sighted, and are obligated, by the sudorific processes and by the -shampooing and washing that are to come, to leave our spectacles behind -us. The delicious wonder of the place is no doubt increased to us, but -our incapability of discerning aught of those around us in that low -gloomy light is complete. Jones from Friday Street, or even Walker from -the Treasury, is the same to us as one of those Asiatic slaves who -administer to our comfort, and flit about the place with admirable -decorum and self-respect. On this occasion we had barely seated -ourselves, when another bather, with slow, majestic step, came to the -other chair; and, with a manner admirably adapted to the place, -stretching out his naked legs, and throwing back his naked shoulders, -seated himself beside us. We are much given to speculations on the -characters and probable circumstances of those with whom we are brought -in contact. Our editorial duties require that it should be so. How -should we cater for the public did we not observe the public in all its -moods? We thought that we could see at once that this was no ordinary -man, and we may as well aver here, at the beginning of our story, that -subsequent circumstances proved our first conceptions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a></span> to be correct. -The absolute features of the gentleman we did not, indeed, see plainly. -The gloom of the place and our own deficiency of sight forbade it. But -we could discern the thorough man of the world, the traveller who had -seen many climes, the cosmopolitan to whom East and West were alike, in -every motion that he made. We confess that we were anxious for -conversation, and that we struggled within ourselves for an apt subject, -thinking how we might begin. But the apt subject did not occur to us, -and we should have passed that half-hour of repose in silence had not -our companion been more ready than ourselves. “Sir,” said he, turning -round in his seat with a peculiar and captivating grace, “I shall not, I -hope, offend or transgress any rule of politeness by speaking to a -stranger.” There was ease and dignity in his manner, and at the same -time some slight touch of humour which was very charming. I thought that -I detected just a hint of an Irish accent in his tone; but if so the -dear brogue of his country, which is always delightful to me, had been -so nearly banished by intercourse with other tongues as to leave the -matter still a suspicion,—a suspicion, or rather a hope.</p> - -<p>“By no means,” we answered, turning round on our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a></span> left shoulder, but -missing the grace with which he had made his movement.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing,” said he, “to my mind so absurd as that two men -should be seated together for an hour without venturing to open their -mouths because they do not know each other. And what matter does it make -whether a man has his breeches on or is without them?”</p> - -<p>My hope had now become an assurance. As he named the article of clothing -which peculiarly denotes a man he gave a picturesque emphasis to the -word which was certainly Hibernian. Who does not know the dear sound? -And, as a chance companion for a few idle minutes, is there any one so -likely to prove himself agreeable as a well-informed, travelled -Irishman?</p> - -<p>“And yet,” said we, “men do depend much on their outward paraphernalia.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed and they do,” said our friend. “And why? Because they can trust -their tailors when they can’t trust themselves. Give me the man who can -make a speech without any of the accessories of the pulpit, who can -preach what sermon there is in him without a pulpit.” His words were -energetic, but his voice was just suited to the place. Had he spoken -aloud, so that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a></span> others might have heard him, we should have left our -chair, and have retreated to one of the inner and hotter rooms at the -moment. His words were perfectly audible, but he spoke in a fitting -whisper. “It is a part of my creed,” he continued, “that we should never -lose even a quarter of an hour. What a strange mass of human beings one -finds in this city of London!”</p> - -<p>“A mighty maze, but not without a plan,” we replied.</p> - -<p>“Bedad,—and it’s hard enough to find the plan,” said he. It struck me -that after that he rose into a somewhat higher flight of speech, as -though he had remembered and was desirous of dropping his country. It is -the customary and perhaps the only fault of an Irishman. “Whether it be -there or not, we can expatiate free, as the poet says. How -unintelligible is London! New York or Constantinople one can -understand,—or even Paris. One knows what the world is doing in these -cities, and what men desire.”</p> - -<p>“What men desire is nearly the same in all cities,” we remarked,—and -not without truth as we think.</p> - -<p>“Is it money you mane?” he said, again relapsing. “Yes; money, no doubt, -is the grand desideratum,—the ‘to prepon,’ the ‘to kalon’ the ‘to -pan!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> Plato and Pope were evidently at his fingers’ ends. We did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a></span> -conclude from this slight evidence that he was thoroughly imbued with -the works either of the poet or the philosopher; but we hold that for -the ordinary purposes of conversation a superficial knowledge of many -things goes further than an intimacy with one or two. “Money,” continued -he, “is everything, no doubt;—rem—rem; rem, si possis recte, si -non,——; you know the rest. I don’t complain of that. I like money -myself. I know its value. I’ve had it, and,—I’m not ashamed to say it, -Sir,—I’ve been without it.”</p> - -<p>“Our sympathies are completely with you in reference to the latter -position,” we said,—remembering, with a humility that we hope is -natural to us, that we were not always editors.</p> - -<p>“What I complain of is,” said our new friend still whispering, as he -passed his hand over his arms and legs, to learn whether the temperature -of the room was producing its proper effect, “that if a man here in -London have a diamond, or a pair of boots, or any special skill at his -command, he cannot take his article to the proper mart, and obtain for -it the proper price.”</p> - -<p>“Can he do that in Constantinople?” we enquired.</p> - -<p>“Much better and more accurately than he can in London. And so he can in -Paris!” We did not believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a></span> this; but as we were thinking after what -fashion we would express our doubts, he branched off so quickly to a -matter of supply and demand with which we were specially interested, -that we lost the opportunity of arguing the general question. “A man of -letters,” he said, “a capable and an instructed man of letters, can -always get a market for his wares in Paris.”</p> - -<p>“A capable and instructed man of letters will do so in London,” we said, -“as soon as he has proved his claims. He must prove them in Paris before -they can be allowed.”</p> - -<p>“Yes;—he must prove them. By-the-bye, will you have a cheroot?” So -saying, he stretched out his hand, and took from the marble slab beside -him two cheroots which he had placed there. He then proceeded to explain -that he did not bring in his case because of the heat, but that he was -always “muni,”—that was his phrase,—with a couple, in the hope that he -might meet an acquaintance with whom to share them. I accepted his -offer, and when we had walked round the chamber to a light provided for -the purpose, we reseated ourselves. His manner of moving about the place -was so good that I felt it to be a pity that he should ever have a rag -on more than he wore at present. His tobacco, I must own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a></span> did not -appear to me to be of the first class; but then I am not in the habit of -smoking cheroots, and am no judge of the merits of the weed as grown in -the East. “Yes;—a man in Paris must prove his capability; but then how -easily he can do it, if the fact to be proved be there! And how certain -is the mart, if he have the thing to sell!”</p> - -<p>We immediately denied that in this respect there was any difference -between the two capitals, pointing out what we believe to be a -fact,—that in one capital as in the other, there exists, and must ever -exist, extreme difficulty in proving the possession of an art so -difficult to define as capability of writing for the press. “Nothing but -success can prove it,” we said, as we slapped our thigh with an energy -altogether unbecoming our position as a Turkish bather.</p> - -<p>“A man may have a talent then, and he cannot use it till he have used -it! He may possess a diamond, and cannot sell it till he have sold it! -What is a man to do who wishes to engage himself in any of the -multifarious duties of the English press? How is he to begin? In New -York I can tell such a one where to go at once. Let him show in -conversation that he is an educated man, and they will give him a trial -on the staff of any news<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a></span> paper;—they will let him run his venture for -the pages of any magazine. He may write his fingers off here, and not an -editor of them all will read a word that he writes.”</p> - -<p>Here he touched us, and we were indignant. When he spoke of the -magazines we knew that he was wrong. “With newspapers,” we said, “we -imagine it to be impossible that contributions from the outside world -should be looked at; but papers sent to the magazines,—at any rate to -some of them,—are read.”</p> - -<p>“I believe,” said he, “that a little farce is kept up. They keep a boy -to look at a line or two and then return the manuscript. The pages are -filled by the old stock-writers, who are sure of the market let them -send what they will,—padding-mongers who work eight hours a day, and -hardly know what they write about.” We again loudly expressed our -opinion that he was wrong, and that there did exist magazines, the -managers of which were sedulously anxious to obtain the assistance of -what he called literary capacity, wherever they could find it. Sitting -there at the Turkish bath with nothing but a towel round us, we could -not declare ourselves to a perfect stranger, and we think that as a rule -editors should be impalpable;—but we did express our opinion very -strongly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a></span></p> - -<p>“And you believe,” said he, with something of scorn in his voice, “that -if a man who had been writing English for the press in other -countries,—in New York say, or in Doblin,—a man of undoubted capacity, -mind you, were to make the attempt here, in London, he would get a -hearing.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly he would,” said we.</p> - -<p>“And would any editor see him unless he came with an introduction from -some special friend?”</p> - -<p>We paused a moment before we answered this, because the question was to -us one having a very special meaning. Let an editor do his duty with -ever so pure a conscience, let him spend all his days and half his -nights reading manuscripts and holding the balance fairly between the -public and those who wish to feed the public, let his industry be never -so unwearied and his impartiality never so unflinching, still he will, -if possible, avoid the pain of personally repelling those to whom he is -obliged to give an unfavourable answer. But we at the Turkish bath were -quite unknown to the outer world, and might hazard an opinion, as any -stranger might have done. And we have seen very many such visitors as -those to whom our friend alluded; and may, perhaps, see many more.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said we. “An editor might or might not see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a></span> such a gentleman: -but, if pressed, no doubt he would. An English editor would be quite as -likely to do so as a French editor.” This we declared with energy, -having felt ourselves to be ruffled by the assertion that these things -are managed better in Paris or in New York than in London.</p> - -<p>“Then, Mr. ——, would you give me an interview, if I call with a little -manuscript which I have to-morrow morning?” said my Irish friend, -addressing us with a beseeching tone, and calling us by the very name by -which we are known among our neighbours and tradesmen. We felt that -everything was changed between us, and that the man had plunged a dagger -into us.</p> - -<p>Yes; he had plunged a dagger into us. Had we had our clothes on, had we -felt ourselves to possess at the moment our usual form of life, we think -that we could have rebuked him. As it was we could only rise from our -chair, throw away the fag end of the filthy cheroot which he had given -us, and clap our hands half-a-dozen times for the Asiatic to come and -shampoo us. But the Irishman was at our elbow. “You will let me see you -to-morrow?” he said. “My name is Molloy,—Michael Molloy. I have not a -card about me, because my things are outside there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a></span></p> - -<p>“A card would do no good at all,” we said, again clapping our hands for -the shampooer.</p> - -<p>“I may call, then?” said Mr. Michael Molloy.</p> - -<p>“Certainly;—yes, you can call if you please.” Then, having thus -ungraciously acceded to the request made to us, we sat down on the -marble bench and submitted ourselves to the black attendant. During the -whole of the following operation, while the man was pummelling our -breast and poking our ribs, and pinching our toes,—while he was washing -us down afterwards, and reducing us gradually from the warm water to the -cold,—we were thinking of Mr. Michael Molloy, and the manner in which -he had entrapped us into a confidential conversation. The scoundrel must -have plotted it from the very first, must have followed us into the -bath, and taken his seat beside us with a deliberately premeditated -scheme. He was, too, just the man whom we should not have chosen to see -with a worthless magazine article in his hand. We think that we can be -efficacious by letter, but we often feel ourselves to be weak when -brought face to face with our enemies. At that moment our anger was hot -against Mr. Molloy. And yet we were conscious of a something of pride -which mingled with our feelings. It was clear to us that Mr. Molloy was -no ordinary person; and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a></span> did in some degree gratify our feelings that -such a one should have taken so much trouble to encounter us. We had -found him to be a well-informed, pleasant gentleman; and the fact that -he was called Molloy and desired to write for the magazine over which we -presided, could not really be taken as detracting from his merits. There -had doubtless been a fraud committed on us,—a palpable fraud. The man -had extracted assurances from us by a false pretence that he did not -know us. But then the idea, on his part, that anything could be gained -by his doing so, was in itself a compliment to us. That such a man -should take so much trouble to approach us,—one who could quote Horace -and talk about the “to kalon,”—was an acknowledgment of our power. As -we returned to the outer chamber we looked round to see Mr. Molloy in -his usual garments, but he was not as yet there. We waited while we -smoked one of our own cigars, but he came not. He had, so far, gained -his aim; and, as we presumed, preferred to run the risk of too long a -course of hot air to risking his object by seeing us again on that -afternoon. At last we left the building, and are bound to confess that -our mind dwelt much on Mr. Michael Molloy during the remainder of that -evening.</p> - -<p>It might be that after all we should gain much by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a></span> singular mode of -introduction which the man had adopted. He was certainly clever, and if -he could write as well as he could talk his services might be of value. -Punctually at the hour named he was announced, and we did not now for -one moment think of declining the interview. Mr. Molloy had so far -succeeded in his stratagem that we could not now resort to the certainly -not unusual practice of declaring ourselves to be too closely engaged to -see any one, and of sending him word that he should confide to writing -whatever he might have to say to us. It had, too, occurred to us that, -as Mr. Molloy had paid his three shillings and sixpence for the Turkish -bath, he would not prove to be one of that class of visitors whose -appeals to tender-hearted editors are so peculiarly painful. “I am -willing to work day and night for my wife and children; and if you will -use this short paper in your next number it will save us from starvation -for a month! Yes, Sir, from,—starvation!” Who is to resist such an -appeal as that, or to resent it? But the editor knows that he is bound -in honesty to resist it altogether,—so to steel himself against it that -it shall have no effect upon him, at least, as regards the magazine -which is in his hands. And yet if the short thing be only decently -written, if it be not absurdly bad, what harm will its publication do -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a></span> anyone? If the waste,—let us call it waste,—of half-a-dozen pages -will save a family from hunger for a month, will they not be well -wasted? But yet, again, such tenderness is absolutely incompatible with -common honesty,—and equally so with common prudence. We think that our -readers will see the difficulty, and understand how an editor may wish -to avoid those interviews with tattered gloves. But my friend, Mr. -Michael Molloy, had had three and sixpence to spend on a Turkish bath, -had had money wherewith to buy,—certainly, the very vilest of cigars. -We thought of all this as Mr. Michael Molloy was ushered into our room.</p> - -<p>The first thing we saw was the tattered glove; and then we immediately -recognised the stout middle-aged gentleman whom we had seen on the other -side of Jermyn Street as we entered the bathing establishment. It had -never before occurred to us that the two persons were the same, not -though the impression made by the poverty-stricken appearance of the man -in the street had remained distinct upon our mind. The features of the -gentleman we had hardly even yet seen at all. Nevertheless we had known -and distinctly recognised his outward gait and mien, both with and -without his clothes. One tattered glove he now wore, and the other he -carried in his gloved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a></span> hand. As we saw this we were aware at once that -all our preconception had been wrong, that that too common appeal would -be made, and that we must resist it as best we might. There was still a -certain jauntiness in his air as he addressed us. “I hope thin,” said he -as we shook hands with him, “ye’ll not take amiss the little ruse by -which we caught ye.”</p> - -<p>“It was a ruse then, Mr. Molloy?”</p> - -<p>“Divil a doubt o’ that, Mr. Editor.”</p> - -<p>“But you were coming to the Turkish bath independently of our visit -there?”</p> - -<p>“Sorrow a bath I’d’ve cum to at all, only I saw you go into the place. -I’d just three and ninepence in my pocket, and says I to myself, Mick, -me boy, it’s a good investment. There was three and sixpence for them -savages to rub me down, and threepence for the two cheroots from the -little shop round the corner. I wish they’d been better for your sake.”</p> - -<p>It had been a plant from beginning to end, and the “to kalon” and the -half-dozen words from Horace had all been parts of Mr. Molloy’s little -game! And how well he had played it! The outward trappings of the man as -we now saw them were poor and mean, and he was mean-looking too, because -of his trappings. But there had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a></span> been nothing mean about him as he -strutted along with a blue-checked towel round his body. How well the -fellow had understood it all, and had known his own capacity! “And now -that you are here, Mr. Molloy, what can we do for you?” we said with as -pleasant a smile as we were able to assume. Of course we knew what was -to follow. Out came the roll of paper of which we had already seen the -end projecting from his breast pocket, and we were assured that we -should find the contents of it exactly the thing for our magazine. There -is no longer any diffidence in such matters,—no reticence in preferring -claims and singing one’s own praises. All that has gone by since -competitive examination has become the order of the day. No man, no -woman, no girl, no boy, hesitates now to declare his or her own -excellence and capability. “It’s just a short thing on social manners,” -said Mr. Molloy, “and if ye’ll be so good as to cast ye’r eye over it, I -think ye’ll find I’ve hit the nail on the head. ‘The Five-o’clock -Tay-table’ is what I’ve called it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!—‘The Five-o’clock Tea-table.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t ye like the name?”</p> - -<p>“About social manners, is it?”</p> - -<p>“Just a rap on the knuckles for some of ’em. Sharp,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a></span> short, and -decisive! I don’t doubt but what ye’ll like it.”</p> - -<p>To declare, as though by instinct, that that was not the kind of thing -we wanted, was as much a matter of course as it is for a man buying a -horse to say that he does not like the brute’s legs or that he falls -away in his quarters. And Mr. Molloy treated our objection just as does -the horse-dealer those of his customers. He assured us with a -smile,—with a smile behind which we could see the craving eagerness of -his heart,—that his little article was just the thing for us. Our -immediate answer was of course ready. If he would leave the paper with -us, we would look at it and return it if it did not seem to suit us.</p> - -<p>There is a half-promise about this reply which too often produces a -false satisfaction in the breast of a beginner. With such a one it is -the second interview which is to be dreaded. But my friend Mr. Molloy -was not new to the work, and was aware that if possible he should make -further use of the occasion which he had earned for himself at so -considerable a cost. “Ye’ll read it;—will ye?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly. We’ll read it certainly.”</p> - -<p>“And ye’ll use it if ye can?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a></span></p> - -<p>“As to that, Mr. Molloy, we can say nothing. We’ve got to look solely to -the interest of the periodical.”</p> - -<p>“And, sure, what can ye do better for the periodical than print a paper -like that, which there is not a lady at the West End of the town won’t -be certain to read?”</p> - -<p>“At any rate we’ll look at it, Mr. Molloy,” said we, standing up from -our chair.</p> - -<p>But still he hesitated in his going,—and did not go. “I’m a married -man, Mr. ——,” he said. We simply bowed our head at the announcement. -“I wish you could see Mrs. Molloy,” he added. We murmured something as -to the pleasure it would give us to make the acquaintance of so -estimable a lady. “There isn’t a betther woman than herself this side of -heaven, though I say it that oughtn’t,” said he. “And we’ve three young -ones.” We knew the argument that was coming;—knew it so well, and yet -were so unable to accept it as any argument! “Sit down one moment, Mr. -----,” he continued, “till I tell you a short story.” We pleaded our -engagements, averring that they were peculiarly heavy at that moment. -“Sure, and we know what that manes,” said Mr. Molloy. “It’s just,—walk -out of this as quick as you came in. It’s that what it manes.” And yet -as he spoke there was a twinkle of humour in his eye that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a></span> was almost -irresistible; and we ourselves,—we could not forbear to smile. When we -smiled we knew that we were lost. “Come, now, Mr. Editor; when you think -how much it cost me to get the inthroduction, you’ll listen to me for -five minutes any way.”</p> - -<p>“We will listen to you,” we said, resuming our chair,—remembering as we -did so the three-and-sixpence, the two cigars, the “to kalon,” the line -from Pope, and the half line from Horace. The man had taken much trouble -with the view of placing himself where he now was. When we had been all -but naked together I had taken him to be the superior of the two, and -what were we that we should refuse him an interview simply because he -had wares to sell which we should only be too willing to buy at his -price if they were fit for our use?</p> - -<p>Then he told his tale. As for Paris, Constantinople, and New York, he -frankly admitted that he knew nothing of those capitals. When we -reminded him, with some ill-nature as we thought afterwards, that he had -assumed an intimacy with the current literature of the three cities, he -told us that such remarks were “just the sparkling gims of conversation -in which a man shouldn’t expect to find rale diamonds.” Of “Doblin” he -knew every street, every lane, every newspaper, every editor; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a></span> the -poverty, dependence, and general poorness of a provincial press had -crushed him, and he had boldly resolved to try a fight in the -“methropolis of litherature.” He referred us to the managers of the -“Boyne Bouncer,” the “Clontarf Chronicle,” the “Donnybrook Debater,” and -the “Echoes of Erin,” assuring us that we should find him to be as well -esteemed as known in the offices of those widely-circulated -publications. His reading he told us was unbounded, and the pen was as -ready to his hand as is the plough to the hand of the husbandman. Did we -not think it a noble ambition in him thus to throw himself into the -great “areanay,” as he called it, and try his fortune in the -“methropolis of litherature?” He paused for a reply, and we were driven -to acknowledge that whatever might be said of our friend’s prudence, his -courage was undoubted. “I’ve got it here,” said he. “I’ve got it all -here.” And he touched his right breast with the fingers of his left -hand, which still wore the tattered glove.</p> - -<p>He had succeeded in moving us. “Mr. Molloy,” we said, “we’ll read your -paper, and we’ll then do the best we can for you. We must tell you -fairly that we hardly like your subject, but if the writing be good you -can try your hand at something else.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a></span></p> - -<p>“Sure there’s nothing under the sun I won’t write about at your -bidding.”</p> - -<p>“If we can be of service to you, Mr. Molloy, we will.” Then the editor -broke down, and the man spoke to the man. “I need not tell you, Mr. -Molloy, that the heart of one man of letters always warms to another.”</p> - -<p>“It was because I knew ye was of that sort that I followed ye in -yonder,” he said, with a tear in his eye.</p> - -<p>The butter-boat of benevolence was in our hand, and we proceeded to pour -out its contents freely. It is a vessel which an editor should lock up -carefully; and, should he lose the key, he will not be the worse for the -loss. We need not repeat here all the pretty things that we said to him, -explaining to him from a full heart with how much agony we were often -compelled to resist the entreaties of literary suppliants, declaring to -him how we had longed to publish tons of manuscript,—simply in order -that we might give pleasure to those who brought them to us. We told him -how accessible we were to a woman’s tear, to a man’s struggle, to a -girl’s face, and assured him of the daily wounds which were inflicted on -ourselves by the impossibility of reconciling our duties with our -sympathies. “Bedad, thin,” said Mr. Molloy, grasping our hand, “you’ll -find none of that difficulty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a></span> wid me. If you’ll sympathise like a man, -I’ll work for you like a horse.” We assured him that we would, really -thinking it probable that he might do some useful work for the magazine; -and then we again stood up waiting for his departure.</p> - -<p>“Now I’ll tell ye a plain truth,” said he, “and ye may do just as ye -plaise about it. There isn’t an ounce of tay or a pound of mait along -with Mrs. Molloy this moment; and, what’s more, there isn’t a shilling -between us to buy it. I never begged in my life;—not yet. But if you -can advance me a sovereign on that manuscript it will save me from -taking the coat on my back to a pawnbroker’s shop for whatever it’ll -fetch there.” We paused a moment as we thought of it all, and then we -handed him the coin for which he asked us. If the manuscript should be -worthless the loss would be our own. We would not grudge a slice from -the wholesome home-made loaf after we had used the butter-boat of -benevolence. “It don’t become me,” said Mr. Molloy, “to thank you for -such a thrifle as a loan of twenty shillings; but I’ll never forget the -feeling that has made you listen to me, and that too after I had been -rather down on you at thim baths.” We gave him a kindly nod of the head, -and then he took his departure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a></span></p> - -<p>“Ye’ll see me again anyways?” he said, and we promised that we would.</p> - -<p>We were anxious enough about the manuscript, but we could not examine it -at that moment. When our office work was done we walked home with the -roll in our pocket, speculating as we went on the probable character of -Mr. Molloy. We still believed in him,—still believed in him in spite of -the manner in which he had descended in his language, and had fallen -into a natural flow of words which alone would not have given much -promise of him as a man of letters. But a human being, in regard to his -power of production, is the reverse of a rope. He is as strong as his -strongest part, and remembering the effect which Molloy’s words had had -upon us at the Turkish bath, we still thought that there must be -something in him. If so, how pleasant would it be to us to place such a -man on his legs,—modestly on his legs, so that he might earn for his -wife and bairns that meat and tea which he had told us that they were -now lacking. An editor is always striving to place some one modestly on -his legs in literature,—on his or her,—striving, and alas! so often -failing. Here had come a man in regard to whom, as I walked home with -his manuscript in my pocket, I did feel rather sanguine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a></span></p> - -<p>Of all the rubbish that I ever read in my life, that paper on the -Five-o’clock Tea-table was, I think, the worst. It was not only vulgar, -foolish, unconnected, and meaningless; but it was also ungrammatical and -unintelligible even in regard to the wording of it. The very spelling -was defective. The paper was one with which no editor, sub-editor, or -reader would have found it necessary to go beyond the first ten lines -before he would have known that to print it would have been quite out of -the question. We went through with it because of our interest in the -man; but as it was in the beginning, so it was to the end,—a farrago of -wretched nonsense, so bad that no one, without experience in such -matters, would believe it possible that even the writer should desire -the publication of it! It seemed to us to be impossible that Mr. Molloy -should ever have written a word for those Hibernian periodicals which he -had named to us. He had got our sovereign; and with that, as far as we -were concerned, there must be an end of Mr. Molloy. We doubted even -whether he would come for his own manuscript.</p> - -<p>But he came. He came exactly at the hour appointed, and when we looked -at his face we felt convinced that he did not doubt his own success. -There was an air of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a></span> expectant triumph about him which dismayed us. It -was clear enough that he was confident that he should take away with him -the full price of his article, after deducting the sovereign which he -had borrowed. “You like it thin,” he said, before we had been able to -compose our features to a proper form for the necessary announcement.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Molloy,” we said, “it will not do. You must believe us that it will -not do.”</p> - -<p>“Not do?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed. We need not explain further;—but,—but,—you had really -better turn your hand to some other occupation.”</p> - -<p>“Some other occupa-ation!” he exclaimed, opening wide his eyes, and -holding up both his hands.</p> - -<p>“Indeed we think so, Mr. Molloy.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ve read it?”</p> - -<p>“Every word of it;—on our honour.”</p> - -<p>“And you won’t have it?”</p> - -<p>“Well;—no, Mr. Molloy, certainly we cannot take it.”</p> - -<p>“Ye reject my article on the Five-o’clock Tay-table!” Looking into his -face as he spoke, we could not but be certain that its rejection was to -him as astonishing as would have been its acceptance to the readers of -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a></span> magazine. He put his hand up to his head and stood wondering. “I -suppose ye’d better choose your own subject for yourself,” he said, as -though by this great surrender on his own part he was getting rid of all -the difficulty on ours.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Molloy,” we began, “we may as well be candid with you——”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, “I’ve taken such a liking to you -there’s nothing I won’t do to plaise ye. I’ll just put it in my pocket, -and begin another for ye as soon as the children have had their bit of -dinner.” At last we did succeed, or thought that we succeeded, in making -him understand that we regarded the case as being altogether hopeless, -and were convinced that it was beyond his powers to serve us. “And I’m -to be turned off like that,” he said, bursting into open tears as he -threw himself into a chair and hid his face upon the table. “Ah! wirra, -wirra, what’ll I do at all? Sure, and didn’t I think it was fixed as -firm between us as the Nelson monument? When ye handselled me with the -money, didn’t I think it was as good as done and done?” I begged him not -to regard the money, assuring him that he was welcome to the sovereign. -“There’s my wife’ll be brought to bed any day,” he went on to say, “and -not a ha’porth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a></span> of anything ready for it! ’Deed, thin, and the world’s -hard. The world’s very hard!” And this was he who had talked to me about -Constantinople and New York at the baths, and had made me believe that -he was a well-informed, well-to-do man of the world!</p> - -<p>Even now we did not suspect that he was lying to us. Why he should be -such as he seemed to be was a mystery; but even yet we believed in him -after a fashion. That he was sorely disappointed and broken-hearted -because of his wife, was so evident to us, that we offered him another -sovereign, regarding it as the proper price of that butter-boat of -benevolence which we had permitted ourselves to use. But he repudiated -our offer. “I’ve never begged,” said he, “and, for myself, I’d sooner -starve. And Mary Jane would sooner starve than I should beg. It will be -best for us both to put an end to ourselves and to have done with it.” -This was very melancholy; and as he lay with his head upon the table, we -did not see how we were to induce him to leave us.</p> - -<p>“You’d better take the sovereign,—just for the present,” we said.</p> - -<p>“Niver!” said he, looking up for a moment, “niver!” And still he -continued to sob. About this period of the interview, which before it -was ended was a very long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a></span> interview, we ourselves made a suggestion the -imprudence of which we afterwards acknowledged to ourselves. We offered -to go to his lodgings and see his wife and children. Though the man -could not write a good magazine article, yet he might be a very fitting -object for our own personal kindness. And the more we saw of the man, -the more we liked him,—in spite of his incapacity. “The place is so -poor,” he said, objecting to our offer. After what had passed between -us, we felt that that could be no reason against our visit, and we began -for a moment to fear that he was deceiving us. “Not yet,” he cried, “not -quite yet. I will try once again;—once again. You will let me see you -once more?”</p> - -<p>“And you will take the other sovereign,” we said,—trying him. He should -have had the other sovereign if he would have taken it; but we confess -that had he done so then we should have regarded him as an impostor. But -he did not take it, and left us in utter ignorance as to his true -character.</p> - -<p>After an interval of three days he came again, and there was exactly the -same appearance. He wore the same tattered gloves. He had not pawned his -coat. There was the same hat,—shabby when observed closely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a></span> but still -carrying a decent appearance when not minutely examined. In his face -there was no sign of want, and at moments there was a cheeriness about -him which was almost refreshing. “I’ve got a something this time that I -think ye must like,—unless you’re harder to plaise than Rhadhamanthus.” -So saying, he tendered me another roll of paper, which I at once opened, -intending to read the first page of it. The essay was entitled the -“Church of England;—a Question for the People.” It was handed to me as -having been written within the last three days; and, from its bulk, -might have afforded fair work for a fortnight to a writer accustomed to -treat of subjects of such weight. As we had expected, the first page was -unintelligible, absurd, and farcical. We began to be angry with -ourselves for having placed ourselves in such a connection with a man so -utterly unable to do that which he pretended to do. “I think I’ve hit it -off now,” said he, watching our face as we were reading.</p> - -<p>The reader need not be troubled with a minute narrative of the -circumstances as they occurred during the remainder of the interview. -What had happened before was repeated very closely. He wondered, he -remonstrated, he complained, and he wept. He talked of his wife and -family, and talked as though up to this last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a></span> moment he had felt -confident of success. Judging from his face as he entered the room, we -did not doubt but that he had been confident. His subsequent despair was -unbounded, and we then renewed our offer to call on his wife. After some -hesitation he gave us an address in Hoxton, begging us to come after -seven in the evening if it were possible. He again declined the offer of -money, and left us, understanding that we would visit his wife on the -following evening. “You are quite sure about the manuscript?” he said as -he left us. We replied that we were quite sure.</p> - -<p>On the following day we dined early at our club and walked in the -evening to the address which Mr. Molloy had given us in Hoxton. It was a -fine evening in August, and our walk made us very warm. The street named -was a decent little street, decent as far as cleanliness and newness -could make it; but there was a melancholy sameness about it, and an -apparent absence of object, which would have been very depressing to our -own spirits. It led nowhither, and had been erected solely with the view -of accommodating decent people with small incomes. We at once priced the -houses in our mind at ten and sixpence a week, and believed them to be -inhabited by pianoforte-tuners, coach-builders, firemen, and -public-office<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a></span> messengers. There was no squalor about the place, but it -was melancholy, light-coloured and depressive. We made our way to No. -14, and finding the door open entered the passage. “Come in,” cried the -voice of our friend; and in the little front parlour we found him seated -with a child on each knee, while a winning little girl of about twelve -was sitting in a corner of the room, mending her stockings. The room -itself and the appearance of all around us were the very opposite of -what we had expected. Everything no doubt was plain,—was, in a certain -sense, poor; but nothing was poverty-stricken. The children were -decently clothed and apparently were well fed. Mr. Molloy himself, when -he saw me, had that twinkle of humour in his eye which I had before -observed, and seemed to be afflicted at the moment with none of that -extreme agony which he had exhibited more than once in our presence. -“Please, Sir, mother aint in from the hospital,—not yet,” said the -little girl, rising up from her chair; but it’s past seven and she won’t -be long. “This announcement created some surprise. We had indeed heard -that of Mrs. Molloy which might make it very expedient that she should -seek the accommodation of an hospital, but we could not understand that -in such circumstances she should be able to come home regularly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a></span> at -seven o’clock in the evening. Then there was a twinkle in our friend -Molloy’s eye which almost made us think for the moment that we had been -made the subject of some, hitherto unintelligible, hoax. And yet there -had been the man at the baths in Jermyn Street, and the two manuscripts -had been in our hands, and the man had wept as no man weeps for a joke. -“You would come, you know,” said Mr. Molloy, who had now put down the -two bairns and had risen from his seat to greet us.</p> - -<p>“We are glad to see you so comfortable,” we replied.</p> - -<p>“Father is quite comfortable, Sir,” said the little girl. We looked into -Mr. Molloy’s face and saw nothing but the twinkle in the eye. We had -certainly been “done” by the most elaborate hoax that had ever been -perpetrated. We did not regret the sovereign so much as those -outpourings from the butter-boat of benevolence of which we felt that we -had been cheated. “Here’s mother,” said the girl running to the door. -Mr. Molloy stood grinning in the middle of the room with the youngest -child again in his arms. He did not seem to be in the least ashamed of -what he had done, and even at that moment conveyed to us more of liking -for his affection for the little boy than of anger for the abominable -prank that he had played us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a></span></p> - -<p>That he had lied throughout was evident as soon as we saw Mrs. Molloy. -Whatever ailment might have made it necessary that she should visit the -hospital, it was not one which could interfere at all with her power of -going and returning. She was a strong hearty-looking woman of about -forty, with that mixture in her face of practical kindness with severity -in details which we often see in strong-minded women who are forced to -take upon themselves the management and government of those around them. -She courtesied, and took off her bonnet and shawl, and put a bottle into -a cupboard, as she addressed us. “Mick said as you was coming, Sir, and -I’m sure we is glad to see you;—only sorry for the trouble, Sir.”</p> - -<p>We were so completely in the dark that we hardly knew how to be civil to -her,—hardly knew whether we ought to be civil to her or not. “We don’t -quite understand why we’ve been brought here,” we said, endeavouring to -maintain, at any rate a tone of good-humour. He was still embracing the -little boy, but there had now come a gleam of fun across his whole -countenance, and he seemed to be almost shaking his sides with laughter. -“Your husband represented himself as being in distress,” we said -gravely. We were restrained by a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a></span> delicacy from informing the -woman of the kind of distress to which Mr. Molloy had especially -alluded,—most falsely.</p> - -<p>“Lord love you, Sir,” said the woman, “just step in here.” Then she led -us into a little back room in which there was a bedstead, and an old -writing-desk or escritoire, covered with papers. Her story was soon -told. Her husband was a madman.</p> - -<p>“Mad!” we said, preparing for escape from what might be to us most -serious peril.</p> - -<p>“He wouldn’t hurt a mouse,” said Mrs. Molloy. “As for the children, he’s -that good to them, there aint a young woman in all London that’d be -better at handling ’em.” Then we heard her story, in which it appeared -to us that downright affection for the man was the predominant -characteristic. She herself was, as she told us, head day nurse at Saint -Patrick’s Hospital, going there every morning at eight, and remaining -till six or seven. For these services she received thirty shillings a -week and her board, and she spoke of herself and her husband as being -altogether removed from pecuniary distress. Indeed, while the money part -of the question was being discussed, she opened a little drawer in the -desk and handed us back our sovereign, almost without an observation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a></span> -Molloy himself had “come of decent people.” On this point she insisted -very often, and gave us to understand that he was at this moment in -receipt of a pension of a hundred a year from his family. He had been -well educated, she said, having been at Trinity College, Dublin, till he -had been forced to leave his university for some slight, but repeated -irregularity. Early in life he had proclaimed his passion for the press, -and when he and she were married absolutely was earning a living in -Dublin by some use of the scissors and paste-pot. The whole tenor of his -career I could not learn, though Mrs. Molloy would have told us -everything had time allowed. Even during the years of his sanity in -Dublin he had only been half-sane, treating all the world around him -with the effusions of his terribly fertile pen. “He’ll write all night -if I’ll let him have a candle,” said Mrs. Molloy. We asked her why she -did let him have a candle, and made some enquiry as to the family -expenditure in paper. The paper, she said, was given to him from the -office of a newspaper which she would not name, and which Molloy visited -regularly every day. “There aint a man in all London works harder,” said -Mrs. Molloy. “He is mad. I don’t say nothing against it. But there is -some of it so beautiful, I wonder they don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a></span> print it.” This was the -only word she spoke with which we could not agree. “Ah, Sir,” said she; -“you haven’t seen his poetry!” We were obliged to tell her that seeing -poetry was the bane of our existence.</p> - -<p>There was an easy absence of sham about this woman, and an acceptance of -life as it had come to her, which delighted us. She complained of -nothing, and was only anxious to explain the little eccentricities of -her husband. When we alluded to some of his marvellously untrue -assertions, she stopped us at once. “He do lie,” she said. “Certainly he -do. How he makes them all out is wonderful. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” -It was evident to us that she not only loved her husband, but admired -him. She showed us heaps of manuscript with which the old drawers were -crammed; and yet that paper on the Church of England had been new work, -done expressly for us.</p> - -<p>When the story had been told we went back to him, and he received us -with a smile. “Good-bye, Molloy,” we said. “Good-bye to you, Sir,” he -replied, shaking hands with us. We looked at him closely, and could -hardly believe that it was the man who had sat by us at the Turkish -bath.</p> - -<p>He never troubled us again or came to our office, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a></span> we have often -called on him, and have found that others of our class do the same. We -have even helped to supply him with the paper which he continues to -use,—we presume for the benefit of other editors.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ill_094.jpg" width="250" height="140" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="JOSEPHINE_DE_MONTMORENCI" id="JOSEPHINE_DE_MONTMORENCI"></a>JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a></span></p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/josephine.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE little story which we are about to relate refers to circumstances -which occurred some years ago, and we desire therefore, that all readers -may avoid the fault of connecting the personages of the tale,—either -the editor who suffered so much, and who behaved, we think, so well, or -the ladies with whom he was concerned,—with any editor or with any -ladies known to such readers either personally or by name. For though -the story as told is a true story, we who tell it have used such craft -in the telling, that we defy the most astute to fix the time or to -recognise the characters. It will be sufficient if the curious will -accept it as a fact that at some date since magazines became common in -the land, a certain editor, sitting in his office, came upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a></span> the -perusal of the following letter, addressed to him by name:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“19, King-Charles Street,<br /> -<br /> -“1st May, 18—.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I think that literature needs no introduction, and, judging of you -by the character which you have made for yourself in its paths, I -do not doubt but you will feel as I do. I shall therefore write to -you without reserve. I am a lady not possessing that modesty which -should make me hold a low opinion of my own talents, and equally -free from that feeling of self-belittlement which induces so many -to speak humbly while they think proudly of their own acquirements. -Though I am still young, I have written much for the press, and I -believe I may boast that I have sometimes done so successfully. -Hitherto I have kept back my name, but I hope soon to be allowed to -see it on the title-page of a book which shall not shame me.</p> - -<p>“My object in troubling you is to announce the fact, agreeable -enough to myself, that I have just completed a novel in three -volumes, and to suggest to you that it should make its first -appearance to the world in the pages of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a></span> magazine under your -control. I will frankly tell you that I am not myself fond of this -mode of publication; but Messrs. X., Y., Z., of Paternoster Row, -with whom you are doubtless acquainted, have assured me that such -will be the better course. In these matters one is still terribly -subject to the tyranny of the publishers, who surely of all -cormorants are the most greedy, and of all tyrants are the most -arrogant. Though I have never seen you, I know you too well to -suspect for a moment that my words will ever be repeated to my -respectable friends in the Row.</p> - -<p>“Shall I wait upon you with my MS.,—or will you call for it? Or -perhaps it may be better that I should send it to you. Young ladies -should not run about,—even after editors; and it might be so -probable that I should not find you at home. Messrs. X., Y., and Z. -have read the MS.,—or more probably the young man whom they keep -for the purpose has done so,—and the nod of approval has been -vouchsafed. Perhaps this may suffice; but if a second examination -be needful, the work is at your service.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Yours faithfully, and in hopes of friendly relations,<br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Josephine de Montmorenci</span>.<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I am English, though my unfortunate name will sound French in your -ears.”</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a></span></p> - -<p>For facility in the telling of our story we will call this especial -editor Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown’s first feeling on reading the letter was -decidedly averse to the writer. But such is always the feeling of -editors to would-be contributors, though contributions are the very food -on which an editor must live. But Mr. Brown was an unmarried man, who -loved the rustle of feminine apparel, who delighted in the brightness of -a woman’s eye when it would be bright for him, and was not indifferent -to the touch of a woman’s hand. As editors go, or went then, he knew his -business, and was not wont to deluge his pages with weak feminine ware -in return for smiles and flattering speeches,—as editors have done -before now; but still he liked an adventure, and was perhaps afflicted -by some slight flaw of judgment, in consequence of which the words of -pretty women found with him something of preponderating favour. Who is -there that will think evil of him because it was so?</p> - -<p>He read the letter a second time, and did not send that curt, -heart-rending answer which is so common to editors,—“The editor’s -compliments and thanks, but his stock of novels is at present so great -that he cannot hope to find room for the work which has been so kindly -suggested.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a></span></p> - -<p>Of King-Charles Street, Brown could not remember that he had ever heard, -and he looked it out at once in the Directory. There was a King-Charles -Street in Camden Town, at No. 19 of which street it was stated that a -Mr. Puffle resided. But this told him nothing. Josephine de Montmorenci -might reside with Mrs. Puffle in Camden Town, and yet write a good -novel,—or be a very pretty girl. And there was a something in the tone -of the letter which made him think that the writer was no ordinary -person. She wrote with confidence. She asked no favour. And then she -declared that Messrs. X., Y., Z., with whom Mr. Brown was intimate, had -read and approved her novel. Before he answered the note he would call -in the Row and ask a question or two.</p> - -<p>He did call, and saw Mr. Z. Mr. Z. remembered well that the MS. had been -in their house. He rather thought that X., who was out of town, had seen -Miss Montmorenci,—perhaps on more than one occasion. The novel had been -read, and,—well, Mr. Z. would not quite say approved; but it had been -thought that there was a good deal in it. “I think I remember X. telling -me that she was an uncommon pretty young woman,” said Z.,—“and there is -some mystery about her. I didn’t see her myself, but I am sure there was -a mystery.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a></span> Mr. Brown made up his mind that he would, at any rate, see -the MS.</p> - -<p>He felt disposed to go at once to Camden Town, but still had fears that -in doing so he might seem to make himself too common. There are so many -things of which an editor is required to think! It is almost essential -that they who are ambitious of serving under him should believe that he -is enveloped in MSS. from morning to night,—that he cannot call an hour -his own,—that he is always bringing out that periodical of his in a -frenzy of mental exertion,—that he is to be approached only with -difficulty,—and that a call from him is a visit from a god. Mr. Brown -was a Jupiter, willing enough on occasions to go a little out of his way -after some literary Leda, or even on behalf of a Danae desirous of a -price for her compositions;—but he was obliged to acknowledge to -himself that the occasion had not as yet arisen. So he wrote to the -young lady as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“Office of the Olympus Magazine,<br /> -<br /> -“4th May, 18—.<br /> -</p> - -<p>“The Editor presents his compliments to Miss de Montmorenci, and -will be very happy to see her MS. Perhaps she will send it to the -above address. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a></span> Editor has seen Mr. Z., of Paternoster Row, who -speaks highly of the work. A novel, however, may be very clever and -yet hardly suit a magazine. Should it be accepted by the ‘Olympus,’ -some time must elapse before it appears. The Editor would be very -happy to see Miss de Montmorenci if it would suit her to call any -Friday between the hours of two and three.” </p></div> - -<p>When the note was written Mr. Brown felt that it was cold;—but then it -behoves an editor to be cold. A gushing editor would ruin any -publication within six months. Young women are very nice; pretty young -women are especially nice; and of all pretty young women, clever young -women who write novels are perhaps as nice as any;—but to an editor -they are dangerous. Mr. Brown was at this time about forty, and had had -his experiences. The letter was cold, but he was afraid to make it -warmer. It was sent;—and when he received the following answer, it may -fairly be said that his editorial hair stood on end:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Brown</span>,</p> - -<p>“I hate you and your compliments. That sort of communication means -nothing, and I won’t send you my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a></span> MS. unless you are more in -earnest about it. I know the way in which rolls of paper are shoved -into pigeon-holes and left there till they are musty, while the -writers’ hearts are being broken. My heart may be broken some day, -but not in that way.</p> - -<p>“I won’t come to you between two and three on Friday. It sounds a -great deal too like a doctor’s appointment, and I don’t think much -of you if you are only at your work one hour in the week. Indeed, I -won’t go to you at all. If an interview is necessary you can come -here. But I don’t know that it will be necessary.</p> - -<p>“Old X. is a fool and knows nothing about it. My own approval is to -me very much more than his. I don’t suppose he’d know the inside of -a book if he saw it. I have given the very best that is in me to my -work, and I know that it is good. Even should you say that it is -not I shall not believe you. But I don’t think you will say so, -because I believe you to be in truth a clever fellow in spite of -your ‘compliments’ and your ‘two and three o’clock on a Friday.’</p> - -<p>“If you want to see my MS., say so with some earnestness, and it -shall be conveyed to you. And please to say how much I shall be -paid for it, for I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a></span> as poor as Job. And name a date. I won’t be -put off with your ‘some time must elapse.’ It shall see the light, -or, at least, a part of it, within six months. That is my -intention. And don’t talk nonsense to me about clever novels not -suiting magazines,—unless you mean that as an excuse for -publishing so many stupid ones as you do.</p> - -<p>“You will see that I am frank; but I really do mean what I say. I -want it to come out in the ‘Olympus;’ and if we can I shall be so -happy to come to terms with you.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 30%;">“Yours as I find you,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Josephine de Montmorenci</span>.”<br /> -</p> -<p> -<small>“Thursday—King-Charles Street.”</small> -</p></div> - -<p>This was an epistle to startle an editor as coming from a young lady; -but yet there was something in it that seemed to imply strength. Before -answering it Mr. Brown did a thing which he must be presumed to have -done as man and not as editor. He walked off to King-Charles Street in -Camden Town, and looked at the house. It was a nice little street, very -quiet, quite genteel, completely made up with what we vaguely call -gentlemen’s houses, with two windows to each drawing-room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a></span> and with a -balcony to some of them, the prettiest balcony in the street belonging -to No. 19, near the park, and equally removed from poverty and -splendour. Brown walked down the street, on the opposite side, towards -the park, and looked up at the house. He intended to walk at once -homewards, across the park, to his own little home in St. John’s Wood -Road; but when he had passed half a street away from the Puffle -residence, he turned to have another look, and retraced his steps. As he -passed the door it was opened, and there appeared upon the steps,—one -of the prettiest little women he had ever seen in his life. She was -dressed for walking, with that jaunty, broad, open bonnet which women -then wore, and seemed, as some women do seem, to be an amalgam of -softness, prettiness, archness, fun, and tenderness,—and she carried a -tiny blue parasol. She was fair, gray-eyed, dimpled, all alive, and -dressed so nicely and yet simply, that Mr. Brown was carried away for -the moment by a feeling that he would like to publish her novel, let it -be what it might. And he heard her speak. “Charles,” she said, “you -sha’n’t smoke.” Our editor could, of course, only pass on, and had not -an opportunity of even seeing Charles. At the corner of the street he -turned round and saw them walking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a></span> the other way. Josephine was leaning -on Charles’s arm. She had, however, distinctly avowed herself to be a -young lady,—in other words, an unmarried woman. There was, no doubt, a -mystery, and Mr. Brown felt it to be incumbent on him to fathom it. His -next letter was as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">My dear Miss de Montmorenci</span>,</p> - -<p>“I am sorry that you should hate me and my compliments. I had -intended to be as civil and as nice as possible. I am quite in -earnest, and you had better send the MS. As to all the questions -you ask, I cannot answer them to any purpose till I have read the -story,—which I will promise to do without subjecting it to the -pigeon-holes. If you do not like Friday, you shall come on Monday, -or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Saturday, or even on -Sunday, if you wish it;—and at any hour, only let it be fixed.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 10%;">“Yours faithfully,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Jonathan Brown</span>.”</p> -<p><small>“Friday.”</small></p></div> - -<p>In the course of the next week the novel came, with another short note, -to which was attached no ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a></span> beginning or ending. “I send my -treasure, and, remember, I will have it back in a week if you do not -intend to keep it. I have not £5 left in the world, and I owe my -milliner ever so much, and money at the stables where I get a horse. And -I am determined to go to Dieppe in July. All must come out of my novel. -So do be a good man. If you are I will see you.” Herein she declared -plainly her own conviction that she had so far moved the editor by her -correspondence,—for she knew nothing, of course, of that ramble of his -through King-Charles Street,—as to have raised in his bosom a desire to -see her. Indeed, she made no secret of such conviction. “Do as I wish,” -she said plainly, “and I will gratify you by a personal interview.” But -the interview was not to be granted till the novel had been accepted and -the terms fixed,—such terms, too, as it would be very improbable that -any editor could accord.</p> - -<p>“Not so Black as he’s Painted;”—that was the name of the novel which it -now became the duty of Mr. Brown to read. When he got it home, he found -that the writing was much worse than that of the letters. It was small, -and crowded, and carried through without those technical demarcations -which are so comfortable to printers, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a></span> so essential to readers. The -erasures were numerous, and bits of the story were written, as it were, -here and there. It was a manuscript to which Mr. Brown would not have -given a second glance, had there not been an adventure behind it. The -very sending of such a manuscript to any editor would have been an -impertinence, if it were sent by any but a pretty woman. Mr. Brown, -however, toiled over it, and did read it,—read it, or at least enough -of it to make him know what it was. The verdict which Mr. Z. had given -was quite true. No one could have called the story stupid. No mentor -experienced in such matters would have ventured on such evidence to tell -the aspirant that she had mistaken her walk in life, and had better sit -at home and darn her stockings. Out of those heaps of ambitious -manuscripts which are daily subjected to professional readers such -verdicts may safely be given in regard to four-fifths,—either that the -aspirant should darn her stockings, or that he should prune his fruit -trees. It is equally so with the works of one sex as with those of the -other. The necessity of saying so is very painful, and the actual -stocking, or the fruit tree itself, is not often named. The cowardly -professional reader indeed, unable to endure those thorns in the flesh -of which poor Thackeray spoke<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a></span> so feelingly, when hard-pressed for -definite answers, generally lies. He has been asked to be candid, but he -cannot bring himself to undertake a duty so onerous, so odious, and one -as to which he sees so little reason that he personally should perform -it. But in regard to these aspirations,—to which have been given so -much labour, which have produced so many hopes, offsprings which are so -dear to the poor parents,—the decision at least is easy. And there are -others in regard to which a hopeful reader finds no difficulty,—as to -which he feels assured that he is about to produce to the world the -fruit of some new-found genius. But there are doubtful cases which worry -the poor judge till he knows not how to trust his own judgment. At this -page he says, “Yes, certainly;” at the next he shakes his head as he -sits alone amidst his papers. Then he is dead against the aspirant. -Again there is improvement, and he asks himself,—where is he to find -anything that is better? As our editor read Josephine’s novel,—he had -learned to call her Josephine in that silent speech in which most of us -indulge, and which is so necessary to an editor,—he was divided between -Yes and No throughout the whole story. Once or twice he found himself -wiping his eyes, and then it was all “yes” with him. Then he found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a></span> the -pages ran with a cruel heaviness, which seemed to demand decisive -editorial severity. A whole novel, too, is so great a piece of business! -There would be such difficulty were he to accept it! How much must he -cut out! How many of his own hours must he devote to the repairing of -mutilated sentences, and the remodelling of indistinct scenes! In regard -to a small piece an editor, when moved that way, can afford to be -good-natured. He can give to it the hour or so of his own work which it -may require. And if after all it be nothing—or, as will happen -sometimes, much worse than nothing,—the evil is of short duration. In -admitting such a thing he has done an injury,—but the injury is small. -It passes in the crowd, and is forgotten. The best Homer that ever -edited must sometimes nod. But a whole novel! A piece of work that would -last him perhaps for twelve months! No editor can afford to nod for so -long a period.</p> - -<p>But then this tale, this novel of “Not so Black as he’s Painted,” this -story of a human devil, for whose crimes no doubt some Byronic apology -was made with great elaboration by the sensational Josephine, was not -exactly bad. Our editor had wept over it. Some tender-hearted Medora, -who on behalf of her hyena-in-love had gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a></span> through miseries enough to -kill half a regiment of heroines, had dimmed the judge’s eyes with -tears. What stronger proof of excellence can an editor have? But then -there were those long pages of metaphysical twaddle, sure to elicit -scorn and neglect from old and young. They, at any rate, must be cut -out. But in the cutting of them out a very mincemeat would be made of -the story. And yet Josephine de Montmorenci, with her impudent little -letters, had already made herself so attractive! What was our editor to -do?</p> - -<p>He knew well the difficulty that would be before him should he once dare -to accept, and then undertake to alter. She would be as a tigress to -him,—as a tigress fighting for her young. That work of altering is so -ungracious, so precarious, so incapable of success in its performance! -The long-winded, far-fetched, high-stilted, unintelligible sentence -which you elide with so much confidence in your judgment, has been the -very apple of your author’s eye. In it she has intended to convey to the -world the fruits of her best meditation for the last twelve months. -Thinking much over many things in her solitude, she has at last invented -a truth, and there it lies. That wise men may adopt it, and candid women -admire it, is the hope, the solace, and at last almost the certainty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a></span> of -her existence. She repeats the words to herself, and finds that they -will form a choice quotation to be used in coming books. It is for the -sake of that one newly-invented truth,—so she tells herself, though not -quite truly,—that she desires publication. You come,—and with a dash -of your pen you annihilate the precious gem! Is it in human nature that -you should be forgiven? Mr. Brown had had his experiences, and -understood all this well. Nevertheless he loved dearly to please a -pretty woman.</p> - -<p>And it must be acknowledged that the letters of Josephine were such as -to make him sure that there might be an adventure if he chose to risk -the pages of his magazine. The novel had taken him four long evenings to -read, and at the end of the fourth he sat thinking of it for an hour. -Fortune either favoured him or the reverse,—as the reader may choose to -regard the question,—in this, that there was room for the story in his -periodical if he chose to take it. He wanted a novel,—but then he did -not want feminine metaphysics. He sat thinking of it, wondering in his -mind how that little smiling, soft creature with the gray eyes, and the -dimples, and the pretty walking-dress, could have written those -interminable pages as to the questionable criminality of crime; whether -a card-sharper might not be a hero; whether a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a></span> murderer might not -sacrifice his all, even the secret of his murder, for the woman he -loved; whether devil might not be saint, and saint devil. At the end of -the hour he got up from his chair, stretched himself, with his hands in -his trousers-pockets, and said aloud, though alone, that he’d be d—— -if he would. It was an act of great self-denial, a triumph of principle -over passion.</p> - -<p>But though he had thus decided, he was not minded to throw over -altogether either Josephine or her novel. He might still, perhaps, do -something for her if he could find her amenable to reason. Thinking -kindly of her, very anxious to know her personally, and still desirous -of seeing the adventure to the end, he wrote the following note to her -that evening:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -‘Cross Bank, St. John’s Wood,<br /> -“Saturday Night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">My dear Miss de Montmorenci</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I knew how it would be. I cannot give you an answer about your -novel without seeing you. It so often happens that the answer can’t -be Yes or No. You said something very cruel about dear old X., but -after all he was quite right in his verdict about the book. There -is a great deal in it; but it evidently was not written to suit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></span> -the pages of a magazine. Will you come to me, or shall I come to -you;—or shall I send the MS. back, and so let there be an end of -it? You must decide. If you direct that the latter course be taken, -I will obey; but I shall do so with most sincere regret, both on -account of your undoubted aptitude for literary work, and because I -am very anxious to become acquainted with my fair correspondent. -You see I can be as frank as you are yourself.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right:20%;">“Yours most faithfully,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Jonathan Brown</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“My advice to you would be to give up the idea of publishing this tale -in parts, and to make terms with X., Y., and Z.,—in endeavouring to do -which I shall be most happy to be of service to you.’</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>This note he posted on the following day, and when he returned home on -the next night from his club, he found three replies from the divine, -but irritable and energetic, Josephine. We will give them according to -their chronology.</p> - -<p>No. 1. “Monday Morning.—Let me have my MS. back,—and pray, without any -delay.—<span class="smcap">J. de M.</span>”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>No. 2. “Monday, 2 o’clock.—How can you have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a></span> so ill-natured,—and -after keeping it twelve days?” His answer had been written within a week -of the receipt of the parcel at his office, and he had acted with a -rapidity which nothing but some tender passion would have -instigated.—“What you say about being clever, and yet not fit for a -magazine, is rubbish. I know it is rubbish. I do not wish to see you. -Why should I see a man who will do nothing to oblige me? If X., Y., Z. -choose to buy it, at once, they shall have it. But I mean to be paid for -it, and I think you have behaved very ill to me.—<span class="smcap">Josephine.</span>”</p> - -<p>No. 3. “Monday Evening.—My dear Mr. Brown,—Can you wonder that I -should have lost my temper and almost my head? I have written twice -before to-day, and hardly know what I said. I cannot understand you -editing people. You are just like women;—you will and you won’t. I am -so unhappy. I had allowed myself to feel almost certain that you would -take it, and have told that cross man at the stables he should have his -money. Of course I can’t make you publish it;—but how you can put in -such yards of stupid stuff, all about nothing on earth, and then send -back a novel which you say yourself is very clever, is what I can’t -understand. I suppose it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a></span> all goes by favour, and the people who write -are your uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves. I can’t -make you do it, and therefore I suppose I must take your advice about -those old hugger-muggers in Paternoster Row. But there are ever so many -things you must arrange. I must have the money at once. And I won’t put -up with just a few pounds. I have been at work upon that novel for more -than two years, and I know that it is good. I hate to be grumbled at, -and complained of, and spoken to as if a publisher were doing me the -greatest favour in the world when he is just going to pick my brains to -make money of them. I did see old X., or old Z., or old Y., and the -snuffy old fellow told me that if I worked hard I might do something -some day. I have worked harder than ever he did,—sitting there and -squeezing brains, and sucking the juice out of them like an old ghoul. I -suppose I had better see you, because of money and all that. I’ll come, -or else send some one, at about two on Wednesday. I can’t put it off -till Friday, and I must be home by three. You might as well go to X., -Y., Z., in the meantime, and let me know what they say.—<span class="smcap">J. de M.</span>”</p> - -<p>There was an unparalleled impudence in all this which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a></span> affronted, -amazed, and yet in part delighted our editor. Josephine evidently -regarded him as her humble slave, who had already received such favours -as entitled her to demand from him any service which she might require -of him. “You might as well go to X., Y., Z., and let me know what they -say!” And then that direct accusation against him,—that all went by -favour with him! “I think you have behaved very ill to me!” Why,—had he -not gone out of his way, very much out of his way indeed, to do her a -service? Was he not taking on her behalf an immense trouble for which he -looked for no remuneration,—unless remuneration should come in that -adventure of which she had but a dim foreboding? All this was -unparalleled impudence. But then impudence from pretty women is only -sauciness; and such sauciness is attractive. None but a very pretty -woman who openly trusted in her prettiness would dare to write such -letters, and the girl whom he had seen on the door-step was very pretty. -As to his going to X., Y., Z., before he had seen her, that was out of -the question. That very respectable firm in the Row would certainly not -give money for a novel without considerable caution, without much -talking, and a regular understanding and bargain. As a matter of course, -they would take time to consider. X., Y.,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a></span> and Z. were not in a hurry to -make money to pay a milliner or to satisfy a stable-keeper, and would -have but little sympathy for such troubles;—all which it would be Mr. -Brown’s unpleasant duty to explain to Josephine de Montmorenci.</p> - -<p>But though this would be unpleasant, still there might be pleasure. He -could foresee that there would be a storm, with much pouting, some -violent complaint, and perhaps a deluge of tears. But it would be for -him to dry the tears and allay the storm. The young lady could do him no -harm, and must at last be driven to admit that his kindness was -disinterested. He waited, therefore, for the Wednesday, and was careful -to be at the office of his magazine at two o’clock. In the ordinary way -of his business the office would not have seen him on that day, but the -matter had now been present in his mind so long, and had been so much -considered, had assumed so large a proportion in his thoughts,—that he -regarded not at all this extra trouble. With an air of indifference he -told the lad who waited upon him as half clerk and half errand-boy, that -he expected a lady; and then he sat down, as though to compose himself -to his work. But no work was done. Letters were not even opened. His -mind was full of Josephine de Montmorenci. If all the truth is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a></span> to be -told, it must be acknowledged that he did not even wear the clothes that -were common to him when he sat in his editorial chair. He had prepared -himself somewhat, and a new pair of gloves was in his hat. It might be -that circumstances would require him to accompany Josephine at least a -part of the way back to Camden Town.</p> - -<p>At half-past two the lady was announced,—Miss de Montmorenci; and our -editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the -very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he -had seen upon the steps of the house in King-Charles Street. He could -swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet -see the veiled face. And this was a joy to him; for, though he had not -allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that -graceful houri might or might not be his Josephine. Now she was there, -present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he -might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope -so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. It was not one of -those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be -discussed. A horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to Dieppe were the -melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a></span> it must be. Mr. Brown -had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying -father was the motive to which appeal was made. At worst there could be -no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and -gratitude, and smiles would come. He rose from his chair, and, giving -his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to see you here, Miss de Montmorenci,” he said. Then the -veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half -smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear.</p> - -<p>“We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Brown, for all the trouble you have -taken,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Don’t mention it. It comes in the way of my business to take such -trouble. The annoyance is in this, that I can so seldom do what is -wanted.”</p> - -<p>“It is so good of you to do anything!”</p> - -<p>“An editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which -he produces.” This announcement Mr. Brown made, no doubt, with some -little air of assumed personal dignity. The fact was one which no -heaven-born editor ever forgets.</p> - -<p>“Of course, Sir. And no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their -things taken.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a></span></p> - -<p>“A good many there are, certainly.”</p> - -<p>“And everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,” -replied the experienced editor. “But this novel of yours, perhaps, may -be published.”</p> - -<p>“You think so?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do. I cannot say what X., Y., and Z. may say to it. I’m afraid -they will not do more than offer half profits.”</p> - -<p>“And that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady -plaintively.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid not.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! if that could be managed!”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t seen the publishers, and of course I can say nothing myself. -You see I’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, -and lady-loves——”</p> - -<p>“Ah,—that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.”</p> - -<p>“And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!”</p> - -<p>“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it -again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now -about your novel.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a></span></p> - -<p>“It isn’t mine, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Not yours?”</p> - -<p>“Not my own, Mr. Brown.”</p> - -<p>“Then whose is it?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be -offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?”</p> - -<p>“Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our -editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she -spoke.</p> - -<p>“Then who are you?” asked Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I am her sister;—or rather her sister-in-law. My name is Mrs. Puffle.” -How could Mrs. Puffle be the sister-in-law of Miss de Montmorenci? Some -such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not -followed out to any conclusion. Relationships are complex things, and, -as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. In the -half-moment that was allowed to him Mr. Brown reflected that Mrs. Puffle -might be the sister-in-law of a Miss de Montmorenci; or, at least, half -sister-in-law. It was even possible that Mrs. Puffle, young as she -looked, might have been previously married to a de Montmorenci. Of all -that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but -endeavoured as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a></span> he went on to take some comfort from the fact that -Puffle was no doubt Charles. Josephine might perhaps have no Charles. -And then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled -thing before him could hardly have written “Not so Black as he’s -Painted,” with all its metaphysics. Josephine must be made of sterner -stuff. And, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue -parasol are hardly appropriate. There should be more of stature than -Mrs. Puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. The colour of -the dress should be black, with perhaps yellow trimmings; and the hand -should not be of pearly whiteness,—as Mrs. Puffle’s no doubt was, -though the well-fitting little glove gave no absolute information on -this subject. For such an adventure the appropriate colour of the skin -would be,—we will not say sallow exactly,—but running a little that -way. The beauty should be just toned by sadness; and the blood, as it -comes and goes, should show itself, not in blushes, but in the mellow, -changing lines of the brunette. All this Mr. Brown understood very well.</p> - -<p>“Oh,—you are Mrs. Puffle,” said Brown, after a short but perhaps -insufficient pause. “You are Charles Puffle’s wife?”</p> - -<p>“Do you know Charles?” asked the lady, putting up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a></span> both her little -hands. “We don’t want him to hear anything about this. You haven’t told -him?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve told him nothing as yet,” said Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t. It’s a secret. Of course he’ll know it some day. Oh, Mr. -Brown, you won’t betray us. How very odd that you should know Charles!”</p> - -<p>“Does he smoke as much as ever, Mrs. Puffle?”</p> - -<p>“How very odd that he never should have mentioned it! Is it at his -office that you see him?”</p> - -<p>“Well, no; not at his office. How is it that he manages to get away on -an afternoon as he does?”</p> - -<p>“It’s very seldom,—only two or three times in a month,—when he really -has a headache from sitting at his work. Dear me, how odd! I thought he -told me everything, and he never mentioned your name.”</p> - -<p>“You needn’t mention mine, Mrs. Puffle, and the secret shall be kept. -But you haven’t told me about the smoking. Is he as inveterate as ever?”</p> - -<p>“Of course he smokes. They all smoke. I suppose then he used always to -be doing it before he married. I don’t think men ever tell the real -truth about things, though girls always tell everything.”</p> - -<p>“And now about your sister’s novel?” asked Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a></span> Brown, who felt that he -had mystified the little woman sufficiently about her husband.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes. She does want to get some money so badly! And it is -clever;—isn’t it? I don’t think I ever read anything cleverer. Isn’t it -enough to take your breath away when Orlando defends himself before the -lords?” This referred to a very high flown passage which Mr. Brown had -determined to cut out when he was thinking of printing the story for the -pages of the “Olympus.” “And she will be so broken-hearted! I hope you -are not angry with her because she wrote in that way.”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least. I liked her letters. She wrote what she really -thought.”</p> - -<p>“That is so good of you! I told her that I was sure you were -good-natured, because you answered so civilly. It was a kind of -experiment of hers, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,—an experiment!”</p> - -<p>“It is so hard to get at people. Isn’t it? If she’d just written, ‘Dear -Sir, I send you a manuscript,’—you never would have looked at -it:—would you?”</p> - -<p>“We read everything, Mrs. Puffle.”</p> - -<p>“But the turn for all the things comes so slowly; doesn’t it? So Polly -thought—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“Polly,—what did Polly think?”</p> - -<p>“I mean Josephine. We call her Polly just as a nickname. She was so -anxious to get you to read it at once! And now what must we do?” Mr. -Brown sat silent awhile, thinking. Why did they call Josephine de -Montmorenci Polly? But there was the fact of the MS., let the name of -the author be what it might. On one thing he was determined. He would -take no steps till he had himself seen the lady who wrote the novel. -“You’ll go to the gentlemen in Paternoster Row immediately; won’t you?” -asked Mrs. Puffle, with a pretty little beseeching look which it was -very hard to resist.</p> - -<p>“I think I must ask to see the authoress first,” said Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“Won’t I do?” asked Mrs. Puffle. “Josephine is so particular. I mean she -dislikes so very much to talk about her own writings and her own works.” -Mr. Brown thought of the tenor of the letters which he had received, and -found that he could not reconcile with it this character which was given -to him of Miss de Montmorenci. “She has an idea,” continued Mrs. Puffle, -“that genius should not show itself publicly. Of course, she does not -say that herself. And she does not think herself to be a genius;—though -I think it. And she is a genius. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a></span> are things in ‘Not so Black as -he’s Painted’ which nobody but Polly could have written.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Mr. Brown was firm. He explained that he could not possibly -treat with Messrs. X., Y., and Z.,—if any treating should become -possible,—without direct authority from the principal. He must have -from Miss de Montmorenci’s mouth what might be the arrangements to which -she would accede. If this could not be done he must wash his hands of -the affair. He did not doubt, he said, but that Miss de Montmorenci -might do quite as well with the publishers by herself, as she could with -any aid from him. Perhaps it would be better that she should see Mr. X. -herself. But if he, Brown, was to be honoured by any delegated -authority, he must see the author. In saying this he implied that he had -not the slightest desire to interfere further, and that he had no wish -to press himself on the lady. Mrs. Puffle, with just a tear, and then a -smile, and then a little coaxing twist of her lips, assured him that -their only hope was in him. She would carry his message to Josephine, -and he should have a further letter from that lady. “And you won’t tell -Charles that I have been here,” said Mrs. Puffle as she took her leave.</p> - -<p>“Certainly not. I won’t say a word of it.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a></span></p> - -<p>“It is so odd that you should have known him.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let him smoke too much, Mrs. Puffle.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t intend. I’ve brought him down to one cigar and a pipe a -day,—unless he smokes at the office.”</p> - -<p>“They all do that;—nearly the whole day.”</p> - -<p>“What; at the Post Office!”</p> - -<p>“That’s why I mention it. I don’t think they’re allowed at any of the -other offices, but they do what they please there. I shall keep the MS. -till I hear from Josephine herself.” Then Mrs. Puffle took her leave -with many thanks, and a grateful pressure from her pretty little hand.</p> - -<p>Two days after this there came the promised letter from Josephine.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Brown</span>,</p> - -<p>“I cannot understand why you should not go to X., Y., and Z. -without seeing me. I hardly ever see anybody; but, of course, you -must come if you will. I got my sister to go because she is so -gentle and nice, that I thought she could persuade anybody to do -anything. She says that you know Mr. Puffle quite well, which seems -to be so very odd. He doesn’t know that I ever write a word, and I -didn’t think he had an acquaintance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a></span> in the world whom I don’t know -the name of. You’re quite wrong about one thing. They never smoke -at the Post Office, and they wouldn’t be let to do it. If you -choose to come, you must. I shall be at home any time on Friday -morning,—that is, after half-past nine, when Charles goes away.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right:20%;">“Yours truly,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">J. de M.</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“We began to talk about editors after dinner, just for fun; and Charles -said that he didn’t know that he had ever seen one. Of course we didn’t -say anything about the ‘Olympus;’ but I don’t know why he should be so -mysterious.” Then there was a second postscript, written down in a -corner of the sheet of paper. “I know you’ll be sorry you came.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Our editor was now quite determined that he would see the adventure to -an end. He had at first thought that Josephine was keeping herself in -the background merely that she might enhance the favour of a personal -meeting when that favour should be accorded. A pretty woman believing -herself to be a genius, and thinking that good things should ever be -made scarce, might not <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a></span>improbably fall into such a foible. But now he -was convinced that she would prefer to keep herself unseen if her doing -so might be made compatible with her great object. Mr. Brown was not a -man to intrude himself unnecessarily upon any woman unwilling to receive -him; but in this case it was, so he thought, his duty to persevere. So -he wrote a pretty little note to Miss Josephine saying that he would be -with her at eleven o’clock on the day named.</p> - -<p>Precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in -King-Charles Street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by -the fair hands of Mrs. Puffle herself. “H—sh,” said Mrs. Puffle; “we -don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” Mr. Brown, who cared -nothing for the servants of the Puffle establishment, and who was -becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair, -simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “My sister is up -stairs,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” Then she -paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;—“I am -so sorry to say that Polly is not well.—But she means to see you,” Mrs. -Puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far -prevailed, made some sign as though he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a></span> was about to retreat. “She never -is very well,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so -much. Do you know, Mr. Brown, I think the mind sometimes eats up the -body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” They were -now upon the stairs, and Mr. Brown followed the little lady into her -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>There, almost hidden in the depths of a low arm-chair, sat a little -wizened woman, not old indeed,—when Mr. Brown came to know her better, -he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers,—but -with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the -beholder. Who has not seen it,—the face in which the eye and the brow -are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard? -See such a one when she sleeps,—when the brightness of the eye is -hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the -difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is -generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude. -“This is my sister-in-law,” said Mrs. Puffle, introducing the two -correspondents to each other. The editor looked at the little woman who -made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the -brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared -so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a></span> very plainly in her letters. And there was a smile too about the -mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to -indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling -of her riddle,—as though she were saying to herself, “What do you think -now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters, -and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the -morning to Camden Town?” Mr. Brown shook hands with her, and muttered -something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better -health.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Josephine de Montmorenci, “I am not very well. I never am. I -told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.”</p> - -<p>We say no more than the truth of Mr. Brown in declaring that he was now -more ready than ever to do whatever might be in his power to forward the -views of this young authoress. If he was interested before when he -believed her to be beautiful, he was doubly interested for her now when -he knew her to be a cripple;—for he had seen when she made that faint -attempt to rise that her spine was twisted, and that, when she stood up, -her head sank between her shoulders. “I am very glad to make your -acquaintance,” he said, seating himself near<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a></span> her. “I should never have -been satisfied without doing so.”</p> - -<p>“It is so very good of you to come,” said Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>“Of course it is good of him,” said Josephine; “especially after the way -we wrote to him. The truth is, Mr. Brown, we were at our wits’ end to -catch you.”</p> - -<p>This was an aspect of the affair which our editor certainly did not -like. An attempt to deceive anybody else might have been pardonable; but -deceit practised against himself was odious to him. Nevertheless, he did -forgive it. The poor little creature before him had worked hard, and had -done her best. To teach her to be less metaphysical in her writings, and -more straightforward in her own practices, should be his care. There is -something to a man inexpressibly sweet in the power of protecting the -weak; and no one had ever seemed to be weaker than Josephine. “Miss de -Montmorenci,” he said, “we will let bygones be bygones, and will say -nothing about the letters. It is no doubt the fact that you did write -the novel yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Every word of it,” said Mrs. Puffle energetically.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; I wrote it,” said Josephine.</p> - -<p>“And you wish to have it published?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a></span></p> - -<p>“And you wish to get money for it?”</p> - -<p>“That is the truest of all,” said Josephine.</p> - -<p>“Oughtn’t one to be paid when one has worked so very hard?” said Mrs. -Puffle.</p> - -<p>“Certainly one ought to be paid if it can be proved that one’s work is -worth buying,” replied the sage mentor of literature.</p> - -<p>“But isn’t it worth buying?” demanded Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>“I must say that I think that publishers do buy some that are worse,” -observed Josephine.</p> - -<p>Mr. Brown with words of wisdom explained to them as well as he was able -the real facts of the case. It might be that that manuscript, over which -the poor invalid had laboured for so many painful hours, would prove to -be an invaluable treasure of art, destined to give delight to thousands -of readers, and to be, when printed, a source of large profits to -publishers, booksellers, and author. Or, again, it might be that, with -all its undoubted merits,—and that there were such merits Mr. Brown was -eager in acknowledging,—the novel would fail to make any way with the -public. “A publisher,”—so said Mr. Brown,—“will hardly venture to pay -you a sum of money down, when the risk of failure is so great.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a></span></p> - -<p>“But Polly has written ever so many things before,” said Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>“That counts for nothing,” said Miss de Montmorenci. “They were short -pieces, and appeared without a name.”</p> - -<p>“Were you paid for them?” asked Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I have never been paid a halfpenny for anything yet.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that cruel,” said Mrs. Puffle, “to work, and work, and work, and -never get the wages which ought to be paid for it?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps there may be a good time coming,” said our editor. “Let us see -whether we can get Messrs. X., Y., and Z. to publish this at their own -expense, and with your name attached to it. Then, Miss de -Montmorenci——”</p> - -<p>“I suppose we had better tell him all,” said Josephine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; tell everything. I am sure he won’t be angry; he is so -good-natured,” said Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>Mr. Brown looked first at one, and then at the other, feeling himself to -be rather uncomfortable. What was there that remained to be told? He was -good-natured, but he did not like being told of that virtue. “The name -you have heard is not my name,” said the lady who had written the -novel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed! I have heard Mrs. Puffle call you,—Polly.”</p> - -<p>“My name is,—Maryanne.”</p> - -<p>“It is a very good name,” said Mr. Brown,—“so good that I cannot quite -understand why you should go out of your way to assume another.”</p> - -<p>“It is Maryanne,—Puffle.”</p> - -<p>“Oh;—Puffle!” said Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“And a very good name, too,” said Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t a word to say against it,” said Mr. Brown. “I wish I could -say quite as much as to that other name,—Josephine de Montmorenci.”</p> - -<p>“But Maryanne Puffle would be quite unendurable on a title-page,” said -the owner of the unfortunate appellation.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see it,” said Mr. Brown doggedly.</p> - -<p>“Ever so many have done the same,” said Mrs. Puffle. “There’s Boz.”</p> - -<p>“Calling yourself Boz isn’t like calling yourself Josephine de -Montmorenci,” said the editor, who could forgive the loss of beauty, but -not the assumed grandeur of the name.</p> - -<p>“And Currer Bell, and Jacob Omnium, and Barry Cornwall,” said poor Polly -Puffle, pleading hard for her falsehood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a></span></p> - -<p>“And Michael Angelo Titmarsh! That was quite the same sort of thing,” -said Mrs. Puffle.</p> - -<p>Our editor tried to explain to them that the sin of which he now -complained did not consist in the intention,—foolish as that had -been,—of putting such a name as Josephine de Montmorenci on the -title-page, but in having corresponded with him,—with him who had been -so willing to be a friend,—under a false name. “I really think you -ought to have told me sooner,” he said.</p> - -<p>“If we had known you had been a friend of Charles’s we would have told -you at once,” said the young wife.</p> - -<p>“I never had the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Puffle in my life,” said -Mr. Brown. Mrs. Puffle opened her little mouth, and held up both her -little hands. Polly Puffle stared at her sister-in-law. “And what is -more,” continued Mr. Brown, “I never said that I had had that pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“You didn’t tell me that Charles smoked at the Post Office,” exclaimed -Mrs. Puffle,—“which he swears that he never does, and that he would be -dismissed at once if he attempted it?” Mr. Brown was driven to a smile. -“I declare I don’t understand you, Mr. Brown.”</p> - -<p>“It was his little Roland for our little Oliver,” said Miss Puffle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Brown felt that his Roland had been very small, whereas the Oliver -by which he had been taken in was not small at all. But he was forced to -accept the bargain. What is a man against a woman in such a matter? What -can he be against two women, both young, of whom one was pretty and the -other an invalid? Of course he gave way, and of course he undertook the -mission to X., Y., and Z. We have not ourselves read “Not so Black as -he’s Painted,” but we can say that it came out in due course under the -hands of those enterprising publishers, and that it made what many of -the reviews called quite a success.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ill_139.jpg" width="250" height="61" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_PANJANDRUM" id="THE_PANJANDRUM"></a>THE PANJANDRUM.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a></span></p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/panjandrum.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>THE PANJANDRUM.</h2> - -<h3><span class="smcap"><a name="Part_I_Hope" id="Part_I_Hope"></a>Part I.—Hope.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>E hardly feel certain that we are justified in giving the following -little story to the public as an Editor’s Tale, because at the time to -which it refers, and during the circumstances with which it deals, no -editorial power was, in fact, within our grasp. As the reader will -perceive, the ambition and the hopes, and something of a promise of the -privileges, were there; but the absolute chair was not mounted for us. -The great WE was not, in truth, ours to use. And, indeed, the interval -between the thing we then so cordially desired, and the thing as it has -since come to exist, was one of so many years, that there can be no -right on our part to connect the two periods. We shall, therefore, tell -our story, as might any ordinary individual, in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a></span> first person -singular, and speak of such sparks of editorship as did fly up around us -as having created but a dim coruscation, and as having been quite -insufficient to justify the delicious plural.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It is now just thirty years ago since we determined to establish the -“Panjandrum” Magazine. The “we” here spoken of is not an editorial we, -but a small set of human beings who shall be personally introduced to -the reader. The name was intended to be delightfully meaningless, but we -all thought that it was euphonious, graphic, also,—and sententious, -even though it conveyed no definite idea. That question of a name had -occupied us a good deal, and had almost split us into parties. I,—for I -will now speak of myself as I,—I had wished to call it by the name of a -very respectable young publisher who was then commencing business, and -by whom we intended that the trade part of our enterprise should be -undertaken. “Colburn’s” was an old affair in those days, and I doubt -whether “Bentley’s” was not already in existence. “Blackwood’s” and -“Fraser’s” were at the top of the tree, and, as I think, the -“Metropolitan” was the only magazine then in much vogue not called by -the name of this or that enterprising publisher. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a></span> some of our -colleagues would not hear of this, and were ambitious of a title that -should describe our future energies and excellences. I think we should -have been called the “Pandrastic,” but that the one lady who joined our -party absolutely declined the name. At one moment we had almost carried -“Panurge.” The “Man’s” Magazine was thought of, not as opposed to -womanhood, but as intended to trump the “Gentleman’s.” But a hint was -given to us that we might seem to imply that our periodical was not -adapted for the perusal of females. We meant the word “man” in the great -generic sense;—but the somewhat obtuse outside world would not have so -taken it. “The H. B. P.” was for a time in the ascendant, and was -favoured by the lady, who drew for us a most delightful little circle -containing the letters illustrated;—what would now be called a -monogram, only that the letters were legible. The fact that nobody would -comprehend that “H. B. P.” intended to express the general opinion of -the shareholders that “Honesty is the Best Policy,” was felt to be a -recommendation rather than otherwise. I think it was the enterprising -young publisher who objected to the initials,—not, I am sure, from any -aversion to the spirit of the legend. Many other names were tried, and I -shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a></span> never forget the look which went round our circle when one young -and gallant, but too indiscreet reformer, suggested that were it not for -offence, whence offence should not come, the “Purge” was the very name -for us;—from all which it will be understood that it was our purpose to -put right many things that were wrong. The matter held us in discussion -for some months, and then we agreed to call the great future lever of -the age,—the “Panjandrum.”</p> - -<p>When a new magazine is about to be established in these days, the first -question raised will probably be one of capital. A very considerable sum -of money, running far into four figures,—if not going beyond it,—has -to be mentioned, and made familiar to the ambitious promoters of the -enterprise. It was not so with us. Nor was it the case that our young -friend the publisher agreed to find the money, leaving it to us to find -the wit. I think we selected our young friend chiefly because, at that -time, he had no great business to speak of, and could devote his time to -the interests of the “Panjandrum.” As for ourselves we were all poor; -and in the way of capital a set of human beings more absurdly -inefficient for any purposes of trade could not have been brought -together. We found that for a sum of money which we hoped that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a></span> we might -scrape together among us, we could procure paper and print for a couple -of thousand copies of our first number;—and, after that, we were to -obtain credit for the second number by the reputation of the first. -Literary advertising, such as is now common to us, was then unknown. The -cost of sticking up “The Panjandrum” at railway stations and on the tops -of the omnibuses, certainly would not be incurred. Of railway stations -there were but few in the country, and even omnibuses were in their -infancy. A few modest announcements in the weekly periodicals of the day -were thought to be sufficient; and, indeed, there pervaded us all an -assurance that the coming of the “Panjandrum” would be known to all men, -even before it had come. I doubt whether our desire was not concealment -rather than publicity. We measured the importance of the “Panjandrum” by -its significance to ourselves, and by the amount of heart which we -intended to throw into it. Ladies and gentlemen who get up magazines in -the present day are wiser. It is not heart that is wanted, but very big -letters on very big boards, and plenty of them.</p> - -<p>We were all heart. It must be admitted now that we did not bestow upon -the matter of literary excellence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></span> quite so much attention as that -branch of the subject deserves. We were to write and edit our magazine -and have it published, not because we were good at writing or editing, -but because we had ideas which we wished to promulgate. Or it might be -the case with some of us that we only thought that we had ideas. But -there was certainly present to us all a great wish to do some good. -That, and a not altogether unwholesome appetite for a reputation which -should not be personal, were our great motives. I do not think that we -dreamed of making fortunes; though no doubt there might be present to -the mind of each of us an idea that an opening to the profession of -literature might be obtained through the pages of the “Panjandrum.” In -that matter of reputation we were quite agreed that fame was to be -sought, not for ourselves, nor for this or that name, but for the -“Panjandrum.” No man or woman was to declare himself to be the author of -this or that article;—nor indeed was any man or woman to declare -himself to be connected with a magazine. The only name to be known to a -curious public was that of the young publisher. All intercourse between -the writers and the printers was to be through him. If contributions -should come from the outside world,—as come they would,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a></span>they were to -be addressed to the Editor of the “Panjandrum,” at the publisher’s -establishment. It was within the scope of our plan to use any such -contribution that might please us altogether; but the contents of the -magazine were, as a rule, to come from ourselves. A magazine then, as -now, was expected to extend itself through something over a hundred and -twenty pages; but we had no fear as to our capacity for producing the -required amount. We feared rather that we might jostle each other in our -requirements for space.</p> - -<p>We were six, and, young as I was then, I was to be the editor. But to -the functions of the editor was to be attached very little editorial -responsibility. What should and what should not appear in each monthly -number was to be settled in conclave. Upon one point, however, we were -fully agreed,—that no personal jealousy should ever arise among us so -as to cause quarrel or even embarrassment. As I had already written some -few slight papers for the press, it was considered probable that I might -be able to correct proofs, and do the fitting and dovetailing. My -editing was not to go beyond that. If by reason of parity of numbers in -voting there should arise a difficulty, the lady was to have a double -vote. Anything more noble, more chivalrous, more trusting, or, I may -add,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a></span> more philanthropic than our scheme never was invented; and for the -persons, I will say that they were noble, chivalrous, trusting, and -philanthropic;—only they were so young!</p> - -<p>Place aux dames. We will speak of the lady first,—more especially as -our meetings were held at her house. I fear that I may, at the very -outset of our enterprise, turn the hearts of my readers against her by -saying that Mrs. St. Quinten was separated from her husband. I must, -however, beg them to believe that this separation had been occasioned by -no moral fault or odious misconduct on her part. I will confess that I -did at that time believe that Mr. St. Quinten was an ogre, and that I -have since learned to think that he simply laboured under a strong and, -perhaps, monomaniacal objection to literary pursuits. As Mrs. St. -Quinten was devoted to them, harmony was impossible, and the marriage -was unfortunate. She was young, being perhaps about thirty; but I think -that she was the eldest amongst us. She was good-looking, with an ample -brow, and bright eyes, and large clever mouth; but no woman living was -ever further removed from any propensity to flirtation. There resided -with her a certain Miss Collins, an elderly, silent lady, who was -present at all our meetings, and who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a></span> considered to be pledged to -secrecy. Once a week we met and drank tea at Mrs. St. Quinten’s house. -It may be as well to explain that Mrs. St. Quinten really had an -available income, which was a condition of life unlike that of her -colleagues,—unless as regarded one, who was a fellow of an Oxford -college. She could certainly afford to give us tea and muffins once a -week;—but, in spite of our general impecuniosity, the expense of -commencing the magazine was to be borne equally by us all. I can assure -the reader, with reference to more than one of the members, that they -occasionally dined on bread and cheese, abstaining from meat and pudding -with the view of collecting the sum necessary for the great day.</p> - -<p>The idea had originated, I think, between Mrs. St. Quinten and Churchill -Smith. Churchill Smith was a man with whom, I must own, I never felt -that perfect sympathy which bound me to the others. Perhaps among us all -he was the most gifted. Such at least was the opinion of Mrs. St. -Quinten and, perhaps, of himself. He was a cousin of the lady’s, and had -made himself particularly objectionable to the husband by instigating -his relative to write philosophical essays. It was his own speciality to -be an unbeliever and a German scholar; and we gave him credit for being -so deep in both arts that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a></span> no man could go deeper. It had, however, been -decided among us very early in our arrangements,—and so decided, not -without great chance of absolute disruption,—that his infidelity was -not to bias the magazine. He was to take the line of deep thinking, -German poetry, and unintelligible speculation generally. He used to talk -of Comte, whose name I had never heard till it fell from his lips, and -was prepared to prove that Coleridge was very shallow. He was generally -dirty, unshorn, and, as I thought, disagreeable. He called Mrs. St. -Quinten Lydia, because of his cousinship, and no one knew how or where -he lived. I believe him to have been a most unselfish, abstemious -man,—one able to control all appetites of the flesh. I think that I -have since heard that he perished in a Russian prison.</p> - -<p>My dearest friend among the number was Patrick Regan, a young Irish -barrister, who intended to shine at the English Bar. I think the world -would have used him better had his name been John Tomkins. The history -of his career shows very plainly that the undoubted brilliance of his -intellect, and his irrepressible personal humour and good-humour have -been always unfairly weighted by those Irish names. What attorney, with -any serious matter in hand, would willingly go to a barrister<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a></span> who -called himself Pat Regan? And then, too, there always remained with him -just a hint of a brogue,—and his nose was flat in the middle! I do not -believe that all the Irishmen with flattened noses have had the bone of -the feature broken by a crushing blow in a street row; and yet they -certainly look as though that peculiar appearance had been the result of -a fight with sticks. Pat has told me a score of times that he was born -so, and I believe him. He had a most happy knack of writing verses, -which I used to think quite equal to Mr. Barham’s, and he could rival -the droll Latinity of Father Prout who was coming out at that time with -his “Dulcis Julia Callage,” and the like. Pat’s father was an attorney -at Cork; but not prospering, I think, for poor Pat was always short of -money. He had, however, paid the fees, and was entitled to appear in wig -and gown wherever common-law barristers do congregate. He is -Attorney-General at one of the Turtle Islands this moment, with a salary -of £400 a year. I hear from him occasionally, and the other day he sent -me “Captain Crosbie is my name,” done into endecasyllabics. I doubt, -however, whether he ever made a penny by writing for the press. I cannot -say that Pat was our strongest prop. He sometimes laughed at -“Lydia,”—and then I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a></span> brought into disgrace, as having introduced -him to the company.</p> - -<p>Jack Hallam, the next I will name, was also intended for the Bar: but, I -think, never was called. Of all the men I have encountered in life he -was certainly the most impecunious. Now he is a millionaire. He was one -as to whom all who knew him,—friends and foes alike,—were decided that -under no circumstances would he ever work, or by any possibility earn a -penny. Since then he has applied himself to various branches of -commerce, first at New York and then at San Francisco; he has laboured -for twenty-four years almost without a holiday, and has shown a -capability for sustaining toil which few men have equalled. He had been -introduced to our set by Walter Watt, of whom I will speak just now; and -certainly when I remember the brightness of his wit and the flow of his -words, and his energy when he was earnest, I am bound to acknowledge -that in searching for sheer intellect,—for what I may call power,—we -did not do wrong to enrol Jack Hallam. He had various crude ideas in his -head of what he would do for us,—having a leaning always to the side of -bitter mirth. I think he fancied that satire might be his forte. As it -is, they say that no man living has a quicker eye to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a></span> erection of a -block of buildings in a coming city. He made a fortune at Chicago, and -is said to have erected Omaha out of his own pocket. I am told that he -pays income-tax in the United States on nearly a million dollars per -annum. I wonder whether he would lend me five pounds if I asked him? I -never knew a man so free as Jack at borrowing half-a-crown or a clean -pocket-handkerchief.</p> - -<p>Walter Watt was a fellow of ——. —— I believe has fellows who do not -take orders. It must have had one such in those days, for nothing could -have induced our friend, Walter Watt, to go into the Church. How it came -to pass that the dons of a college at Oxford should have made a fellow -of so wild a creature was always a mystery to us. I have since been told -that at —— the reward could hardly be refused to a man who had gone -out a “first” in classics and had got the “Newdegate.” Such had been the -career of young Watt. And, though I say that he was wild, his moral -conduct was not bad. He simply objected on principle to all authority, -and was of opinion that the goods of the world should be in common. I -must say of him that in regard to one individual his practice went even -beyond his preaching; for Jack Hallam certainly consumed more of the -fellowship than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a></span> did Walter Watt himself. Jack was dark and swarthy. -Walter was a fair little man, with long hair falling on the sides of his -face, and cut away over his forehead,—as one sees it sometimes cut in a -picture. He had round blue eyes, a well-formed nose, and handsome mouth -and chin. He was very far gone in his ideas of reform, and was quite in -earnest in his hope that by means of the “Panjandrum” something might be -done to stay the general wickedness,—or rather ugliness of the world. -At that time Carlyle was becoming prominent as a thinker and writer -among us, and Watt was never tired of talking to us of the hero of -“Sartor Resartus.” He was an excellent and most unselfish man,—whose -chief fault was an inclination for the making of speeches, which he had -picked up at an Oxford debating society. He now lies buried at Kensal -Green. I thought to myself, when I saw another literary friend laid -there some eight years since, that the place had become very quickly -populated since I and Regan had seen poor Watt placed in his last home, -almost amidst a desert.</p> - -<p>Of myself, I need only say that at that time I was very young, very -green, and very ardent as a politician. The Whigs were still in office; -but we, who were young then, and warm in our political convictions, -thought that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a></span> Whigs were doing nothing for us. It must be remembered -that things and ideas have advanced so quickly during the last thirty -years, that the Conservatism of 1870 goes infinitely further in the -cause of general reform than did the Radicalism of 1840. I was regarded -as a Democrat because I was loud against the Corn Laws; and was accused -of infidelity when I spoke against the Irish Church Endowments. I take -some pride to myself that I should have seen these evils to be evils -even thirty years ago. But to Household Suffrage I doubt whether even my -spirit had ascended. If I remember rightly I was great upon annual -parliaments; but I know that I was discriminative, and did not accept -all the points of the seven-starred charter. I had an idea in those -days,—I can confess it now after thirty years,—that I might be able to -indite short political essays which should be terse, argumentative, and -convincing, and at the same time full of wit and frolic. I never quite -succeeded in pleasing even myself in any such composition. At this time -I did a little humble work for the ——, but was quite resolved to fly -at higher game than that.</p> - -<p>As I began with the lady, so I must end with her. I had seen and read -sheaves of her MS., and must express my conviction at this day, when all -illusions are gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a></span> that she wrote with wonderful ease and with some -grace. A hard critic might perhaps say that it was slip-slop; but still -it was generally readable. I believe that in the recesses of her -privacy, and under the dark and secret guidance of Churchill Smith, she -did give way to German poetry and abstruse thought. I heard once that -there was a paper of hers on the essence of existence, in which she -answered that great question, as to personal entity, or as she put it, -“What is it, to be?” The paper never appeared before the Committee, -though I remember the question to have been once suggested for -discussion. Pat Regan answered it at once,—“A drop of something short,” -said he. I thought then that everything was at an end! Her translation -into a rhymed verse of a play of Schiller’s did come before us, and -nobody could have behaved better than she did, when she was told that it -hardly suited our project. What we expected from Mrs. St. Quinten in the -way of literary performance I cannot say that we ourselves had exactly -realised, but we knew that she was always ready for work. She gave us -tea and muffins, and bore with us when we were loud, and devoted her -time to our purposes, and believed in us. She had exquisite tact in -saving us from wordy quarrelling, and was never angry herself, except -when Pat Regan was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a></span> too hard upon her. What became of her I never knew. -When the days of the “Panjandrum” were at an end she vanished from our -sight. I always hoped that Mr. St. Quinten reconciled himself to -literature, and took her back to his bosom.</p> - -<p>While we were only determining that the thing should be, all went -smoothly with us. Columns, or the open page, made a little difficulty; -but the lady settled it for us in favour of the double column. It is a -style of page which certainly has a wiser look about it than the other; -and then it has the advantage of being clearly distinguished from the -ordinary empty book of the day. The word “padding,” as belonging to -literature, was then unknown; but the idea existed,—and perhaps the -thing. We were quite resolved that there should be no padding in the -“Panjandrum.” I think our most ecstatic, enthusiastic, and accordant -moments were those in which we resolved that it should be all good, all -better than anything else,—all best. We were to struggle after -excellence with an energy that should know no relaxing,—and the -excellence was not to be that which might produce for us the greatest -number of half-crowns, but of the sort which would increase truth in the -world, and would teach men to labour hard and bear their burdens nobly, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a></span> become gods upon earth. I think our chief feeling was one of -impatience in having to wait to find to what heaven death would usher -us, who unfortunately had to be human before we could put on divinity. -We wanted heaven at once,—and were not deterred though Jack Hallam -would borrow ninepence and Pat Regan make his paltry little jokes.</p> - -<p>We had worked hard for six months before we began to think of writing, -or even of apportioning to each contributor what should be written for -the first number. I shall never forget the delight there was in having -the young publisher in to tea, and in putting him through his figures, -and in feeling that it became us for the moment to condescend to matters -of trade. We felt him to be an inferior being; but still it was much for -us to have progressed so far towards reality as to have a real publisher -come to wait upon us. It was at that time clearly understood that I was -to be the editor, and I felt myself justified in taking some little lead -in arranging matters with our energetic young friend. A remark that I -made one evening was very mild,—simply some suggestion as to the -necessity of having a more than ordinarily well-educated set of -printers;—but I was snubbed infinitely by Churchill Smith. “Mr X.,” -said he, “can probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a></span> tell us more about printing than we can tell -him.” I felt so hurt that I was almost tempted to leave the room at -once. I knew very well that if I seceded Pat Regan would go with me, and -that the whole thing must fall to the ground. Mrs. St. Quinten, however, -threw instant oil upon the waters. “Churchill,” said she, “let us live -and learn. Mr. X., no doubt, knows. Why should we not share his -knowledge?” I smothered my feelings in the public cause, but I was -conscious of a wish that Mr. Smith might fall among the Philistines of -Cursitor Street, and so of necessity be absent from our meetings. There -was an idea among us that he crept out of his hiding-place, and came to -our conferences by by-ways; which was confirmed when our hostess -proposed that our evening should be changed from Thursday, the day first -appointed, to Sunday. We all acceded willingly, led away somewhat, I -fear, by an idea that it was the proper thing for advanced spirits such -as ours to go to work on that day which by ancient law is appointed for -rest.</p> - -<p>Mrs. St. Quinten would always open our meeting with a little speech. -“Gentlemen and partners in this enterprise,” she would say, “the tea is -made, and the muffins are ready. Our hearts are bound together in the -work. We are all in earnest in the good cause of political reform<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a></span> and -social regeneration. Let the spirit of harmony prevail among us. Mr. -Hallam, perhaps you’ll take the cover off.” To see Jack Hallam eat -muffins was,—I will say “a caution,” if the use of the slang phrase may -be allowed to me for the occasion. It was presumed among us that on -these days he had not dined. Indeed, I doubt whether he often did -dine,—supper being his favourite meal. I have supped with him more than -once, at his invitation,—when to be without coin in my own pocket was -no disgrace,—and have wondered at the equanimity with which the vendors -of shell-fish have borne my friend’s intimation that he must owe them -the little amount due for our evening entertainment. On these occasions -his friend Watt was never with him, for Walter’s ideas as to the common -use of property were theoretical. Jack dashed at once into the more -manly course of practice. When he came to Mrs. St. Quinten’s one evening -in my best,—nay, why dally with the truth?—in my only pair of black -dress trousers, which I had lent him ten days before, on the occasion, -as I then believed, of a real dinner party, I almost denounced him -before his colleagues. I think I should have done so had I not felt that -he would in some fashion have so turned the tables on me that I should -have been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></span> sufferer. There are men with whom one comes by the worst -in any contest, let justice on one’s own side be ever so strong and ever -so manifest.</p> - -<p>But this is digression. After the little speech, Jack would begin upon -the muffins, and Churchill Smith,—always seated at his cousin’s left -hand,—would hang his head upon his hand, wearing a look of mingled -thought and sorrow on his brow. He never would eat muffins. We fancied -that he fed himself with penny hunches of bread as he walked along the -streets. As a man he was wild, unsociable, untamable; but, as a -philosopher, he had certainly put himself beyond most of those wants to -which Jack Hallam and others among us were still subject. “Lydia,” he -once said, when pressed hard to partake of the good things provided, -“man cannot live by muffins alone,—no, nor by tea and muffins. That by -which he can live is hard to find. I doubt we have not found it yet.”</p> - -<p>This, to me, seemed to be rank apostasy,—infidelity to the cause which -he was bound to trust as long as he kept his place in that society. How -shall you do anything in the world, achieve any success, unless you -yourself believe in yourself? And if there be a partnership either in -mind or matter, your partner must be the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a></span> to you as yourself. -Confidence is so essential to the establishment of a magazine! I felt -then, at least, that the “Panjandrum” could have no chance without it, -and I rebuked Mr. Churchill Smith. “We know what you mean by that,” said -I;—“because we don’t talk German metaphysics, you think we aint worth -our salt.”</p> - -<p>“So much worth it,” said he, “that I trust heartily you may find enough -to save you even yet.”</p> - -<p>I was about to boil over with wrath; but Walter Watt was on his legs, -making a speech about the salt of the earth, before I had my words -ready. Churchill Smith would put up with Walter when he would endure -words from no one else. I used to think him mean enough to respect the -Oxford fellowship, but I have since fancied that he believed that he had -discovered a congenial spirit. In those days I certainly did despise -Watt’s fellowship, but in later life I have come to believe that men who -get rewards have generally earned them. Watt on this occasion made a -speech to which in my passion I hardly attended; but I well remember -how, when I was about to rise in my wrath, Mrs. St. Quinten put her hand -on my arm, and calmed me. “If you,” said she, “to whom we most trust for -orderly guidance, are to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a></span> the first to throw down the torch of -discord, what will become of us?”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t thrown down any torch,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Neither take one up,” said she, pouring out my tea for me as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“As for myself,” said Regan, “I like metaphysics,—and I like them -German. Is there anything so stupid and pig-headed as that insular -feeling which makes us think nothing to be good that is not home-grown?”</p> - -<p>“All the same,” said Jack, “who ever eat a good muffin out of London?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Hallam, Mary Jane is bringing up some more,” said our hostess. She -was an open-handed woman, and the supply of these delicacies never ran -low as long as the “Panjandrum” was a possibility.</p> - -<p>It was, I think, on this evening that we decided finally for columns and -for a dark gray wrapper,—with a portrait of the Panjandrum in the -centre; a fancy portrait it must necessarily be; but we knew that we -could trust for that to the fertile pencil of Mrs. St. Quinten. I had -come prepared with a specimen cover, as to which I had in truth -consulted an artistic friend, and had taken with it no inconsiderable -labour. I am sure, looking back over the long interval of years at my -feelings on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a></span> occasion,—I am sure, I say, that I bore well the -alterations and changes which were made in that design until at last -nothing remained of it. But what matters a wrapper? Surely of any -printed and published work it is by the interior that you should judge -it. It is not that old conjuror’s head that has given its success to -“Blackwood,” nor yet those four agricultural boys that have made the -“Cornhill” what it is.</p> - -<p>We had now decided on columns, on the cover, and the colour. We had -settled on the number of pages, and had thumbed four or five specimens -of paper submitted to us by our worthy publisher. In that matter we had -taken his advice, and chosen the cheapest; but still we liked the -thumbing of the paper. It was business. Paper was paper then, and bore a -high duty. I do not think that the system of illustration had commenced -in those days, though a series of portraits was being published by one -distinguished contemporary. We readily determined that we would attempt -nothing of that kind. There then arose a question as to the insertion of -a novel. Novels were not then, as now, held to be absolutely essential -for the success of a magazine. There were at that time magazines with -novels and magazines without them. The discreet young publisher<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a></span> -suggested to us that we were not able to pay for such a story as would -do us any credit. I myself, who was greedy for work, with bated breath -offered to make an attempt. It was received with but faint thanks, and -Walter Watt, rising on his legs, with eyes full of fire and arms -extended, denounced novels in the general. It was not for such purpose -that he was about to devote to the production of the “Panjandrum” any -erudition that he might have acquired and all the intellect that God had -given him. Let those who wanted novels go for them to the writer who -dealt with fiction in the open market. As for him, he at any rate would -search for truth. We reminded him of Blumine.<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> “Tell your novel in -three pages,” said he, “and tell it as that is told, and I will not -object to it.” We were enabled, however, to decide that there should be -no novel in the “Panjandrum.”</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> See “Sartor Resartus”</p></div> - -<p>Then at length came the meeting at which we were to begin our real work -and divide our tasks among us. Hitherto Mr. X. had usually joined us, -but a hint had been given to him that on this and a few following -meetings we would not trespass on his time. It was quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a></span> understood -that he, as publisher, was to have nothing to do with the preparation or -arrangement of the matter to be published. We were, I think, a little -proud of keeping him at a distance when we came to the discussion of -that actual essence of our combined intellects which was to be issued to -the world under the grotesque name which we had selected. That mind and -matter should be kept separated was impressed very strongly upon all of -us. Now, we were “mind,” and Mr. X. was “matter.” He was matter at any -rate in reference to this special work, and, therefore, when we had -arrived at that vital point we told him,—I had been commissioned to do -so,—that we did not require his attendance just at present. I am bound -to say that Mr. X. behaved well to the end, but I do not think that he -ever warmed to the “Panjandrum” after that. I fancy that he owns two or -three periodicals now, and hires his editors quite as easily as he does -his butlers,—and with less regard to their characters.</p> - -<p>I spent a nervous day in anticipation of that meeting. Pat Regan was -with me all day, and threatened dissolution. “There isn’t a fellow in -the world,” said he, “that I love better than Walter Watt, and I’d go to -Jamaica to serve him;”—when the time came, which it did, oh, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a></span> soon! -he was asked to go no further than Kensal Green;—“but——!” and then -Pat paused.</p> - -<p>“You’re ready to quarrel with him,” said I, “simply because he won’t -laugh at your jokes.”</p> - -<p>“There’s a good deal in that,” said Regan; “and when two men are in a -boat together each ought to laugh at the other’s jokes. But the question -isn’t as to our laughing. If we can’t make the public laugh sometimes we -may as well shut up shop. Walter is so intensely serious that nothing -less austere than lay sermons will suit his conscience.”</p> - -<p>“Let him preach his sermon, and do you crack your jokes. Surely we can’t -be dull when we have you and Jack Hallam?”</p> - -<p>“Jack’ll never write a line,” said Regan; “he only comes for the -muffins. Then think of Churchill Smith, and the sort of stuff he’ll -expect to force down our readers’ throats.”</p> - -<p>“Smith is sour, but never tedious,” said I. Indeed, I expected great -things from Smith, and so I told my friend.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Lydia’ will write,” said Pat. We used to call her Lydia behind her -back. “And so will Churchill Smith and Watt. I do not doubt that they -have quires written<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a></span> already. But no one will read a word of it. Jack, -and you, and I will intend to write, but we shall never do anything.”</p> - -<p>This I felt to be most unjust, because, as I have said before, I was -already engaged upon the press. My work was not remunerative, but it was -regularly done. “I am afraid of nothing,” said I, “but distrust. You can -move a mountain if you will only believe that you can move it.”</p> - -<p>“Just so;—but in order to avoid the confusion consequent on general -motion among the mountains, I and other men have been created without -that sort of faith.” It was always so with my poor friend, and, -consequently, he is now Attorney-General at a Turtle Island. Had he -believed as I did,—he and Jack,—I still think that the “Panjandrum” -might have been a great success. “Don’t you look so glum,” he went on to -say. “I’ll stick to it, and do my best. I did put Lord Bateman into -rhymed Latin verse for you last night.”</p> - -<p>Then he repeated to me various stanzas, of which I still remember one:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Tuam duxi, verum est, filiam, sed merum est;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Si virgo mihi data fuit, virgo tibi redditur.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Venit in ephippio mihi, et concipio<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Satis est si triga pro reditu conceditur.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a></span></p> - -<p>This cheered me a little, for I thought that Pat was good at these -things, and I was especially anxious to take the wind out of the sails -of “Fraser” and Father Prout. “Bring it with you,” said I to him, giving -him great praise. “It will raise our spirits to know that we have -something ready.” He did bring it; but “Lydia” required to have it all -translated to her, word by word. It went off heavily, and was at last -objected to by the lady. For the first and last time during our debates -Miss Collins ventured to give an opinion on the literary question under -discussion. She agreed, she said, with her friend in thinking that Mr. -Regan’s Latin poem should not be used. The translation was certainly as -good as the ballad, and I was angry. Miss Collins, at any rate, need not -have interfered.</p> - -<p>At last the evening came, and we sat round the table, after the tea-cups -had been removed, each anxious for his allotted task. Pat had been so -far right in his views as to the diligence of three of our colleagues, -that they came furnished with piles of manuscript. Walter Watt, who was -afflicted with no false shame, boldly placed before him on the table a -heap of blotted paper. Churchhill Smith held in his hand a roll; but he -did not, in fact, unroll it during the evening. He was a man very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a></span> fond -of his own ideas, of his own modes of thinking and manner of life, but -not prone to put himself forward. I do not mind owning that I disliked -him; but he had a power of self-abnegation which was, to say the least -of it, respectable. As I entered the room, my eyes fell on a mass of -dishevelled sheets of paper which lay on the sofa behind the chair on -which Mrs. St. Quinten always sat, and I knew that these were her -contributions. Pat Regan, as I have said, produced his unfortunate -translation, and promised with the greatest good-humour to do another -when he was told that his last performance did not quite suit Mrs. St. -Quinten’s views. Jack had nothing ready; nor, indeed, was anything -“ready” ever expected from him. I, however, had my own ideas as to what -Jack might do for us. For myself, I confess that I had in my pocket from -two to three hundred lines of what I conceived would be a very suitable -introduction, in verse, for the first number. It was my duty, I thought, -as editor, to provide the magazine with a few initiatory words. I did -not, however, produce the rhymes on that evening, having learned to feel -that any strong expression of self on the part of one member at that -board was not gratifying to the others. I did take some pains in -composing those lines, and thought at the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a></span> that I had been not -unhappy in mixing the useful with the sweet. How many hours shall I say -that I devoted to them? Alas, alas, it matters not now! Those words -which I did love well never met any eye but my own. Though I had them -then by heart, they were never sounded in any ear. It was not personal -glory that I desired. They were written that the first number of the -“Panjandrum” might appear becomingly before the public, and the first -number of the “Panjandrum” never appeared! I looked at them the other -day, thinking whether it might be too late for them to serve another -turn. I will never look at them again.</p> - -<p>But from the first starting of the conception of the “Panjandrum” I had -had a great idea, and that idea was discussed at length on the evening -of which I am speaking. We must have something that should be sparkling, -clever, instructive, amusing, philosophical, remarkable, and new, all at -the same time! That such a thing might be achieved in literature I felt -convinced. And it must be the work of three or four together. It should -be something that should force itself into notice, and compel attention. -It should deal with the greatest questions of humanity, and deal with -them wisely,—but still should deal with them in a sportive spirit. -Philosophy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a></span> and humour might, I was sure, be combined. Social science -might be taught with witty words, and abstract politics made as -agreeable as a novel. There had been the “Corn Law Rhymes,”—and the -“Noctes.” It was, however, essentially necessary that we should be new, -and therefore I endeavoured,—vainly endeavoured,—to get those old -things out of my head. Fraser’s people had done a great stroke of -business by calling their Editor Mr. Yorke. If I could get our people to -call me Mr. Lancaster, something might come of it. But yet it was so -needful that we should be new! The idea had been seething in my brain so -constantly that I had hardly eat or slept free from it for the last six -weeks. If I could roll Churchill Smith and Jack Hallam into one, throw -in a dash of Walter Watt’s fine political eagerness, make use of Regan’s -ready poetical facility, and then control it all by my own literary -experience, the thing would be done. But it is so hard to blend the -elements!</p> - -<p>I had spoken often of it to Pat, and he had assented. “I’ll do anything -into rhyme,” he used to say, “if that’s what you mean.” It was not quite -what I meant. One cannot always convey one’s meaning to another; and -this difficulty is so infinitely increased when one is not quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a></span> clear -in one’s own mind! And then Pat, who was the kindest fellow in the -world, and who bore with the utmost patience a restless energy which -must often have troubled him sorely, had not really his heart in it as I -had. “If Churchill Smith will send me ever so much of his stuff, I’ll -put it into Latin or English verse, just as you please,—and I can’t say -more than that.” It was a great offer to make, but it did not exactly -reach the point at which I was aiming.</p> - -<p>I had spoken to Smith about it also. I knew that if we were to achieve -success, we must do so in a great measure by the force of his -intellectual energy. I was not seeking pleasure, but success, and was -willing therefore to endure the probable discourtesy, or at least want -of cordiality, which I might encounter from the man. I must acknowledge -that he listened to me with a rapt attention. Attention so rapt is more -sometimes than one desires. Could he have helped me with a word or two -now and again I should have felt myself to be more comfortable with him. -I am inclined to think that two men get on better together in discussing -a subject when they each speak a little at random. It creates a -confidence, and enables a man to go on to the end. Churchill Smith heard -me without a word, and then remarked that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a></span> been too slow quite to -catch my idea. Would I explain it again? I did explain it again,—though -no doubt I was flustered, and blundered. “Certainly,” said Churchill -Smith, “if we can all be witty and all wise, and all witty and wise at -the same time, and altogether, it will be very fine. But then, you see, -I’m never witty, and seldom wise.” The man was so uncongenial that there -was no getting anything from him. I did not dare to suggest to him that -he should submit the prose exposition of his ideas to the metrical -talent of our friend Regan.</p> - -<p>As soon as we were assembled I rose upon my legs, saying that I proposed -to make a few preliminary observations. It certainly was the case that -at this moment Mrs. St. Quinten was rinsing the teapot, and Mary Jane -had not yet brought in the muffins. We all know that when men meet -together for special dinners, the speeches are not commenced till the -meal is over;—and I would have kept my seat till Jack had done his -worst with the delicacies, had it not been our practice to discuss our -business with our plates and cups and saucers still before us. “You -can’t drink your tea on your legs,” said Jack Hallam. “I have no such -intention,” said I. “What I have to lay before you will not take a -minute.” A suggestion, however, came from another quarter that I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a></span> -not be so formal; and Mrs. St. Quinten, touching my sleeve, whispered to -me a precaution against speech making. I sat down, and remarked in a -manner that I felt to be ludicrously inefficient, that I had been going -to propose that the magazine should be opened by a short introductory -paper. As the reader knows, I had the introduction then in my pocket. -“Let us dash into the middle of our work at once,” said Walter Watt. “No -one reads introductions,” said Regan;—my own friend, Pat Regan! “I own -I don’t think an introduction would do us any particular service,” said -“Lydia,” turning to me with that smile which was so often used to keep -us in good-humour. I can safely assert that it was never vainly used on -me. I did not even bring the verses out of my pocket, and thus I escaped -at least the tortures of that criticism to which I should have been -subjected had I been allowed to read them to the company. “So be it,” -said I. “Let us then dash into the middle of our work at once. It is -only necessary to have a point settled. Then we can progress.”</p> - -<p>After that I was silent for awhile, thinking it well to keep myself in -the background. But no one seemed to be ready for speech. Walter Watt -fingered his manuscript uneasily, and Mrs. St. Quinten made some remark<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a></span> -not distinctly audible as to the sheets on the sofa. “But I must get rid -of the tray first,” she said. Churchill Smith sat perfectly still with -his roll in his pocket. “Mrs. St. Quinten and gentlemen,” I said, “I am -happy to tell you that I have had a contribution handed to me which will -go far to grace our first number. Our friend Regan has done ‘Lord -Bateman’ into Latin verse with a Latinity and a rhythm so excellent that -it will go far to make us at any rate equal to anything else in that -line.” Then I produced the translated ballad, and the little episode -took place which I have already described. Mrs. St. Quinten insisted on -understanding in detail, and it was rejected. “Then upon my word I don’t -know what you are to get,” said I. “Latin translations are not -indispensable,” said Walter Watt. “No doubt we can live without them,” -said Pat, with a fine good humour. He bore the disgrace of having his -first contribution rejected with admirable patience. There was nothing -he could not bear. To this day he bears being Attorney-General at the -Turtle Islands.</p> - -<p>Something must be done. “Perhaps,” said I, turning to the lady, “Mrs. -St. Quinten will begin by giving us her ideas as to our first number. -She will tell us what she intends to do for us herself.” She was still -embarrassed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a></span> by the tea-things. And I acknowledge that I was led to -appeal to her at that moment because it was so. If I could succeed in -extracting ideas they would be of infinitely more use to us than the -reading of manuscript. To get the thing “licked into shape” must be our -first object. As I had on this evening walked up to the sombre street -leading into the new road in which Mrs. St. Quinten lived I had declared -to myself a dozen times that to get the thing “licked into shape” was -the great desideratum. In my own imaginings I had licked it into some -shape. I had suggested to myself my own little introductory poem as a -commencement, and Pat Regan’s Latin ballad as a pretty finish to the -first number. Then there should be some thirty pages of dialogue,—or -trialogue,—or hexalogue if necessary, between the different members of -our Board, each giving, under an assumed name, his view of what a -perfect magazine should be. This I intended to be the beginning of a -conversational element which should be maintained in all subsequent -numbers, and which would enable us in that light and airy fashion which -becomes a magazine to discuss all subjects of politics, philosophy, -manners, literature, social science, and even religion if necessary, -without inflicting on our readers the dulness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a></span> of a long unbroken essay. -I was very strong about these conversations, and saw my way to a great -success,—if I could only get my friends to act in concert with me. Very -much depended on the names to be chosen, and I had my doubts whether -Watt and Churchill Smith would consent to this slightly theatrical -arrangement. Mrs. St. Quinten had already given in her adhesion, but was -doubting whether she would call herself “Charlotte,”—partly after -Charlotte Corday and partly after the lady who cut bread and butter, or -“Mrs. Freeman,”—that name having, as she observed, been used before as -a nom de plume,—or “Sophronie,” after Madame de Sévigné, who was -pleased so to call herself among the learned ladies of Madame de -Rambouillet’s bower. I was altogether in favour of Mrs. Freeman, which -has the merit of simplicity; but that was a minor point. Jack Hallam had -chosen his appellation. Somewhere in the Lowlands he had seen over a -small shop-door the name of John Neverapenny; and “John Neverapenny” he -would be. I turned it over on my tongue a score of times, and thought -that perhaps it might do. Pat wanted to call himself “The O’Blazes,” but -was at last persuaded to adopt the quieter name of “Tipperary,” in which -county his family had been established since Ireland was,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a></span>settled I -think he said. For myself I was indifferent. They might give me what -title they pleased. I had had my own notion, but that had been rejected. -They might call me “Jones” or “Walker,” if they thought proper. But I -was very much wedded to the idea, and I still think that had it been -stoutly carried out the results would have been happy.</p> - -<p>I was the first to acknowledge that the plan was not new. There had been -the “Noctes,” and some imitations even of the “Noctes.” But then, what -is new? The “Noctes” themselves had been imitations from older works. If -Socrates and Hippias had not conversed, neither probably would Mr. North -and his friends. “You might as well tell me,” said I, addressing my -colleagues, “that we must invent a new language, find new forms of -expression, print our ideas in an unknown type, and impress them on some -strange paper. Let our thoughts be new,” said I, “and then let us select -for their manifestation the most convenient form with which experience -provides us.” But they didn’t see it. Mrs. St. Quinten liked the romance -of being “Sophronie,” and to Jack and Pat there was some fun in the -nicknames; but in the real thing for which I was striving they had no -actual faith. “If I could only lick them into shape,” I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></span> had said to -myself at the last moment, as I was knocking at Mrs. St. Quinten’s door.</p> - -<p>Mrs. St. Quinten was nearer, to my way of thinking, in this respect than -the others; and therefore I appealed to her while the tea-things were -still before her, thinking that I might obtain from her a suggestion in -favour of the conversations. The introductory poem and the Latin ballad -were gone. For spilt milk what wise man weeps? My verses had not even -left my pocket. Not one there knew that they had been written. And I was -determined that not one should know. But my conversations might still -live. Ah, if I could only blend the elements! “Sophronie,” said I, -taking courage, and speaking with a voice from which all sense of shame -and fear of failure were intended to be banished; “Sophronie will tell -us what she intends to do for us herself.”</p> - -<p>I looked into my friend’s face and saw that she liked it. But she turned -to her cousin, Churchill Smith, as though for approval,—and met none. -“We had better be in earnest,” said Churchill Smith, without moving a -muscle in his face or giving the slightest return to the glance which -had fallen upon him from his cousin.</p> - -<p>“No one can be more thoroughly in earnest than myself,” I replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a></span></p> - -<p>“Let us have no calling of names,” said Churchill Smith. “It is -inappropriate, and especially so when a lady is concerned.”</p> - -<p>“It has been done scores of times,” I rejoined; “and that too in the -very highest phases of civilisation, and among the most discreet of -matrons.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me to be twaddle,” said Walter Watt.</p> - -<p>“To my taste it’s abominably vulgar,” said Churchill Smith.</p> - -<p>“It has answered very well in other magazines,” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s just the reason we should avoid it,” said Walter Watt.</p> - -<p>“I think the thing has been about worn out,” said Pat Regan.</p> - -<p>I was now thrown upon my mettle. Rising again upon my legs,—for the -tea-things had now been removed,—I poured out my convictions, my hopes, -my fears, my ambitions. If we were thus to disagree on every point, how -should we ever blend the elements? If we could not forbear with one -another, how could we hope to act together upon the age as one great -force? If there was no agreement between us, how could we have the -strength of union? Then I adverted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a></span> with all the eloquence of which I -was master to the great objects to be attained by these imaginary -conversations. “That we may work together, each using his own -words,—that is my desire,” I said. And I pointed out to them how -willing I was to be the least among them in this contest, to content -myself with simply acting as chorus, and pointing to the lessons of -wisdom which would fall from out of their mouths. I must say that they -listened to me on this occasion with great patience. Churchill Smith sat -there, with his great hollow eyes fixed upon me; and it seemed to me, as -he looked, that even he was being persuaded. I threw myself into my -words, and implored them to allow me on this occasion to put them on the -road to success. When I had finished speaking I looked around, and for a -moment I thought they were convinced. There was just a whispered word -between our Sophronie and her cousin, and then she turned to me and -spoke. I was still standing, and I bent down over her to catch the -sentence she should pronounce. “Give it up,” she said.</p> - -<p>And I gave it up. With what a pang this was done few of my readers can -probably understand. It had been my dream from my youth upwards. I was -still young, no doubt, and looking back now I can see how insignificant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a></span> -were the aspirations which were then in question. But there is no period -in a man’s life in which it does not seem to him that his ambition is -then, at that moment, culminating for him,—till the time comes in which -he begins to own to himself that his life is not fit for ambition. I had -believed that I might be the means of doing something, and of doing it -in this way. Very vague indeed had been my notions;—most crude my -ideas. I can see that now. What it was that my interlocutors were to say -to each other I had never clearly known. But I had felt that in this way -each might speak his own speech without confusion and with delight to -the reader. The elements, I had thought, might be so blent. Then there -came that little whisper between Churchill Smith and our Sophronie, and -I found that I had failed. “Give it up,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course,” I said, as I sat down; “only just settle what you mean -to do.” For some few minutes I hardly heard what matters were being -discussed among them, and, indeed, during the remainder of the evening I -took no real share in the conversation. I was too deeply wounded even to -listen. I was resolute at first to abandon the whole affair. I had -already managed to scrape together the sum of money which had been named -as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a></span> share necessary for each of us to contribute towards the -production of the first number, and that should be altogether at their -disposal. As for editing a periodical in the management of which I was -not allowed to have the slightest voice, that was manifestly out of the -question. Nor could I contribute when every contribution which I -suggested was rejected before it was seen. My money I could give them, -and that no doubt would be welcome. With these gloomy thoughts my mind -was so full that I actually did not hear the words with which Walter -Watt and Churchill Smith were discussing the papers proposed for the -first number.</p> - -<p>There was nothing read that evening. No doubt it was visible to them all -that I was, as it were, a blighted spirit among them. They could not but -know how hard I had worked, how high had been my hopes, how keen was my -disappointment;—and they felt for me. Even Churchill Smith, as he shook -hands with me at the door, spoke a word of encouragement. “Do not expect -to do things too quickly,” said he. “I don’t expect to do anything,” -said I. “We may do something even yet,” said he, “if we can be humble, -and patient, and persevering. We may do something though it be ever so -little.” I was humble enough certainly, and knew that I had persevered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a></span> -As for patience;—well; I would endeavour even to be patient.</p> - -<p>But, prior to that, Mrs. St. Quinten had explained to me the programme -which had now been settled between the party. We were not to meet again -till that day fortnight, and then each of us was to come provided with -matter that would fill twenty-one printed pages of the magazine. This, -with the title-page, would comprise the whole first number. We might all -do as we liked with our own pages,—each within his allotted -space,—filling the whole with one essay, or dividing it into two or -three short papers. In this way there might be scope for Pat Regan’s -verse, or for any little badinage in which Jack Hallam might wish to -express himself. And in order to facilitate our work, and for the sake -of general accommodation, a page or two might be lent or borrowed. -“Whatever anybody writes then,” I asked, “must be admitted?” Mrs. St. -Quinten explained to me that this had not been their decision. The whole -matter produced was of course to be read,—each contributor’s paper by -the contributor himself, and it was to be printed and inserted in the -first number, if any three would vote for its insertion. On this -occasion the author, of course, would have no vote. The votes were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a></span> to -be handed in, written on slips of paper, so that there might be no -priority in voting,—so that no one should be required to express -himself before or after his neighbour. It was very complex, but I made -no objection.</p> - -<p>As I walked home alone,—for I had no spirits to join Regan and Jack -Hallam, who went in search of supper at the Haymarket,—I turned over -Smith’s words in my mind, and resolved that I would be humble, patient, -and persevering,—so that something might be done, though it were, as he -said, ever so little. I would struggle still. Though everything was to -be managed in a manner adverse to my own ideas and wishes, I would still -struggle. I would still hope that the “Panjandrum” might become a great -fact in the literature of my country.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ill_188.jpg" width="250" height="74" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a></span></p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/despair.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h3><a name="Part_II_Despair" id="Part_II_Despair"></a><span class="smcap">Part II.—Despair.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> FORTNIGHT had been given to us to prepare our matter, and during that -fortnight I saw none of my colleagues. I purposely kept myself apart -from them in order that I might thus give a fairer chance to the scheme -which had been adopted. Others might borrow or lend their pages, but I -would do the work allotted to me, and would attend the next meeting as -anxious for the establishment and maintenance of the Panjandrum as I had -been when I had hoped that the great consideration which I had given -personally to the matter might have been allowed to have some weight. -And gradually, as I devoted the first day of my fortnight to thinking of -my work, I taught myself to hope again, and to look forward to a time -when, by the sheer weight of my own industry and persistency, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a></span> might -acquire that influence with my companions of which I had dreamed of -becoming the master. After all, could I blame them for not trusting me, -when as yet I had given them no ground for such confidence? What had I -done that they should be willing to put their thoughts, their -aspirations, their very brains and inner selves under my control? But -something might be done which would force them to regard me as their -leader. So I worked hard at my twenty-one pages, and during the -fortnight spoke no word of the “Panjandrum” to any human being.</p> - -<p>But my work did not get itself done without very great mental distress. -The choice of a subject had been left free to each contributor. For -myself I would almost have preferred that some one should have dictated -to me the matter to which I should devote myself. How would it be with -our first number if each of us were to write a political essay of -exactly twenty-one pages, or a poem of that length in blank verse, or a -humorous narrative? Good Heavens! How were we to expect success with the -public if there were no agreement between ourselves as to the nature of -our contributions no editorial power in existence for our mutual -support. I went down and saw Mr. X., and found him to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a></span> almost -indifferent as to the magazine. “You see, Sir,” said he, “the matter -isn’t in my hands. If I can give any assistance, I shall be very happy; -but it seems to me that you want some one with experience.” “I could -have put them right if they’d have let me,” I replied. He was very -civil, but it was quite clear to me that Mr. X.’s interest in the matter -was over since the day of his banishment from Mrs. St. Quinten’s -tea-table. “What do you think is a good sort of subject,” I asked -him,—as it were cursorily; “with a view, you know, to the eye of the -public, just at the present moment?” He declined to suggest any subject, -and I was thrown back among the depths of my own feelings and -convictions. Now, could we have blended our elements together, and -discussed all this in really amicable council, each would have corrected -what there might have been of rawness in the other, and in the freedom -of conversation our wits would have grown from the warmth of mutual -encouragement. Such, at least, was my belief then. Since that I have -learned to look at the business with eyes less enthusiastic. Let a man -have learned the trick of the pen, let him not smoke too many cigars -overnight, and let him get into his chair within half an hour after -breakfast, and I can tell you almost to a line how much of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a></span> magazine -article he will produce in three hours. It does not much matter what the -matter be,—only this, that if his task be that of reviewing, he may be -expected to supply a double quantity. Three days, three out of the -fourteen, passed by, and I could think of no fitting subject on which to -begin the task I had appointed myself of teaching the British public. -Politics at the moment were rather dull, and no very great question was -agitating the minds of men. Lord Melbourne was Prime Minister, and had -in the course of the Session been subjected to the usual party attacks. -We intended to go a great deal further than Lord Melbourne in advocating -Liberal measures, and were disposed to regard him and his colleagues as -antiquated fogies in Statecraft; but, nevertheless, as against Sir -Robert Peel, we should have given him the benefit of our defence. I did -not, however, feel any special call to write up Lord Melbourne. Lord -John was just then our pet minister; but even on his behalf I did not -find myself capable of filling twenty-one closely-printed pages with -matter which should really stir the public mind. In a first number, to -stir the public mind is everything. I didn’t think that my colleagues -sufficiently realised that fact,—though I had indeed endeavoured to -explain it to them. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a></span> second, third, or fourth publication you may -descend gradually to an ordinary level; you may become,—not exactly -dull, for dulness in a magazine should be avoided,—but what I may -perhaps call “adagio” as compared with the “con forza” movement with -which the publication certainly should be opened. No reader expects to -be supplied from month to month with the cayenne pepper and shallot -style of literature; but in the preparation of a new literary banquet, -the first dish cannot be too highly spiced. I knew all that,—and then -turned it over in my mind whether I could not do something about the -ballot.</p> - -<p>It had never occurred to me before that there could be any difficulty in -finding a subject. I had to reject the ballot because at that period of -my life I had, in fact, hardly studied the subject. I was Liberal, and -indeed Radical, in all my political ideas. I was ready to “go in” for -anything that was undoubtedly Liberal and Radical. In a general way I -was as firm in my politics as any member of the House of Commons, and -had thought as much on public subjects as some of them. I was an eager -supporter of the ballot. But when I took the pen in my hand there came -upon me a feeling that,—that,—that I didn’t exactly know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a></span> how to say -anything about it that other people would care to read. The twenty-one -pages loomed before me as a wilderness, which, with such a staff, I -could never traverse. It had not occurred to me before that it would be -so difficult for a man to evoke from his mind ideas on a subject with -which he supposed himself to be familiar. And, such thoughts as I had, I -could clothe in no fitting words. On the fifth morning, driven to -despair, I did write a page or two upon the ballot; and then,—sinking -back in my chair, I began to ask myself a question, as to which doubt -was terrible to me. Was this the kind of work to which my gifts were -applicable? The pages which I had already written were manifestly not -adapted to stir the public mind. The sixth and seventh days I passed -altogether within my room, never once leaving the house. I drank green -tea. I eat meat very slightly cooked. I debarred myself from food for -several hours, so that the flesh might be kept well under. I sat up one -night, nearly till daybreak, with a wet towel round my head. On the next -I got up, and lit my own fire at four o’clock. Thinking that I might be -stretching the cord too tight, I took to reading a novel, but could not -remember the words as I read them, so painfully anxious was I to produce -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a></span> work I had undertaken to perform. On the morning of the eighth day -I was still without a subject.</p> - -<p>I felt like the man who undertook to play the violin at a dance for five -shillings and a dinner,—the dinner to be paid in advance; but who, when -making his bargain, had forgotten that he had never learned a note of -music! I had undertaken even to lead the band, and, as it seemed, could -not evoke a sound. A horrid idea came upon me that I was struck, as it -were, with a sudden idiotcy. My mind had absolutely fled from me. I sat -in my arm-chair, looking at the wall, counting the pattern on the paper, -and hardly making any real effort to think. All the world seemed at once -to have become a blank to me. I went on muttering to myself, “No, the -ballot won’t do;” as though there was nothing else but the ballot with -which to stir the public mind. On the eighth morning I made a minute and -quite correct calculation of the number of words that were demanded of -me,—taking the whole as forty-two pages, because of the necessity of -recopying,—and I found that about four hours a day would be required -for the mere act of writing. The paper was there, and the pen and -ink;—but beyond that there was nothing ready. I had thought to rack my -brain, but I began to doubt whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a></span> I had a brain to rack. Of all those -matters of public interest which had hitherto been to me the very salt -of my life, I could not remember one which could possibly be converted -into twenty-one pages of type. Unconsciously I kept on muttering words -about the ballot. “The ballot be ——!” I said, aloud to myself in my -agony.</p> - -<p>On that Sunday evening I began to consider what excuse I might best make -to my colleagues. I might send and say I was very sick. I might face -them, and quarrel with them,—because of their ill-treatment of me. Or I -might tell only half a lie, keeping within the letter of the truth, and -say that I had not yet finished my work. But no. I would not lie at all. -Late on that Sunday evening there came upon me a grand idea. I would -stand up before them and confess my inability to do the work I had -undertaken. I arranged the words of my little speech, and almost took -delight in them. “I, who have intended to be a teacher, am now aware -that I have hardly as yet become a pupil.” In such case the “Panjandrum” -would be at an end. The elements had not been happily blended; but -without me they could not, I was sure, be kept in any concert. The -“Panjandrum,”—which I had already learned to love as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a></span> mother loves -her first-born,—the dear old “Panjandrum” must perish before its birth. -I felt the pity of it! The thing itself,—the idea and theory of it, had -been very good. But how shall a man put forth a magazine when he finds -himself unable to write a page of it within the compass of a week? The -meditations of that Sunday were very bitter, but perhaps they were -useful. I had long since perceived that mankind are divided into two -classes,—those who shall speak, and those who shall listen to the -speech of others. In seeing clearly the existence of such a division I -had hitherto always assumed myself to belong to the first class. Might -it not be probable that I had made a mistake, and that it would become -me modestly to take my allotted place in the second?</p> - -<p>On the Monday morning I began to think that I was ill, and resolved that -I would take my hat and go out into the park, and breathe some air,—let -the “Panjandrum” live or die. Such another week as the last would, I -fancied, send me to Hanwell. It was now November, and at ten o’clock, -when I looked out, there was a soft drizzling rain coming down, and the -pavement of the street was deserted. It was just the morning for work, -were work possible. There still lay on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a></span> little table in the corner -of the room the square single sheet of paper, with its margin doubled -down, all fitted for the printer,—only that the sheet was still blank. -I looked at the page, and I rubbed my brow, and I gazed into the -street,—and then determined that a two hours’ ring round the Regent’s -Park was the only chance left for me.</p> - -<p>As I put on my thick boots and old hat and prepared myself for a -thorough wetting, I felt as though at last I had hit upon the right -plan. Violent exercise was needed, and then inspiration might come. -Inspiration would come the sooner if I could divest myself from all -effort in searching for it. I would take my walk and employ my mind, -simply, in observing the world around me. For some distance there was -but little of the world to observe. I was lodging at this period in a -quiet and eligible street not far from Theobald’s Road. Thence my way -lay through Bloomsbury Square, Russell Square, and Gower Street, and as -I went I found the pavement to be almost deserted. The thick soft rain -came down, not with a splash and various currents, running off and -leaving things washed though wet, but gently insinuating itself -everywhere, and covering even the flags with mud. I cared nothing for -the mud. I went through it all with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a></span> a happy scorn for the poor -creatures who were endeavouring to defend their clothes with umbrellas. -“Let the heavens do their worst to me,” I said to myself as I spun along -with eager steps; and I was conscious of a feeling that external -injuries could avail me nothing if I could only cure the weakness that -was within.</p> - -<p>The Park too was nearly empty. No place in London is ever empty now, but -thirty years ago the population was palpably thinner. I had not come -out, however, to find a crowd. A damp boy sweeping a crossing, or an old -woman trying to sell an apple, was sufficient to fill my mind with -thoughts as to the affairs of my fellow-creatures. Why should it have -been allotted to that old woman to sit there, placing all her hopes on -the chance sale of a few apples, the cold rain entering her very bones -and driving rheumatism into all her joints, while another old woman, of -whom I had read a paragraph that morning, was appointed to entertain -royalty, and go about the country with five or six carriages and four? -Was there injustice in this,—and if so, whence had the injustice come? -The reflection was probably not new; but, if properly thought out, might -it not suffice for the one-and-twenty pages? “Sally Brown, the -barrow-woman, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a></span><i>v.</i> the Duchess of ——!” Would it not be possible to -make the two women plead against each other in some imaginary court of -justice, beyond the limits of our conventional life,—some court in -which the duchess should be forced to argue her own case, and in which -the barrow-woman would decidedly get the better of her? If this could be -done how happy would have been my walk through the mud and slush!</p> - -<p>As I was thinking of this I saw before me on the pathway a stout -woman,—apparently middle-aged, but her back was towards me,—leading a -girl who perhaps might be ten or eleven years old. They had come up one -of the streets from the New Road to the Park, and were hurrying along so -fast that the girl, who held the woman by the arm, was almost running. -The woman was evidently a servant, but in authority,—an upper nurse -perhaps, or a housekeeper. Why she should have brought her charge out in -the rain was a mystery; but I could see from the elasticity of the -child’s step that she was happy and very eager. She was a well-made -girl, with long well-rounded legs, which came freely down beneath her -frock, with strong firm boots, a straw hat, and a plaid shawl wound -carefully round her throat and waist. As I followed them those rapid -legs of hers seemed almost to twinkle in their motion as she kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a></span> pace -with the stout woman who was conducting her. The mud was all over her -stockings; but still there was about her an air of well-to-do comfort -which made me feel that the mud was no more than a joke to her. Every -now and then I caught something of a glimpse of her face as she half -turned herself round in talking to the woman. I could see, or at least I -could fancy that I saw, that she was fair, with large round eyes and -soft light brown hair. Children did not then wear wigs upon their backs, -and I was driven to exercise my fancy as to her locks. At last I -resolved that I would pass them and have one look at her—and I did so. -It put me to my best pace to do it, but gradually I overtook them and -could hear that the girl never ceased talking as she ran. As I went by -them I distinctly heard the words, “Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s -like!” “You’ll see, Miss,” said Anne. I looked back and saw that she was -exactly as I had thought,—a fair, strong, healthy girl, with round eyes -and large mouth, broad well-formed nose, and light hair. Who was the -“he,” as to whom her anxiety was so great,—the “he” whom she was -tripping along through the rain and mud to see, and kiss, and love, and -wonder at? And why hadn’t she been taken in a cab? Would she be allowed -to take off those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a></span> very dirty stockings before she was introduced to her -new-found brother, or wrapped in the arms of her stranger father?</p> - -<p>I saw no more of them, and heard no further word; but I thought a great -deal of the girl. Ah, me, if she could have been a young unknown, -newly-found sister of my own, how warmly would I have welcomed her! How -little should I have cared for the mud on her stockings; how closely -would I have folded her in my arms; how anxious would I have been with -Anne as to those damp clothes; what delight would I have had in feeding -her, coaxing her, caressing her, and playing with her! There had seemed -to belong to her a wholesome strong health, which it had made me for the -moment happy even to witness. And then the sweet, eloquent anxiety of -her voice,—“Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s like!” While I heard her -voice I had seemed to hear and know so much of her! And then she had -passed out of my ken for ever!</p> - -<p>I thought no more about the duchess and the apple-woman, but devoted my -mind entirely to the girl and her brother. I was persuaded that it must -be a brother. Had it been a father there would have been more of awe in -her tone. It certainly was a brother. Gradually, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a></span> the unforced -imagination came to play upon the matter, a little picture fashioned -itself in my mind. The girl was my own sister—a sister whom I had never -seen till she was thus brought to me for protection and love; but she -was older, just budding into womanhood, instead of running beside her -nurse with twinkling legs. There, however, was the same broad, honest -face, the same round eyes, the same strong nose and mouth. She had come -to me for love and protection, having no other friend in the world to -trust. But, having me, I proudly declared to myself that she needed -nothing further. In two short months I was nothing to her,—or almost -nothing. I had a friend, and in two little months my friend had become -so much more than I ever could have been!</p> - -<p>These wondrous castles in the air never get themselves well built when -the mind, with premeditated skill and labour, sets itself to work to -build them. It is when they come uncalled for that they stand erect and -strong before the mind’s eye, with every mullioned window perfect, the -rounded walls all there, the embrasures cut, the fosse dug, and the -drawbridge down. As I had made this castle for myself, as I had sat with -this girl by my side, calling her the sweetest names, as I had seen her -blush when my friend came near her, and had known at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a></span> once, with a mixed -agony and joy, how the thing was to be, I swear that I never once -thought of the “Panjandrum.” I walked the whole round of the Regent’s -Park, perfecting the building; and I did perfect it, took the girl to -church, gave her away to my friend Walker, and came back and sobbed and -sputtered out my speech at the little breakfast, before it occurred to -me to suggest to myself that I might use the thing.</p> - -<p>Churchill Smith and Walter Watt had been dead against a novel; and, -indeed, the matter had been put to the vote, and it had been decided -that there should be no novel. But, what is a novel? The purport of that -vote had been to negative a long serial tale, running on from number to -number, in a manner which has since become well understood by the -reading public. I had thought my colleagues wrong, and so thinking, it -was clearly my duty to correct their error, if I might do so without -infringing that loyalty and general obedience to expressed authority -which are so essential to such a society as ours. Before I had got back -to Theobald’s Road I had persuaded myself that a short tale would be the -very thing for the first number. It might not stir the public mind. To -do that I would leave to Churchill Smith and Walter Watt. But a -well-formed little story, such as that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></span> which I had now the full -possession, would fall on the readers of the “Panjandrum” like sweet -rain in summer, making things fresh and green and joyous. I was quite -sure that it was needed. Walter Watt might say what he pleased, and -Churchill Smith might look at me as sternly as he would, sitting there -silent with his forehead on his hand; but I knew at least as much about -a magazine as they did. At any rate, I would write my tale. That very -morning it had seemed to me to be impossible to get anything written. -Now, as I hurried up stairs to get rid of my wet clothes, I felt that I -could not take the pen quickly enough into my hand. I had a thing to -say, and I would say it. If I could complete my story,—and I did not -doubt its completion from the very moment in which I realised its -conception,—I should be saved, at any rate, from the disgrace of -appearing empty-handed in Mrs. St. Quinten’s parlour. Within a quarter -of an hour of my arrival at home I had seated myself at my table and -written the name of the tale,—“The New Inmate.”</p> - -<p>I doubt whether any five days in my life were ever happier than those -which were devoted to this piece of work. I began it that Monday -afternoon, and finished it on the Friday night. While I was at the task -all doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a></span> vanished from my mind. I did not care a fig for Watt or -Smith, and was quite sure that I should carry Mrs. St. Quinten with me. -Each night I copied fairly what I had written in the day, and I came to -love the thing with an exceeding love. There was a deal of pathos in -it,—at least so I thought,—and I cried over it like a child. I had -strained all my means to prepare for the coming of the girl,—I am now -going back for a moment to my castle in the air,—and had furnished for -her a little sitting-room and as pretty a white-curtained chamber as a -girl ever took pleasure in calling her own. There were books for her, -and a small piano, and a low sofa, and all little feminine belongings. I -had said to myself that everything should be for her, and I had sold my -horse,—the horse of my imagination, the reader will understand, for I -had never in truth possessed such an animal,—and told my club friends -that I should no longer be one of them. Then the girl had come, and had -gone away to Walker,—as it seemed to me at once,—to Walker, who still -lived in lodgings, and had not even a second sitting-room for her -comfort,—to Walker, who was, indeed, a good fellow in his way, but -possessed of no particular attractions either in wit, manners, or -beauty! I wanted them to change with me, and to take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a></span> my pretty home. I -should have been delighted to go to a garret, leaving them everything. -But Walker was proud, and would not have it so; and the girl protested -that the piano and the white dimity curtains were nothing to her. Walker -was everything;—Walker, of whom she had never heard, when she came but -a few weeks since to me as the only friend left to her in the world! I -worked myself up to such a pitch of feeling over my story, that I could -hardly write it for my tears. I saw myself standing all alone in that -pretty sitting-room after they were gone, and I pitied myself with an -exceeding pity. “Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.” If -success was to be obtained by obeying that instruction, I might -certainly expect success.</p> - -<p>The way in which my work went without a pause was delightful. When the -pen was not in my hand I was longing for it. While I was walking, -eating, or reading, I was still thinking of my story. I dreamt of it. It -came to me to be a matter that admitted of no doubt. The girl with the -muddy stockings, who had thus provided me in my need, was to me a -blessed memory. When I kissed my sister’s brow, on her first arrival, -she was in my arms,—palpably. All her sweetnesses were present to me, -as though I had her there, in the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a></span> street turning out of -Theobald’s Road. To this moment I can distinguish the voice in which she -spoke to me that little whispered word, when I asked her whether she -cared for Walker. When one thinks of it, the reality of it all is -appalling. What need is there of a sister or a friend in the flesh,—a -sister or a friend with probably so many faults,—when by a little -exercise of the mind they may be there at your elbow, faultless? It came -to pass that the tale was more dear to me than the magazine. As I read -it through for the third or fourth time on the Sunday morning, I was -chiefly anxious for the “Panjandrum,” in order that “The New Inmate” -might see the world.</p> - -<p>We were to meet that evening at eight o’clock, and it was understood -that the sitting would be prolonged to a late hour, because of the -readings. It would fall to my lot to take the second reading, as coming -next to Mrs. St. Quinten, and I should, at any rate, not be subjected to -a weary audience. We had, however, promised each other to be very -patient; and I was resolved that, even to the production of Churchill -Smith, who would be the last, I would give an undivided and eager -attention. I determined also in my joy that I would vote against the -insertion of no colleague’s contribution. Were we not in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a></span> a boat -together, and would not each do his best? Even though a paper might be -dull, better a little dulness than the crushing of a friend’s spirit. I -fear that I thought that “The New Inmate” might atone for much dulness. -I dined early on that day; then took a walk round the Regent’s Park, to -renew my thoughts on the very spot on which they had first occurred to -me, and after that, returning home, gave a last touch to my work. Though -it had been written after so hurried a fashion, there was not a word in -it which I had not weighed and found to be fitting.</p> - -<p>I was the first at Mrs. St. Quinten’s house, and found that lady very -full of the magazine. She asked, however, no questions as to my -contribution. Of her own she at once spoke to me. “What do you think I -have done at last?” she said. In my reply to her question I made some -slight allusion to “The New Inmate,” but I don’t think she caught the -words. “I have reviewed Bishop Berkeley’s whole Theory on Matter,” said -she. What feeling I expressed by my gesture I cannot say, but I think it -must have been one of great awe. “And I have done it exhaustively,” she -continued; “so that the subject need not be continued. Churchill does -not like continuations.” Perhaps it did not signify much. If she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a></span> were -heavy, I at any rate was light. If her work should prove difficult of -comprehension, mine was easy. If she spoke only to the wise and old, I -had addressed myself to babes and sucklings. I said something as to the -contrast, again naming my little story. But she was too full of Bishop -Berkeley to heed me. If she had worked as I had worked, of course she -was full of Bishop Berkeley. To me, “The New Inmate” at that moment was -more than all the bishops.</p> - -<p>The other men soon came in, clustering together, and our number was -complete. Regan whispered to me that Jack Hallam had not written a line. -“And you?” I asked. “Oh, I am all right,” said he. “I don’t suppose -they’ll let it pass; but that’s their affair;—not mine.” Watt and Smith -took their places almost without speaking, and preparation was made for -the preliminary feast of the body. The after-feast was a matter of such -vital importance to us that we hardly possessed our customary -light-hearted elasticity. There was, however, an air of subdued triumph -about our “Lydia,”—of triumph subdued by the presence of her cousin. As -for myself, I was supremely happy. I said a word to Watt, asking him as -to his performance. “I don’t suppose you will like it,” he replied; “but -it is at any rate a fair<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a></span> specimen of that which it has been my ambition -to produce.” I assured him with enthusiasm that I was thoroughly -prepared to approve, and that, too, without carping criticism. “But we -must be critics,” he observed. Of Churchill Smith I asked no question.</p> - -<p>When we had eaten and drunk we began the work of the evening by giving -in the names of our papers, and describing the nature of the work we had -done. Mrs. St. Quinten was the first, and read her title from a scrap of -paper. “A Review of Bishop Berkeley’s Theory.” Churchill Smith remarked -that it was a very dangerous subject. The lady begged him to wait till -he should hear the paper read. “Of course I will hear it read,” said her -cousin. To me it was evident that Smith would object to this essay -without any scruple, if he did not in truth approve of it. Then it was -my turn, and I explained in the quietest tone which I could assume that -I had written a little tale called “The New Inmate.” It was very simple, -I said, but I trusted it might not be rejected on that score. There was -silence for a moment, and I prompted Regan to proceed; but I was -interrupted by Walter Watt. “I thought,” said he, “that we had -positively decided against ‘prose fiction.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> I protested that the -decision had been given against novels, against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a></span> long serial stories to -be continued from number to number. This was a little thing, completed -within my twenty-one allotted pages. “Our vote was taken as to prose -fiction,” said Watt. I appealed to Hallam, who at once took my part,—as -also did Regan. “Walter is quite correct as to the purport of our -decision,” said Churchill Smith. I turned to Mrs. St. Quinten. “I don’t -see why we shouldn’t have a short story,” she said. I then declared that -with their permission I would at any rate read it, and again requested -Regan to proceed. Upon this Walter Watt rose upon his feet, and made a -speech. The vote had been taken, and could not be rescinded. After such -a vote it was not open to me to read my story. The story, no doubt, was -very good,—he was pleased to say so,—but it was not matter of the sort -which they intended to use. Seeing the purpose which they had in view, -he thought that the reading of the story would be waste of time. “It -will clearly be waste of time,” said Churchill Smith. Walter Watt went -on to explain to us that if from one meeting to another we did not allow -ourselves to be bound by our own decisions, we should never appear -before the public.</p> - -<p>I will acknowledge that I was enraged. It seemed to me impossible that -such folly should be allowed to prevail,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a></span> or that after all my efforts I -should be treated by my own friends after such a fashion. I also got -upon my legs and protested loudly that Mr. Watt and Mr. Smith did not -even know what had been the subject under discussion, when the vote -adverse to novels had been taken. No record was kept of our proceedings; -and, as I clearly showed to them, Mr. Regan and Mr. Hallam were quite as -likely to hold correct views on this subject as were Mr. Watt and Mr. -Smith. All calling of men Pat, and Jack, and Walter, was for the moment -over. Watt admitted the truth of this argument, and declared that they -must again decide whether my story of “The New Inmate” was or was not a -novel in the sense intended when the previous vote was taken. If -not,—if the decision on that point should be in my favour,—then the -privilege of reading it would at any rate belong to me. I believed so -thoroughly in my own work that I desired nothing beyond this. We went to -work, therefore, and took the votes on the proposition,—Was or was not -the story of “The New Inmate” debarred by the previous resolution -against the admission of novels?</p> - -<p>The decision manifestly rested with Mrs. St. Quinten. I was master, -easily master, of three votes. Hallam and Regan were altogether with me, -and in a matter of such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a></span> import I had no hesitation in voting for -myself. Had the question been the acceptance or rejection of the story -for the magazine, then, by the nature of our constitution, I should have -had no voice in the matter. But this was not the case, and I recorded my -own vote in my own favour without a blush. Having done so, I turned to -Mrs. St. Quinten with an air of supplication in my face of which I -myself was aware, and of which I became at once ashamed. She looked -round at me almost furtively, keeping her eyes otherwise fixed upon -Churchill Smith’s immovable countenance. I did not condescend to speak a -word to her. What words I had to say, I had spoken to them all, and was -confident in the justice of my cause. I quickly dropped that look of -supplication and threw myself back in my chair. The moment was one of -intense interest, almost of agony, but I could not allow myself to think -that in very truth my work would be rejected by them before it was seen. -If such were to be their decision, how would it be possible that the -“Panjandrum” should ever be brought into existence? Who could endure -such ignominy and still persevere?</p> - -<p>There was silence among us, which to me in the intensity of my feelings -seemed to last for minutes. Regan was the first to speak. “Now, Mrs. St. -Quinten,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a></span> said, “it all rests with you.” An idea shot across my mind -at the moment, of the folly of which we had been guilty in placing our -most vital interests in the hands of a woman merely on the score of -gallantry. Two votes had been given to her as against one of ours simply -because,—she was a woman. It may be that there had been something in -the arrangement of compensation for the tea and muffins; but if so, how -poor was the cause for so great an effect! She sat there the arbiter of -our destinies. “You had better give your vote,” said Smith roughly. “You -think it is a novel?” she said, appealing to him. “There can be no doubt -of it,” he replied; “a novel is not a novel because it is long or short. -Such is the matter which we intended to declare that we would not put -forth in our magazine.” “I protest,” said I, jumping up,—“I protest -against this interference.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a loud and very angry discussion whether Churchill Smith -was justified in his endeavour to bias Mrs. St. Quinten; and we were -nearly brought to a vote upon that. I myself was very anxious to have -that question decided,—to have any question decided in which Churchill -Smith could be shown to be in the wrong. But no one would back me, and -it seemed to me as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a></span> even Regan and Jack Hallam were falling off -from me,—though Jack had never yet restored to me that article of -clothing to which allusion was made in the first chapter of this little -history, and I had been almost as anxious for Pat’s Latin translation as -for my own production. It was decided without a vote that any amount of -free questioning as to each other’s opinions, and of free answering, was -to be considered fair. “I tell her my opinion. You can tell her yours,” -said Churchill Smith. “It is my opinion,” said I, “that you want to -dictate to everybody and to rule the whole thing.” “I think we did mean -to exclude all story-telling,” said Mrs. St. Quinten, and so the -decision was given against me.</p> - -<p>Looking back at it I know that they were right on the exact point then -under discussion. They had intended to exclude all stories. But,—heaven -and earth,—was there ever such folly as that of which they had been -guilty in coming to such a resolution? I have often suggested to myself -since, that had “The New Inmate” been read on that evening, the -“Panjandrum” might have become a living reality, and that the fortieth -volume of the publication might now have been standing on the shelves of -many a well-filled library. The decision, however, had been given -against me, and I sat like one stricken dumb,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a></span> paralysed, or turned to -stone. I remember it as though it were yesterday. I did not speak a -word, but simply moving my chair an inch or two, I turned my face away -from the lady who had thus blasted all my hopes. I fear that my eyes -were wet, and that a hot tear trickled down each cheek. No note of -triumph was sounded, and I verily believe they all suffered in my too -conspicuous sufferings. To both Watt and Smith it had been a matter of -pure conscience. Mrs. St. Quinten, woman-like, had obeyed the man in -whose strength she trusted. There was silence for a few moments, and -then Watt invited Regan to proceed. He had divided his work into three -portions, but what they were called, whether they were verse or prose, -translations or original, comic or serious, I never knew. I could not -listen then. For me to continue my services to the “Panjandrum” was an -impossibility. I had been crushed—so crushed that I had not vitality -left me to escape from the room, or I should not have remained there. -Pat Regan’s papers were nothing to me now. Watt I knew had written an -essay called “The Real Aristocrat,” which was published elsewhere -afterwards. Jack Hallam’s work was not ready. There was something said -of his delinquency, but I cared not what. I only wish that my work also -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a></span> been unready. Churchill Smith also had some essay, “On the Basis of -Political Right.” That, if I remember rightly, was its title. I often -talked the matter over in after days with Pat Regan, and I know that -from the moment in which my consternation was made apparent to them, the -thing went very heavily. At the time, and for some hours after the -adverse decision, I was altogether unmanned and unable to collect my -thoughts. Before the evening was over there occurred a further episode -in our affairs which awakened me.</p> - -<p>The names of the papers had been given in, and Mrs. St. Quinten began to -read her essay. Nothing more than the drone of her voice reached the -tympanum of my ears. I did not look at her, or think of her, or care to -hear a word that she uttered. I believe I almost slept in my agony; but -sleeping or waking I was turning over in my mind, wearily and incapably, -the idea of declining to give any opinion as to the propriety of -inserting or rejecting the review of Bishop Berkeley’s theory, on the -score that my connection with the “Panjandrum” had been severed. But the -sound of the reading went on, and I did not make up my mind. I hardly -endeavoured to make it up, but sat dreamily revelling in my own -grievance, and pondering over the suicidal folly of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a></span> “Panjandrum” -Company. The reading went on and on without interruption, without -question and without applause. I know I slept during some portion of the -time, for I remember that Regan kicked my shin. And I remember, also, a -feeling of compassion for the reader, who was hardly able to rouse -herself up to the pitch of spirit necessary for the occasion,—but -allowed herself to be quelled by the cold steady gaze of her cousin -Churchill. Watt sat immovable, with his hands in his trousers pockets, -leaning back in his chair, the very picture of dispassionate criticism. -Jack Hallam amused himself by firing paper pellets at Regan, sundry of -which struck me on the head and face. Once Mrs. St. Quinten burst forth -in offence. “Mr. Hallam,” she said, “I am sorry to be so tedious.” “I -like it of all things,” said Jack. It was certainly very long. Half -comatose, as I was, with my own sufferings, I had begun to ask myself -before Mrs. St. Quinten had finished her task whether it would be -possible to endure three other readings lengthy as this. Ah! if I might -have read “My New Inmate,” how different would the feeling have been! Of -what the lady said about Berkeley, I did not catch a word; but the name -of the philosophical bishop seemed to be repeated usque ad nauseam. Of a -sudden I was aware that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a></span> I had snored,—a kick from Pat Regan wounded my -shin; a pellet from Jack Hallam fell on my nose; and the essay was -completed. I looked up, and could see that drops of perspiration were -standing on the lady’s brow.</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and even I was now aroused to attention. We were to -write our verdicts on paper,—simply the word, “Insert,” or -“Reject,”—and what should I write? Instead of doing so, should I -declare at once that I was severed from the “Panjandrum” by the -treatment I had received? That I was severed, in fact, I was very sure. -Could any human flesh and blood have continued its services to any -magazine after such humiliation as I had suffered? Nevertheless it might -perhaps be more manly were I to accept the responsibility of voting on -the present occasion,—and if so, how should I vote? I had not followed -a single sentence, and yet I was convinced that matter such as that -would never stir the British public mind. But as the thing went, we were -not called upon for our formal verdicts. “Lydia,” as soon as she had -done reading, turned at once to her cousin. She cared for no verdict but -his. “Well,” said she, “what do you think of it?” At first he did not -answer. “I know I read it badly,” she continued, “but I hope you caught -my meaning.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a></span></p> - -<p>“It is utter nonsense,” he said, without moving his head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Churchill!” she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“It is utter nonsense,” he repeated. “It is out of the question that it -should be published.” She glanced her eyes round the company, but -ventured no spoken appeal. Jack Hallam said something about unnecessary -severity and want of courtesy. Watt simply shook his head. “I say it is -trash,” said Smith, rising from his chair. “You shall not disgrace -yourself. Give it to me.” She put her hand upon the manuscript, as -though to save it. “Give it to me,” he said sternly, and took it from -her unresisting grasp. Then he stalked to the fire, and tearing the -sheets in pieces, thrust them between the bars.</p> - -<p>Of course there was a great commotion. We were all up in a moment, -standing around her as though to console her. Miss Collins came in and -absolutely wept over her ill-used friend. For the instant I had -forgotten “The New Inmate,” as though it had never been written. She was -deluged in tears, hiding her face upon the table; but she uttered no -word of reproach, and ventured not a syllable in defence of her essay. -“I didn’t think it was so bad as that,” she murmured amidst her sobs. I -did not dare to accuse the man of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a></span> cruelty. I myself had become so small -among them that my voice would have had no weight. But I did think him -cruel, and hated him on her account as well as on my own. Jack Hallam -remarked that for this night, at least, our work must be considered to -be over. “It is over altogether,” said Churchill Smith. “I have known -that for weeks past; and I have known, too, what fools we have been to -make the attempt. I hope, at least, that we may have learnt a lesson -that will be of service to us. Perhaps you had better go now, and I’ll -just say a word or two to my cousin before I leave her.”</p> - -<p>How we got out of the room I hardly remember. There was, no doubt, some -leave-taking between us four and the unfortunate Lydia, but it amounted, -I think, to no more than mere decency required. To Churchill Smith I -know that I did not speak. I never saw either of the cousins again; nor, -as has been already told, did I ever distinctly hear what was their fate -in life. And yet how intimately connected with them had I been for the -last six or eight months! For not calling upon her, so that we might -have mingled the tears of our disappointment together, I much blamed -myself; but the subject which we must have discussed,—the failure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a></span> -namely, of the “Panjandrum,”—was one so sore and full of sorrow, that I -could not bring myself to face the interview. Churchill Smith, I know, -made various efforts to obtain literary employment; but never succeeded, -because he would yield no inch in the expression of his own violent -opinions. I doubt whether he ever earned as much as £10 by his writings. -I heard of his living,—and almost starving,—still in London, and then -that he went to fight for Polish freedom. It is believed that he died in -a Russian prison, but I could never find any one who knew with accuracy -the circumstances of his fate. He was a man who could go forth with his -life in his hand, and in meeting death could feel that he encountered -only that which he had expected. Mrs. St. Quinten certainly vanished -during the next summer from the street in which she had bestowed upon us -so many muffins, and what became of her I never heard.</p> - -<p>On that evening Pat Regan and I consoled ourselves together as best we -might, Jack Hallam and Walter Watt having parted from us under the walls -of Marylebone Workhouse. Pat and I walked down to a modest house of -refreshment with which we were acquainted in Leicester Square, and there -arranged the obsequies of the “Panjandrum” over a pint of stout and a -baked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a></span> potato. Pat’s equanimity was marvellous. It had not even yet been -ruffled, although the indignities thrown upon him had almost surpassed -those inflicted on myself. His “Lord Bateman” had been first rejected; -and, after that, his subsequent contributions had been absolutely -ignored, merely because Mr. Churchill Smith had not approved his -cousin’s essay upon Bishop Berkeley! “It was rot; real rot,” said Pat, -alluding to Lydia’s essay, and apologising for Smith. “But why not have -gone on and heard yours?” said I. “Mine would have been rot, too,” said -Pat. “It isn’t so easy, after all, to do this kind of thing.”</p> - -<p>We agreed that the obsequies should be very private. Indeed, as the -“Panjandrum” had as yet not had a body of its own, it was hardly -necessary to open the earth for the purposes of interment. We agreed -simply to say nothing about it to any one. I would go to Mr. X. and tell -him that we had abandoned our project, and there would be an end of it. -As the night advanced, I offered to read “The New Inmate” to my friend; -but he truly remarked that of reading aloud they had surely had enough -that night. When he reflected that but for the violence of Mr. Smith’s -proceedings we might even then, at that moment, have been listening to -an essay upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a></span> the “Basis of Political Rights,” I think that he rejoiced -that the “Panjandrum” was no more.</p> - -<p>On the following morning I called on Mr. X., and explained to him that -portion of the occurrences of the previous evening with which it was -necessary that he should be made acquainted. I thought that he was -rather brusque; but I cannot complain that he was, upon the whole, -unfriendly. “The truth is, Sir,” he said, “you none of you exactly knew -what you wanted to be after. You were very anxious to do something -grand, but hadn’t got this grand thing clear before your eye. People, -you know, may have too much genius, or may have too little.” Which of -the two he thought was our case he did not say; but he did promise to -hear my story of “The New Inmate” read, with reference to its possible -insertion in another periodical publication with which he had lately -become connected. Perhaps some of my readers may remember its appearance -in the first number of the “Marble Arch,” where it attracted no little -attention, and was supposed to have given assistance, not altogether -despicable, towards the establishment of that excellent periodical.</p> - -<p>Such was the history of the “Panjandrum.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="THE_SPOTTED_DOG" id="THE_SPOTTED_DOG"></a>THE SPOTTED DOG.</h2> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/spotted.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>THE SPOTTED DOG.</h2> - -<h3><a name="Part_I_the_Attempt" id="Part_I_the_Attempt"></a><span class="smcap">Part I.—the Attempt.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>OME few years since we received the following letter:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I write to you for literary employment, and I implore you to -provide me with it if it be within your power to do so. My capacity -for such work is not small, and my acquirements are considerable. -My need is very great, and my views in regard to remuneration are -modest. I was educated at ——, and was afterwards a scholar of -—— College, Cambridge. I left the university without a degree, in -consequence of a quarrel with the college tutor. I was rusticated, -and not allowed to return. After that I became for awhile a student -for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a></span> Chancery Bar. I then lived for some years in Paris, and I -understand and speak French as though it were my own language. For -all purposes of literature I am equally conversant with German. I -read Italian. I am, of course, familiar with Latin. In regard to -Greek I will only say that I am less ignorant of it than -nineteen-twentieths of our national scholars. I am well read in -modern and ancient history. I have especially studied political -economy. I have not neglected other matters necessary to the -education of an enlightened man,—unless it be natural philosophy. -I can write English, and can write it with rapidity. I am a -poet;—at least, I so esteem myself. I am not a believer. My -character will not bear investigation;—in saying which, I mean you -to understand, not that I steal or cheat, but that I live in a -dirty lodging, spend many of my hours in a public-house, and cannot -pay tradesmen’s bills where tradesmen have been found to trust me. -I have a wife and four children,—which burden forbids me to free -myself from all care by a bare bodkin. I am just past forty, and -since I quarrelled with my family because I could not understand -The Trinity, I have never been the owner of a ten-pound note. My -wife was not a lady. I married her because I was determined to take -refuge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a></span> from the conventional thraldom of so-called ‘gentlemen’ -amidst the liberty of the lower orders. My life, of course, has -been a mistake. Indeed, to live at all,—is it not a folly?</p> - -<p>“I am at present employed on the staff of two or three of the -‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ Your august highness in literature has perhaps -never heard of a ‘Penny Dreadful.’ I write for them matter, which -we among ourselves call ‘blood and nastiness,’—and which is copied -from one to another. For this I am paid forty-five shillings a -week. For thirty shillings a week I will do any work that you may -impose upon me for the term of six months. I write this letter as a -last effort to rescue myself from the filth of my present position, -but I entertain no hope of any success. If you ask it I will come -and see you; but do not send for me unless you mean to employ me, -as I am ashamed of myself. I live at No. 3, Cucumber Court, Gray’s -Inn Lane;—but if you write, address to the care of Mr. Grimes, the -Spotted Dog, Liquorpond Street. Now I have told you my whole life, -and you may help me if you will. I do not expect an answer.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 20%;">“Yours truly,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Julius Mackenzie</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a></span></p> - -<p>Indeed he had told us his whole life, and what a picture of a life he -had drawn! There was something in the letter which compelled attention. -It was impossible to throw it, half read, into the waste-paper basket, -and to think of it not at all. We did read it, probably twice, and then -put ourselves to work to consider how much of it might be true and how -much false. Had the man been a boy at ——, and then a scholar of his -college? We concluded that, so far, the narrative was true. Had he -abandoned his dependence on wealthy friends from conscientious scruples, -as he pretended; or had other and less creditable reasons caused the -severance? On that point we did not quite believe him. And then, as to -those assertions made by himself in regard to his own capabilities,—how -far did they gain credence with us? We think that we believed them all, -making some small discount,—with the exception of that one in which he -proclaimed himself to be a poet. A man may know whether he understands -French, and be quite ignorant whether the rhymed lines which he produces -are or are not poetry. When he told us that he was an infidel, and that -his character would not bear investigation, we went with him altogether. -His allusion to suicide we regarded as a foolish boast. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a></span> gave him -credit for the four children, but were not certain about the wife. We -quite believed the general assertion of his impecuniosity. That stuff -about “conventional thraldom” we hope we took at its worth. When he told -us that his life had been a mistake he spoke to us Gospel truth.</p> - -<p>Of the “Penny Dreadfuls,” and of “blood and nastiness,” so called, we -had never before heard, but we did not think it remarkable that a man so -gifted as our correspondent should earn forty-five shillings a week by -writing for the cheaper periodicals. It did not, however, appear to us -probable that any one so remunerated would be willing to leave that -engagement for another which should give him only thirty shillings. When -he spoke of the “filth of his present position,” our heart began to -bleed for him. We know what it is so well, and can fathom so accurately -the degradation of the educated man who, having been ambitious in the -career of literature, falls into that slough of despond by which the -profession of literature is almost surrounded. There we were with him, -as brothers together. When we came to Mr. Grimes and the Spotted Dog, in -Liquorpond Street, we thought that we had better refrain from answering -the letter,—by which decision on our part he would not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a></span> according to -his own statement, be much disappointed. Mr. Julius Mackenzie! Perhaps -at this very time rich uncles and aunts were buttoning up their pockets -against the sinner because of his devotion to the Spotted Dog. There are -well-to-do people among the Mackenzies. It might be the case that that -heterodox want of comprehension in regard to The Trinity was the cause -of it: but we have observed that in most families, grievous as are -doubts upon such sacred subjects, they are not held to be cause of -hostility so invincible as is a thorough-going devotion to a Spotted -Dog. If the Spotted Dog had brought about these troubles, any -interposition from ourselves would be useless.</p> - -<p>For twenty-four hours we had given up all idea of answering the letter; -but it then occurred to us that men who have become disreputable as -drunkards do not put forth their own abominations when making appeals -for aid. If this man were really given to drink he would hardly have -told us of his association with the public-house. Probably he was much -at the Spotted Dog, and hated himself for being there. The more we -thought of it the more we fancied that the gist of his letter might be -true. It seemed that the man had desired to tell the truth as he himself -believed it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a></span></p> - -<p>It so happened that at that time we had been asked to provide an index -to a certain learned manuscript in three volumes. The intended publisher -of the work had already procured an index from a professional compiler -of such matters; but the thing had been so badly done that it could not -be used. Some knowledge of the classics was required, though it was not -much more than a familiarity with the names of Latin and Greek authors, -to which perhaps should be added some acquaintance, with the names also, -of the better-known editors and commentators. The gentleman who had had -the task in hand had failed conspicuously, and I had been told by my -enterprising friend Mr. X——, the publisher, that £25 would be freely -paid on the proper accomplishment of the undertaking. The work, -apparently so trifling in its nature, demanded a scholar’s acquirements, -and could hardly be completed in less than two months. We had snubbed -the offer, saying that we should be ashamed to ask an educated man to -give his time and labour for so small a remuneration;—but to Mr. Julius -Mackenzie £25 for two months’ work would manifestly be a godsend. If Mr. -Julius Mackenzie did in truth possess the knowledge for which he gave -himself credit; if he was, as he said, “familiar with Latin,” and was -“less ignorant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a></span> of Greek than nineteen-twentieths of our national -scholars,” he might perhaps be able to earn this £25. We certainly knew -no one else who could and who would do the work properly for that money. -We therefore wrote to Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and requested his presence. -Our note was short, cautious, and also courteous. We regretted that a -man so gifted should be driven by stress of circumstances to such need. -We could undertake nothing, but if it would not put him to too much -trouble to call upon us, we might perhaps be able to suggest something -to him. Precisely at the hour named Mr. Julius Mackenzie came to us.</p> - -<p>We well remember his appearance, which was one unutterably painful to -behold. He was a tall man, very thin,—thin we might say as a -whipping-post, were it not that one’s idea of a whipping-post conveys -erectness and rigidity, whereas this man, as he stood before us, was -full of bends, and curves, and crookedness. His big head seemed to lean -forward over his miserably narrow chest. His back was bowed, and his -legs were crooked and tottering. He had told us that he was over forty, -but we doubted, and doubt now, whether he had not added something to his -years, in order partially to excuse the wan, worn weariness of his -countenance. He carried an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a></span> infinity of thick, ragged, wild, dirty hair, -dark in colour, though not black, which age had not yet begun to -grizzle. He wore a miserable attempt at a beard, stubbly, uneven, and -half shorn,—as though it had been cut down within an inch of his chin -with blunt scissors. He had two ugly projecting teeth, and his cheeks -were hollow. His eyes were deep-set, but very bright, illuminating his -whole face; so that it was impossible to look at him and to think him to -be one wholly insignificant. His eyebrows were large and shaggy, but -well formed, not meeting across the brow, with single, -stiffly-projecting hairs,—a pair of eyebrows which added much strength -to his countenance. His nose was long and well shaped,—but red as a -huge carbuncle. The moment we saw him we connected that nose with the -Spotted Dog. It was not a blotched nose, not a nose covered with many -carbuncles, but a brightly red, smooth, well-formed nose, one glowing -carbuncle in itself. He was dressed in a long brown great-coat, which -was buttoned up round his throat, and which came nearly to his feet. The -binding of the coat was frayed, the buttons were half uncovered, the -button-holes were tattered, the velvet collar had become party-coloured -with dirt and usage. It was in the month of December, and a great-coat -was needed; but this great-coat looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a></span> as though it were worn because -other garments were not at his command. Not an inch of linen or even of -flannel shirt was visible. Below his coat we could only see his broken -boots and the soiled legs of his trousers, which had reached that age -which in trousers defies description. When we looked at him we could not -but ask ourselves whether this man had been born a gentleman and was -still a scholar. And yet there was that in his face which prompted us to -believe the account he had given of himself. As we looked at him we felt -sure that he possessed keen intellect, and that he was too much of a man -to boast of acquirements which he did not believe himself to possess. We -shook hands with him, asked him to sit down, and murmured something of -our sorrow that he should be in distress.</p> - -<p>“I am pretty well used to it,” said he. There was nothing mean in his -voice;—there was indeed a touch of humour in it, and in his manner -there was nothing of the abjectness of supplication. We had his letter -in our hands, and we read a portion of it again as he sat opposite to -us. We then remarked that we did not understand how he, having a wife -and family dependent on him, could offer to give up a third of his -income with the mere object of changing the nature of his work. “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a></span> -don’t know what it is,” said he, “to write for the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ -I’m at it seven hours a day, and hate the very words that I write. I -cursed myself afterwards for sending that letter. I know that to hope is -to be an ass. But I did send it, and here I am.”</p> - -<p>We looked at his nose and felt that we must be careful before we -suggested to our learned friend Dr. —— to put his manuscript into the -hands of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. If it had been a printed book the attempt -might have been made without much hazard, but our friend’s work, which -was elaborate, and very learned, had not yet reached the honours of the -printing-house. We had had our own doubts whether it might ever assume -the form of a real book; but our friend, who was a wealthy as well as a -learned man, was, as yet, very determined. He desired, at any rate, that -the thing should be perfected, and his publisher had therefore come to -us offering £25 for the codification and index. Were anything other than -good to befall his manuscript, his lamentations would be loud, not on -his own score,—but on behalf of learning in general. It behoved us -therefore to be cautious. We pretended to read the letter again, in -order that we might gain time for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a></span> decision, for we were greatly -frightened by that gleaming nose.</p> - -<p>Let the reader understand that the nose was by no means Bardolphian. If -we have read Shakespeare aright Bardolph’s nose was a thing of terror -from its size as well as its hue. It was a mighty vat, into which had -ascended all the divinest particles distilled from the cellars of the -hostelrie in Eastcheap. Such at least is the idea which stage -representations have left upon all our minds. But the nose now before us -was a well-formed nose, would have been a commanding nose,—for the -power of command shows itself much in the nasal organ,—had it not been -for its colour. While we were thinking of this, and doubting much as to -our friend’s manuscript, Mr. Mackenzie interrupted us. “You think I am a -drunkard,” said he. The man’s mother-wit had enabled him to read our -inmost thoughts.</p> - -<p>As we looked up the man had risen from his chair, and was standing over -us. He loomed upon us very tall, although his legs were crooked, and his -back bent. Those piercing eyes, and that nose which almost assumed an -air of authority as he carried it, were a great way above us. There -seemed to be an infinity of that old brown great-coat. He had divined -our thoughts, and we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a></span> did not dare to contradict him. We felt that a -weak, vapid, unmanly smile was creeping over our face. We were smiling -as a man smiles who intends to imply some contemptuous assent with the -self-depreciating comment of his companion. Such a mode of expression is -in our estimation most cowardly, and most odious. We had not intended -it, but we knew that the smile had pervaded us. “Of course you do,” said -he. “I was a drunkard, but I am not one now. It doesn’t matter;—only I -wish you hadn’t sent for me. I’ll go away at once.”</p> - -<p>So saying, he was about to depart, but we stopped him. We assured him -with much energy that we did not mean to offend him. He protested that -there was no offence. He was too well used to that kind of thing to be -made “more than wretched by it.” Such was his heart-breaking phrase. “As -for anger, I’ve lost all that long ago. Of course you take me for a -drunkard, and I should still be a drunkard, only——”</p> - -<p>“Only what?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“It don’t matter,” said he. “I need not trouble you more than I have -said already. You haven’t got anything for me to do, I suppose?” Then I -explained to him that I had something he might do, if I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a></span> venture -to entrust him with the work. With some trouble I got him to sit down -again, and to listen while I explained to him the circumstances. I had -been grievously afflicted when he alluded to his former habit of -drinking,—a former habit as he himself now stated,—but I entertained -no hesitation in raising questions as to his erudition. I felt almost -assured that his answers would be satisfactory, and that no discomfiture -would arise from such questioning. We were quickly able to perceive that -we at any rate could not examine him in classical literature. As soon as -we mentioned the name and nature of the work he went off at score, and -satisfied us amply that he was familiar at least with the title-pages of -editions. We began, indeed, to fear whether he might not be too caustic -a critic on our own friend’s performance. “Dr. —— is only an amateur -himself,” said we, deprecating in advance any such exercise of the -red-nosed man’s too severe erudition. “We never get much beyond -dilettanteism here,” said he, “as far as Greek and Latin are concerned.” -What a terrible man he would have been could he have got upon the staff -of the Saturday Review, instead of going to the Spotted Dog!</p> - -<p>We endeavoured to bring the interview to an end by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a></span> telling him that we -would consult the learned doctor from whom the manuscript had emanated; -and we hinted that a reference would be of course acceptable. His -impudence,—or perhaps we should rather call it his straightforward -sincere audacity,—was unbounded. “Mr. Grimes of the Spotted Dog knows -me better than any one else,” said he. We blew the breath out of our -mouth with astonishment. “I’m not asking you to go to him to find out -whether I know Latin and Greek,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “You must find that -out for yourself.” We assured him that we thought we had found that out. -“But he can tell you that I won’t pawn your manuscript.” The man was so -grim and brave that he almost frightened us. We hinted, however, that -literary reference should be given. The gentleman who paid him -forty-five shillings a week,—the manager, in short, of the “Penny -Dreadful,”—might tell us something of him. Then he wrote for us a name -on a scrap of paper, and added to it an address in the close vicinity of -Fleet Street, at which we remembered to have seen the title of a -periodical which we now knew to be a “Penny Dreadful.”</p> - -<p>Before he took his leave he made us a speech, again standing up over us, -though we also were on our legs. It was that bend in his neck, combined -with his natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a></span> height, which gave him such an air of superiority in -conversation. He seemed to overshadow us, and to have his own way with -us, because he was enabled to look down upon us. There was a footstool -on our hearth-rug, and we remember to have attempted to stand upon that, -in order that we might escape this supervision; but we stumbled and had -to kick it from us, and something was added to our sense of inferiority -by this little failure. “I don’t expect much from this,” he said. “I -never do expect much. And I have misfortunes independent of my poverty -which make it impossible that I should be other than a miserable -wretch.”</p> - -<p>“Bad health?” we asked.</p> - -<p>“No;—nothing absolutely personal;—but never mind. I must not trouble -you with more of my history. But if you can do this thing for me, it may -be the means of redeeming me from utter degradation.” We then assured -him that we would do our best, and he left us with a promise that he -would call again on that day week.</p> - -<p>The first step which we took on his behalf was one the very idea of -which had at first almost moved us to ridicule. We made enquiry -respecting Mr. Julius Mackenzie, of Mr. Grimes, the landlord of the -Spotted Dog. Though Mr. Grimes did keep the Spotted Dog, he might be a -man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a></span> of sense and, possibly, of conscience. At any rate he would tell us -something, or confirm our doubts by refusing to tell us anything. We -found Mr. Grimes seated in a very neat little back parlour, and were -peculiarly taken by the appearance of a lady in a little cap and black -silk gown, whom we soon found to be Mrs. Grimes. Had we ventured to -employ our intellect in personifying for ourselves an imaginary Mrs. -Grimes as the landlady of a Spotted Dog public-house in Liquorpond -Street, the figure we should have built up for ourselves would have been -the very opposite of that which this lady presented to us. She was slim, -and young, and pretty, and had pleasant little tricks of words, in spite -of occasional slips in her grammar, which made us almost think that it -might be our duty to come very often to the Spotted Dog to enquire about -Mr. Julius Mackenzie. Mr. Grimes was a man about forty,—fully ten years -the senior of his wife,—with a clear gray eye, and a mouth and chin -from which we surmised that he would be competent to clear the Spotted -Dog of unruly visitors after twelve o’clock, whenever it might be his -wish to do so. We soon made known our request. Mr. Mackenzie had come to -us for literary employment. Could they tell us anything about Mr. -Mackenzie?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a></span></p> - -<p>“He’s as clever an author, in the way of writing and that kind of thing, -as there is in all London,” said Mrs. Grimes with energy. Perhaps her -opinion ought not to have been taken for much, but it had its weight. We -explained, however, that at the present moment we were specially anxious -to know something of the gentleman’s character and mode of life. Mr. -Grimes, whose manner to us was quite courteous, sat silent, thinking how -to answer us. His more impulsive and friendly wife was again ready with -her assurance. “There aint an honester gentleman breathing;—and I say -he is a gentleman, though he’s that poor he hasn’t sometimes a shirt to -his back.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he’s ever very well off for shirts,” said Mr. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t be slow to give him one of yours, John, only I know he -wouldn’t take it,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Well now, look here, Sir;—we’ve -that feeling for him that our young woman there would draw anything for -him he’d ask—money or no money. She’d never venture to name money to -him if he wanted a glass of anything,—hot or cold, beer or spirits. -Isn’t that so, John?”</p> - -<p>“She’s fool enough for anything as far as I know,” said Mr. Grimes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a></span></p> - -<p>“She aint no fool at all; and I’d do the same if I was there, and so’d -you, John. There is nothing Mackenzie’d ask as he wouldn’t give him,” -said Mrs. Grimes, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder to her -husband, who was standing on the hearth-rug;—“that is, in the way of -drawing liquor, and refreshments, and such like. But he never raised a -glass to his lips in this house as he didn’t pay for, nor yet took a -biscuit out of that basket. He’s a gentleman all over, is Mackenzie.”</p> - -<p>It was strong testimony; but still we had not quite got at the bottom of -the matter. “Doesn’t he raise a great many glasses to his lips?” we -asked.</p> - -<p>“No he don’t,” said Mrs. Grimes,—“only in reason.”</p> - -<p>“He’s had misfortunes,” said Mr. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“Indeed he has,” said the lady,—“what I call the very troublesomest of -troubles. If you was troubled like him, John, where’d you be?”</p> - -<p>“I know where you’d be,” said John.</p> - -<p>“He’s got a bad wife, Sir; the worst as ever was,” continued Mrs. -Grimes. “Talk of drink;—there is nothing that woman wouldn’t do for it. -She’d pawn the very clothes off her children’s back in mid-winter to get -it. She’d rob the food out of her husband’s mouth for a drop of gin. As -for herself,—she aint no woman’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a></span> notions left of keeping herself any -way. She’d as soon be picked out of the gutter as not;—and as for words -out of her mouth or clothes on her back, she hasn’t got, Sir, not an -item of a female’s feelings left about her.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Grimes had been very eloquent, and had painted the “troublesomest -of all troubles” with glowing words. This was what the wretched man had -come to by marrying a woman who was not a lady in order that he might -escape the “conventional thraldom” of gentility! But still the drunken -wife was not all. There was the evidence of his own nose against -himself, and the additional fact that he had acknowledged himself to -have been formerly a drunkard. “I suppose he has drunk, himself?” we -said.</p> - -<p>“He has drunk, in course,” said Mrs. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“The world has been pretty rough with him, Sir,” said Mr. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“But he don’t drink now,” continued the lady. “At least if he do, we -don’t see it. As for her, she wouldn’t show herself inside our door.”</p> - -<p>“It aint often that man and wife draws their milk from the same cow,” -said Mr. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“But Mackenzie is here every day of his life,” said Mrs. Grimes. “When -he’s got a sixpence to pay for it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a></span> he’ll come in here and have a glass -of beer and a bit of something to eat. We does make him a little extra -welcome, and that’s the truth of it. We knows what he is, and we knows -what he was. As for book learning, Sir;—it don’t matter what language -it is, it’s all as one to him. He knows ’em all round just as I know my -catechism.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you say fairer than that for him, Polly?” asked Mr. Grimes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you talk of catechisms, John, nor yet of nothing else as a man -ought to set his mind to;—unless it is keeping the Spotted Dog. But as -for Mackenzie;—he knows off by heart whole books full of learning. -There was some furreners here as come from,—I don’t know where it was -they come from, only it wasn’t France, nor yet Germany, and he talked to -them just as though he hadn’t been born in England at all. I don’t think -there ever was such a man for knowing things. He’ll go on with poetry -out of his own head till you think it comes from him like web from a -spider.” We could not help thinking of the wonderful companionship which -there must have been in that parlour while the reduced man was spinning -his web and Mrs. Grimes, with her needlework lying idle in her lap, was -sitting by, listening with rapt admiration. In passing by the Spotted -Dog one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a></span> would not imagine such a scene to have its existence within. -But then so many things do have existence of which we imagine nothing!</p> - -<p>Mr. Grimes ended the interview. “The fact is, Sir, if you can give him -employment better than what he has now, you’ll be helping a man who has -seen better days, and who only wants help to see ’em again. He’s got it -all there,” and Mr. Grimes put his finger up to his head.</p> - -<p>“He’s got it all here too,” said Mrs. Grimes, laying her hand upon her -heart. Hereupon we took our leave, suggesting to these excellent friends -that if it should come to pass that we had further dealings with Mr. -Mackenzie we might perhaps trouble them again. They assured us that we -should always be welcome, and Mr. Grimes himself saw us to the door, -having made profuse offers of such good cheer as the house afforded. We -were upon the whole much taken with the Spotted Dog.</p> - -<p>From thence we went to the office of the “Penny Dreadful,” in the -vicinity of Fleet Street. As we walked thither we could not but think of -Mrs. Grimes’s words. The troublesomest of troubles! We acknowledged to -ourselves that they were true words. Can there be any trouble more -troublesome than that of suffering from the shame inflicted by a -degraded wife? We had just parted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a></span> from Mr. Grimes,—not, indeed, having -seen very much of him in the course of our interview;—but little as we -had seen, we were sure that he was assisted in his position by a buoyant -pride in that he called himself the master, and owner, and husband of -Mrs. Grimes. In the very step with which he passed in and out of his own -door you could see that there was nothing that he was ashamed of about -his household. When abroad he could talk of his “missus” with a -conviction that the picture which the word would convey to all who heard -him would redound to his honour. But what must have been the reflections -of Julius Mackenzie when his mind dwelt upon his wife? We remembered the -words of his letter. “I have a wife and four children, which burden -forbids me to free myself from all care with a bare bodkin.” As we -thought of them, and of the story which had been told to us at the -Spotted Dog, they lost that tone of rhodomontade with which they had -invested themselves when we first read them. A wife who is indifferent -to being picked out of the gutter, and who will pawn her children’s -clothes for gin, must be a trouble than which none can be more -troublesome.</p> - -<p>We did not find that we ingratiated ourselves with the people at the -office of the periodical for which Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a></span> Mackenzie worked; and yet we -endeavoured to do so, assuming in our manner and tone something of the -familiarity of a common pursuit. After much delay we came upon a -gentleman sitting in a dark cupboard, who twisted round his stool to -face us while he spoke to us. We believe that he was the editor of more -than one “Penny Dreadful,” and that as many as a dozen serial novels -were being issued to the world at the same time under his supervision. -“Oh!” said he, “so you’re at that game, are you?” We assured him that we -were at no game at all, but were simply influenced by a desire to assist -a distressed scholar. “That be blowed,” said our brother. “Mackenzie’s -doing as well here as he’ll do anywhere. He’s a drunken blackguard, when -all’s said and done. So you’re going to buy him up, are you? You won’t -keep him long,—and then he’ll have to starve.” We assured the gentleman -that we had no desire to buy up Mr. Mackenzie; we explained our ideas as -to the freedom of the literary profession, in accordance with which Mr. -Mackenzie could not be wrong in applying to us for work; and we -especially deprecated any severity on our brother’s part towards the -man, more especially begging that nothing might be decided, as we were -far from thinking it certain that we could provide<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a></span> Mr. Mackenzie with -any literary employment. “That’s all right,” said our brother, twisting -back his stool. “He can’t work for both of us;—that’s all. He has his -bread here regular, week after week; and I don’t suppose you’ll do as -much as that for him.” Then we went away, shaking the dust off our feet, -and wondering much at the great development of literature which latter -years have produced. We had not even known of the existence of these -papers;—and yet there they were, going forth into the hands of hundreds -of thousands of readers, all of whom were being, more or less, -instructed in their modes of life and manner of thinking by the stories -which were thus brought before them.</p> - -<p>But there might be truth in what our brother had said to us. Should Mr. -Mackenzie abandon his present engagement for the sake of the job which -we proposed to put in his hands, might he not thereby injure rather than -improve his prospects? We were acquainted with only one learned doctor -desirous of having his manuscripts codified and indexed at his own -expense. As for writing for the periodical with which we were connected, -we knew enough of the business to be aware that Mr. Mackenzie’s gifts of -erudition would very probably not so much assist him in attempting such -work as would his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a></span> late training act against him. A man might be able to -read and even talk a dozen languages,—“just as though he hadn’t been -born in England at all,”—and yet not write the language with which we -dealt after the fashion which suited our readers. It might be that he -would fly much above our heads, and do work infinitely too big for us. -We did not regard our own heads as being very high. But, for such -altitude as they held, a certain class of writing was adapted. The -gentleman whom we had just left would require, no doubt, altogether -another style. It was probable that Mr. Mackenzie had already fitted -himself to his present audience. And, even were it not so, we could not -promise him forty-five shillings a week, or even that thirty shillings -for which he asked. There is nothing more dangerous than the attempt to -befriend a man in middle life by transplanting him from one soil to -another.</p> - -<p>When Mr. Mackenzie came to us again we endeavoured to explain all this -to him. We had in the meantime seen our friend the Doctor, whose -beneficence of spirit in regard to the unfortunate man of letters was -extreme. He was charmed with our account of the man, and saw with his -mind’s eye the work, for the performance of which he was pining, -perfected in a manner that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a></span> be a blessing to the scholars of all -future ages. He was at first anxious to ask Julius Mackenzie down to his -rectory, and, even after we had explained to him that this would not at -present be expedient, was full of a dream of future friendship with a -man who would be able to discuss the digamma with him, who would have -studied Greek metres, and have an opinion of his own as to Porson’s -canon. We were in possession of the manuscript, and had our friend’s -authority for handing it over to Mr. Mackenzie.</p> - -<p>He came to us according to appointment, and his nose seemed to be redder -than ever. We thought that we discovered a discouraging flavour of -spirits in his breath. Mrs. Grimes had declared that he drank,—only in -reason; but the ideas of the wife of a publican,—even though that wife -were Mrs. Grimes,—might be very different from our own as to what was -reasonable in that matter. And as we looked at him he seemed to be more -rough, more ragged, almost more wretched than before. It might be that, -in taking his part with my brother of the “Penny Dreadful,” with the -Doctor, and even with myself in thinking over his claims, I had endowed -him with higher qualities than I had been justified in giving to him. As -I considered him and his appearance I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a></span> certainly could not assure myself -that he looked like a man worthy to be trusted. A policeman, seeing him -at a street corner, would have had an eye upon him in a moment. He -rubbed himself together within his old coat, as men do when they come -out of gin-shops. His eye was as bright as before, but we thought that -his mouth was meaner, and his nose redder. We were almost disenchanted -with him. We said nothing to him at first about the Spotted Dog, but -suggested to him our fears that if he undertook work at our hands he -would lose the much more permanent employment which he got from the -gentleman whom we had seen in the cupboard. We then explained to him -that we could promise to him no continuation of employment.</p> - -<p>The violence with which he cursed the gentleman who had sat in the -cupboard appalled us, and had, we think, some effect in bringing back to -us that feeling of respect for him which we had almost lost. It may be -difficult to explain why we respected him because he cursed and swore -horribly. We do not like cursing and swearing, and were any of our -younger contributors to indulge themselves after that fashion in our -presence we should, at the very least,—frown upon them. We did not -frown upon Julius Mackenzie, but stood up, gazing into his face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a></span> above -us, again feeling that the man was powerful. Perhaps we respected him -because he was not in the least afraid of us. He went on to assert that -he cared not,—not a straw, we will say,—for the gentleman in the -cupboard. He knew the gentleman in the cupboard very well; and the -gentleman in the cupboard knew him. As long as he took his work to the -gentleman in the cupboard, the gentleman in the cupboard would be only -too happy to purchase that work at the rate of sixpence for a page of -manuscript containing two hundred and fifty words. That was his rate of -payment for prose fiction, and at that rate he could earn forty-five -shillings a week. He wasn’t afraid of the gentleman in the cupboard. He -had had some words with the gentleman in the cupboard before now, and -they two understood each other very well. He hinted, moreover, that -there were other gentlemen in other cupboards; but with none of them -could he advance beyond forty-five shillings a week. For this he had to -sit, with his pen in his hand, seven hours seven days a week, and the -very paper, pens, and ink came to fifteenpence out of the money. He had -struck for wages once, and for a halcyon month or two had carried his -point of sevenpence halfpenny a page; but the gentlemen in the cupboards -had told him that it could not be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></span> They, too, must live. His matter was -no doubt attractive; but any price above sixpence a page unfitted it for -their market. All this Mr. Julius Mackenzie explained to us with much -violence of expression. When I named Mrs. Grimes to him the tone of his -voice was altered. “Yes,” said he, “I thought they’d say a word for me. -They’re the best friends I’ve got now. I don’t know that you ought quite -to believe her, for I think she’d perhaps tell a lie to do me a -service.” We assured him that we did believe every word Mrs. Grimes had -said to us.</p> - -<p>After much pausing over the matter we told him that we were empowered to -trust him with our friend’s work, and the manuscript was produced upon -the table. If he would undertake the work and perform it, he should be -paid £8: 6<i>s.</i>: 8<i>d.</i> for each of the three volumes as they were -completed. And we undertook, moreover, on our own responsibility, to -advance him money in small amounts through the hands of Mrs. Grimes, if -he really settled himself to the task. At first he was in ecstasies, and -as we explained to him the way in which the index should be brought out -and the codification performed, he turned over the pages rapidly, and -showed us that he understood at any rate the nature of the work to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a></span> -done. But when we came to details he was less happy. In what workshop -was this new work to be performed? There was a moment in which we almost -thought of telling him to do the work in our own room; but we hesitated, -luckily, remembering that his continual presence with us for two or -three months would probably destroy us altogether. It appeared that his -present work was done sometimes at the Spotted Dog, and sometimes at -home in his lodgings. He said not a word to us about his wife, but we -could understand that there would be periods in which to work at home -would be impossible to him. He did not pretend to deny that there might -be danger on that score, nor did he ask permission to take the entire -manuscript at once away to his abode. We knew that if he took part he -must take the whole, as the work could not be done in parts. Counter -references would be needed. “My circumstances are bad;—very bad -indeed,” he said. We expressed the great trouble to which we should be -subjected if any evil should happen to the manuscript. “I will give it -up,” he said, towering over us again, and shaking his head. “I cannot -expect that I should be trusted.” But we were determined that it should -not be given up. Sooner than give the matter up we would make some -arrangement by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a></span> hiring a place in which he might work. Even though we -were to pay ten shillings a week for a room for him out of the money, -the bargain would be a good one for him. At last we determined that we -would pay a second visit to the Spotted Dog, and consult Mrs. Grimes. We -felt that we should have a pleasure in arranging together with Mrs. -Grimes any scheme of benevolence on behalf of this unfortunate and -remarkable man. So we told him that we would think over the matter, and -send a letter to his address at the Spotted Dog, which he should receive -on the following morning. He then gathered himself up, rubbed himself -together again inside his coat, and took his departure.</p> - -<p>As soon as he was gone we sat looking at the learned Doctor’s -manuscript, and thinking of what we had done. There lay the work of -years, by which our dear and venerable old friend expected that he would -take rank among the great commentators of modern times. We, in truth, -did not anticipate for him all the glory to which he looked forward. We -feared that there might be disappointment. Hot discussion on verbal -accuracies or on rules of metre are perhaps not so much in vogue now as -they were a hundred years ago. There might be disappointment and great -sorrow; but we could not with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a></span> equanimity anticipate the prevention of -this sorrow by the possible loss or destruction of the manuscript which -had been entrusted to us. The Doctor himself had seemed to anticipate no -such danger. When we told him of Mackenzie’s learning and misfortunes, -he was eager at once that the thing should be done, merely stipulating -that he should have an interview with Mr. Mackenzie before he returned -to his rectory.</p> - -<p>That same day we went to the Spotted Dog, and found Mrs. Grimes alone. -Mackenzie had been there immediately after leaving our room, and had -told her what had taken place. She was full of the subject and anxious -to give every possible assistance. She confessed at once that the papers -would not be safe in the rooms inhabited by Mackenzie and his wife. “He -pays five shillings a week,” she said, “for a wretched place round in -Cucumber Court. They are all huddled together, any way; and how he -manages to do a thing at all there,—in the way of author-work,—is a -wonder to everybody. Sometimes he can’t, and then he’ll sit for hours -together at the little table in our tap-room.” We went into the tap-room -and saw the little table. It was a wonder indeed that any one should be -able to compose and write tales of imagination in a place so dreary, -dark, and ill-omened. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a></span> little table was hardly more than a long slab -or plank, perhaps eighteen inches wide. When we visited the place there -were two brewers’ draymen seated there, and three draggled, -wretched-looking women. The carters were eating enormous hunches of -bread and bacon, which they cut and put into their mouths slowly, -solemnly, and in silence. The three women were seated on a bench, and -when I saw them had no signs of festivity before them. It must be -presumed that they had paid for something, or they would hardly have -been allowed to sit there. “It’s empty now,” said Mrs. Grimes, taking no -immediate notice of the men or of the women; “but sometimes he’ll sit -writing in that corner, when there’s such a jabber of voices as you -wouldn’t hear a cannon go off over at Reid’s, and that thick with smoke -you’d a’most cut it with a knife. Don’t he, Peter?” The man whom she -addressed endeavoured to prepare himself for answer by swallowing at the -moment three square inches of bread and bacon, which he had just put -into his mouth. He made an awful effort, but failed; and, failing, -nodded his head three times. “They all know him here, Sir,” continued -Mrs. Grimes. “He’ll go on writing, writing, writing, for hours together; -and nobody’ll say nothing to him. Will they, Peter?” Peter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a></span> who was now -half-way through the work he had laid out for himself, muttered some -inarticulate grunt of assent.</p> - -<p>We then went back to the snug little room inside the bar. It was quite -clear to me that the man could not manipulate the Doctor’s manuscript, -of which he would have to spread a dozen sheets before him at the same -time, in the place I had just visited. Even could he have occupied the -chamber alone, the accommodation would not have been sufficient for the -purpose. It was equally clear that he could not be allowed to use Mrs. -Grimes’s snuggery. “How are we to get a place for him?” said I, -appealing to the lady. “He shall have a place,” she said, “I’ll go bail; -he sha’n’t lose the job for want of a workshop.” Then she sat down and -began to think it over. I was just about to propose the hiring of some -decent room in the neighbourhood, when she made a suggestion, which I -acknowledge startled me. “I’ll have a big table put into my own -bed-room,” said she, “and he shall do it there. There aint another hole -or corner about the place as’d suit; and he can lay the gentleman’s -papers all about on the bed, square and clean and orderly. Can’t he now? -And I can see after ’em, as he don’t lose ’em. Can’t I now?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a></span></p> - -<p>By this time there had sprung up an intimacy between ourselves and Mrs. -Grimes which seemed to justify an expression of the doubt which I then -threw on the propriety of such a disarrangement of her most private -domestic affairs. “Mr. Grimes will hardly approve of that,” we said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, John won’t mind. What’ll it matter to John as long as Mackenzie is -out in time for him to go to bed? We aint early birds, morning or -night,—that’s true. In our line folks can’t be early. But from ten to -six there’s the room, and he shall have it. Come up and see, Sir.” So we -followed Mrs. Grimes up the narrow staircase to the marital bower. “It -aint large, but there’ll be room for the table, and for him to sit at -it;—won’t there now?”</p> - -<p>It was a dark little room, with one small window looking out under the -low roof, and facing the heavy high dead wall of the brewery opposite. -But it was clean and sweet, and the furniture in it was all solid and -good, old-fashioned, and made of mahogany. Two or three of Mrs. Grimes’s -gowns were laid upon the bed, and other portions of her dress were hung -on pegs behind the doors. The only untidy article in the room was a pair -of “John’s” trousers, which he had failed to put out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a></span> sight. She was -not a bit abashed, but took them up and folded them and patted them, and -laid them in the capacious wardrobe. “We’ll have all these things away,” -she said, “and then he can have all his papers out upon the bed just as -he pleases.”</p> - -<p>We own that there was something in the proposed arrangement which -dismayed us. We also were married, and what would our wife have said had -we proposed that a contributor,—even a contributor not red-nosed and -seething with gin,—that any best-disciplined contributor should be -invited to write an article within the precincts of our sanctum? We -could not bring ourselves to believe that Mr. Grimes would authorise the -proposition. There is something holy about the bed-room of a married -couple; and there would be a special desecration in the continued -presence of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. We thought it better that we should -explain something of all this to her. “Do you know,” we said, “this -seems to be hardly prudent?”</p> - -<p>“Why not prudent?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Up in your bed-room, you know! Mr. Grimes will be sure to dislike it.”</p> - -<p>“What,—John! Not he. I know what you’re a-thinking <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a></span>of, Mr. ——,” she -said. “But we’re different in our ways than what you are. Things to us -are only just what they are. We haven’t time, nor yet money, nor perhaps -edication, for seemings and thinkings as you have. If you was travelling -out amongst the wild Injeans, you’d ask any one to have a bit in your -bed-room as soon as look at ’em, if you’d got a bit for ’em to eat. -We’re travelling among wild Injeans all our lives, and a bed-room aint -no more to us than any other room. Mackenzie shall come up here, and -I’ll have the table fixed for him, just there by the window.” I hadn’t -another word to say to her, and I could not keep myself from thinking -for many an hour afterwards, whether it may not be a good thing for men, -and for women also, to believe that they are always travelling among -wild Indians.</p> - -<p>When we went down Mr. Grimes himself was in the little parlour. He did -not seem at all surprised at seeing his wife enter the room from above -accompanied by a stranger. She at once began her story, and told the -arrangement which she proposed,—which she did, as I observed, without -any actual request for his sanction. Looking at Mr. Grimes’s face, I -thought that he did not quite like it; but he accepted it, almost -without a word, scratching his head and raising his eyebrows. “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a></span> -know, John, he could no more do it at home than he could fly,” said Mrs. -Grimes.</p> - -<p>“Who said he could do it at home?”</p> - -<p>“And he couldn’t do it in the tap-room;—could he? If so, there aint no -other place, and so that’s settled.” John Grimes again scratched his -head, and the matter was settled. Before we left the house Mackenzie -himself came in, and was told in our presence of the accommodation which -was to be prepared for him. “It’s just like you, Mrs. Grimes,” was all -he said in the way of thanks. Then Mrs. Grimes made her bargain with him -somewhat sternly. He should have the room for five hours a day,—ten -till three, or twelve till five; but he must settle which, and then -stick to his hours. “And I won’t have nothing up there in the way of -drink,” said John Grimes.</p> - -<p>“Who’s asking to have drink there?” said Mackenzie.</p> - -<p>“You’re not asking now, but maybe you will. I won’t have it, that’s -all.”</p> - -<p>“That shall be all right, John,” said Mrs. Grimes, nodding her head.</p> - -<p>“Women are that soft,—in the way of judgment,—that they’ll go and do -a’most anything, good or bad, when they’ve got their feelings up.” Such -was the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a></span> rebuke which in our hearing Mr. Grimes administered to his -pretty wife. Mackenzie whispered something to the publican, but Grimes -only shook his head. We understood it all thoroughly. He did not like -the scheme, but he would not contradict his wife in an act of real -kindness. We then made an appointment with the scholar for meeting our -friend and his future patron at our rooms, and took our leave of the -Spotted Dog. Before we went, however, Mrs. Grimes insisted on producing -some cherry-bounce, as she called it, which, after sundry refusals on -our part, was brought in on a small round shining tray, in a little -bottle covered all over with gold sprigs, with four tiny glasses -similarly ornamented. Mrs. Grimes poured out the liquor, using a very -sparing hand when she came to the glass which was intended for herself. -We find it, as a rule, easier to talk with the Grimeses of the world -than to eat with them or to drink with them. When the glass was handed -to us we did not know whether or no we were expected to say something. -We waited, however, till Mr. Grimes and Mackenzie had been provided with -their glasses. “Proud to see you at the Spotted Dog, Mr. ——,” said -Grimes. “That we are,” said Mrs. Grimes, smiling at us over her almost -imperceptible drop of drink. Julius<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a></span> Mackenzie just bobbed his head, and -swallowed the cordial at a gulp,—as a dog does a lump of meat, leaving -the impression on his friends around him that he has not got from it -half the enjoyment which it might have given him had he been a little -more patient in the process. I could not but think that had Mackenzie -allowed the cherry-bounce to trickle a little in his palate, as I did -myself, it would have gratified him more than it did in being chucked -down his throat with all the impetus which his elbow could give to the -glass. “That’s tidy tipple,” said Mr. Grimes, winking his eye. We -acknowledged that it was tidy. “My mother made it, as used to keep the -Pig and Magpie, at Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes. In this way we learned -a good deal of Mrs. Grimes’s history. Her very earliest years had been -passed among wild Indians.</p> - -<p>Then came the interview between the Doctor and Mr. Mackenzie. We must -confess that we greatly feared the impression which our younger friend -might make on the elder. We had of course told the Doctor of the red -nose, and he had accepted the information with a smile. But he was a man -who would feel the contamination of contact with a drunkard, and who -would shrink from an unpleasant association. There are vices of which -we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a></span> habitually take altogether different views in accordance with the -manner in which they are brought under our notice. This vice of -drunkenness is often a joke in the mouths of those to whom the thing -itself is a horror. Even before our boys we talk of it as being rather -funny, though to see one of them funny himself would almost break our -hearts. The learned commentator had accepted our account of the red nose -as though it were simply a part of the undeserved misery of the wretched -man; but should he find the wretched man to be actually redolent of gin -his feelings might be changed. The Doctor was with us first, and the -volumes of the MS. were displayed upon the table. The compiler of them, -as he lifted here a page and there a page, handled them with the -gentleness of a lover. They had been exquisitely arranged, and were very -fair. The pagings, and the margins, and the chapterings, and all the -complementary paraphernalia of authorship, were perfect. “A lifetime, my -friend; just a lifetime!” the Doctor had said to us, speaking of his own -work while we were waiting for the man to whose hands was to be -entrusted the result of so much labour and scholarship. We wished at -that moment that we had never been called on to interfere in the -matter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a></span></p> - -<p>Mackenzie came, and the introduction was made. The Doctor was a -gentleman of the old school, very neat in his attire,—dressed in -perfect black, with kneebreeches and black gaiters, with a closely-shorn -chin, and an exquisitely white cravat. Though he was in truth simply the -rector of his parish, his parish was one which entitled him to call -himself a dean, and he wore a clerical rosette on his hat. He was a -well-made, tall, portly gentleman, with whom to take the slightest -liberty would have been impossible. His well-formed full face was -singularly expressive of benevolence, but there was in it too an air of -command which created an involuntary respect. He was a man whose means -were ample, and who could afford to keep two curates, so that the -appanages of a Church dignitary did in some sort belong to him. We doubt -whether he really understood what work meant,—even when he spoke with -so much pathos of the labour of his life; but he was a man not at all -exacting in regard to the work of others, and who was anxious to make -the world as smooth and rosy to those around him as it had been to -himself. He came forward, paused a moment, and then shook hands with -Mackenzie. Our work had been done, and we remained in the background -during the interview. It was now for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a></span> the Doctor to satisfy himself with -the scholarship,—and, if he chose to take cognizance of the matter, -with the morals of his proposed assistant.</p> - -<p>Mackenzie himself was more subdued in his manner than he had been when -talking with ourselves. The Doctor made a little speech, standing at the -table with one hand on one volume and the other on another. He told of -all his work, with a mixture of modesty as to the thing done, and -self-assertion as to his interest in doing it, which was charming. He -acknowledged that the sum proposed for the aid which he required was -inconsiderable;—but it had been fixed by the proposed publisher. Should -Mr. Mackenzie find that the labour was long he would willingly increase -it. Then he commenced a conversation respecting the Greek dramatists, -which had none of the air or tone of an examination, but which still -served the purpose of enabling Mackenzie to show his scholarship. In -that respect there was no doubt that the ragged, red-nosed, disreputable -man, who stood there longing for his job, was the greater proficient of -the two. We never discovered that he had had access to books in later -years; but his memory of the old things seemed to be perfect. When it -was suggested that references would be required, it seemed that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a></span> did -know his way into the library of the British Museum. “When I wasn’t -quite so shabby,” he said boldly, “I used to be there.” The Doctor -instantly produced a ten-pound note, and insisted that it should be -taken in advance. Mackenzie hesitated, and we suggested that it was -premature; but the Doctor was firm. “If an old scholar mayn’t assist one -younger than himself,” he said, “I don’t know when one man may aid -another. And this is no alms. It is simply a pledge for work to be -done.” Mackenzie took the money, muttering something of an assurance -that as far as his ability went, the work should be done well. “It -should certainly,” he said, “be done diligently.”</p> - -<p>When money had passed, of course the thing was settled; but in truth the -bank-note had been given, not from judgment in settling the matter, but -from the generous impulse of the moment. There was, however, no -receding. The Doctor expressed by no hint a doubt as to the safety of -his manuscript. He was by far too fine a gentleman to give the man whom -he employed pain in that direction. If there were risk, he would now run -the risk. And so the thing was settled.</p> - -<p>We did not, however, give the manuscript on that occasion into -Mackenzie’s hands, but took it down afterwards,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a></span> locked in an old -despatch box of our own, to the Spotted Dog, and left the box with the -key of it in the hands of Mrs. Grimes. Again we went up into that lady’s -bed-room, and saw that the big table had been placed by the window for -Mackenzie’s accommodation. It so nearly filled the room, that as we -observed, John Grimes could not get round at all to his side of the bed. -It was arranged that Mackenzie was to begin on the morrow.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ill_274.jpg" width="224" height="56" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a></span></p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/result.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h3><a name="Part_II_The_Result" id="Part_II_The_Result"></a><span class="smcap">Part II.—The Result.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>URING the next month we saw a good deal of Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and -made ourselves quite at home in Mrs. Grimes’s bed-room. We went in and -out of the Spotted Dog as if we had known that establishment all our -lives, and spent many a quarter of an hour with the hostess in her -little parlour, discussing the prospects of Mr. Mackenzie and his -family. He had procured to himself decent, if not exactly new, garments -out of the money so liberally provided by my learned friend the Doctor, -and spent much of his time in the library of the British Museum. He -certainly worked very hard, for he did not altogether abandon his old -engagement. Before the end of the first month the index of the first -volume, nearly completed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a></span> had been sent down for the inspection of the -Doctor, and had been returned with ample eulogium and some little -criticism. The criticisms Mackenzie answered by letter, with true -scholarly spirit, and the Doctor was delighted. Nothing could be more -pleasant to him than a correspondence, prolonged almost indefinitely, as -to the respective merits of a τὀ or a τον, or on the demand for a -spondee or an iamb. When he found that the work was really in -industrious hands, he ceased to be clamorous for early publication, and -gave us to understand privately that Mr. Mackenzie was not to be limited -to the sum named. The matter of remuneration was, indeed, left very much -to ourselves, and Mackenzie had certainly found a most efficient friend -in the author whose works had been confided to his hands.</p> - -<p>All this was very pleasant, and Mackenzie throughout that month worked -very hard. According to the statements made to me by Mrs. Grimes he took -no more gin than what was necessary for a hard-working man. As to the -exact quantity of that cordial which she imagined to be beneficial and -needful, we made no close enquiry. He certainly kept himself in a -condition for work, and so far all went on happily. Nevertheless, there -was a terrible skeleton in the cupboard,—or rather out of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a></span> -cupboard, for the skeleton could not be got to hide itself. A certain -portion of his prosperity reached the hands of his wife, and she was -behaving herself worse than ever. The four children had been covered -with decent garments under Mrs. Grimes’s care, and then Mrs. Mackenzie -had appeared at the Spotted Dog, loudly demanding a new outfit for -herself. She came not only once, but often, and Mr. Grimes was beginning -to protest that he saw too much of the family. We had become very -intimate with Mrs. Grimes, and she did not hesitate to confide to us her -fears lest “John should cut up rough,” before the thing was completed. -“You see,” she said, “it is against the house, no doubt, that woman -coming nigh it.” But still she was firm, and Mackenzie was not disturbed -in the possession of the bed-room. At last Mrs. Mackenzie was provided -with some articles of female attire;—and then, on the very next day, -she and the four children were again stripped almost naked. The wretched -creature must have steeped herself in gin to the shoulders, for in one -day she made a sweep of everything. She then came in a state of furious -intoxication to the Spotted Dog, and was removed by the police under the -express order of the landlord.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a></span></p> - -<p>We can hardly say which was the most surprising to us, the loyalty of -Mrs. Grimes or the patience of John. During that night, as we were told -two days afterwards by his wife, he stormed with passion. The papers she -had locked up in order that he should not get at them and destroy them. -He swore that everything should be cleared out on the following morning. -But when the morning came he did not even say a word to Mackenzie, as -the wretched, downcast, broken-hearted creature passed up stairs to his -work. “You see I knows him, and how to deal with him,” said Mrs. Grimes, -speaking of her husband. “There aint another like himself -nowheres;—he’s that good. A softer-hearteder man there aint in the -public line. He can speak dreadful when his dander is up, and can -look——; oh, laws, he just can look at you! But he could no more put -his hands upon a woman, in the way of hurting,—no more than be an -archbishop.” Where could be the man, thought we to ourselves as this was -said to us, who could have put a hand,—in the way of hurting,—upon -Mrs. Grimes?</p> - -<p>On that occasion, to the best of our belief, the policeman contented -himself with depositing Mrs. Mackenzie at her own lodgings. On the next -day she was picked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a></span> up drunk in the street, and carried away to the -lock-up house. At the very moment in which the story was being told to -us by Mrs. Grimes, Mackenzie had gone to the police office to pay the -fine, and to bring his wife home. We asked with dismay and surprise why -he should interfere to rescue her—why he did not leave her in custody -as long as the police would keep her? “Who’d there be to look after the -children?” asked Mrs. Grimes, as though she were offended at our -suggestion. Then she went on to explain that in such a household as that -of poor Mackenzie the wife is absolutely a necessity, even though she be -an habitual drunkard. Intolerable as she was, her services were -necessary to him. “A husband as drinks is bad,” said Mrs. Grimes,—with -something, we thought, of an apologetic tone for the vice upon which her -own prosperity was partly built,—“but when a woman takes to it, it’s -the —— devil.” We thought that she was right, as we pictured to -ourselves that man of letters satisfying the magistrate’s demand for his -wife’s misconduct, and taking the degraded, half-naked creature once -more home to his children.</p> - -<p>We saw him about twelve o’clock on that day, and he had then, too -evidently, been endeavouring to support<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a></span> his misery by the free use of -alcohol. We did not speak of it down in the parlour; but even Mrs. -Grimes, we think, would have admitted that he had taken more than was -good for him. He was sitting up in the bed-room with his head hanging -upon his hand, with a swarm of our learned friend’s papers spread on the -table before him. Mrs. Grimes, when he entered the house, had gone up -stairs to give them out to him; but he had made no attempt to settle -himself to his work. “This kind of thing must come to an end,” he said -to us with a thick, husky voice. We muttered something to him as to the -need there was that he should exert a manly courage in his troubles. -“Manly!” he said. “Well, yes; manly. A man should be a man, of course. -There are some things which a man can’t bear. I’ve borne more than -enough, and I’ll have an end of it.”</p> - -<p>We shall never forget that scene. After awhile he got up, and became -almost violent. Talk of bearing! Who had borne half as much as he? There -were things a man should not bear. As for manliness, he believed that -the truly manly thing would be to put an end to the lives of his wife, -his children, and himself at one swoop. Of course the judgment of a -mealy-mouthed world would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a></span> be against him, but what would that matter to -him when he and they had vanished out of this miserable place into the -infinite realms of nothingness? Was he fit to live, or were they? Was -there any chance for his children but that of becoming thieves and -prostitutes? And for that poor wretch of a woman, from out of whose -bosom even her human instincts had been washed by gin,—would not death -to her be, indeed, a charity? There was but one drawback to all this. -When he should have destroyed them, how would it be with him if he -should afterwards fail to make sure work with his own life? In such case -it was not hanging that he would fear, but the self-reproach that would -come upon him in that he had succeeded in sending others out of their -misery, but had flinched when his own turn had come. Though he was drunk -when he said these horrid things, or so nearly drunk that he could not -perfect the articulation of his words, still there was a marvellous -eloquence with him. When we attempted to answer, and told him of that -canon which had been set against self-slaughter, he laughed us to scorn. -There was something terrible to us in the audacity of the arguments -which he used, when he asserted for himself the right to shuffle off -from his shoulders a burden which they had not been made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a></span> broad enough -to bear. There was an intensity and a thorough hopelessness of suffering -in his case, an openness of acknowledged degradation, which robbed us -for the time of all that power which the respectable ones of the earth -have over the disreputable. When we came upon him with our wise saws, -our wisdom was shattered instantly, and flung back upon us in fragments. -What promise could we dare to hold out to him that further patience -would produce any result that could be beneficial? What further harm -could any such doing on his part bring upon him? Did we think that were -he brought out to stand at the gallows’ foot with the knowledge that ten -minutes would usher him into what folks called eternity, his sense of -suffering would be as great as it had been when he conducted that woman -out of court and along the streets to his home, amidst the jeering -congratulations of his neighbours? “When you have fallen so low,” said -he, “that you can fall no lower, the ordinary trammels of the world -cease to bind you.” Though his words were knocked against each other -with the dulled utterances of intoxication, his intellect was terribly -clear, and his scorn for himself, and for the world that had so treated -him, was irrepressible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a></span></p> - -<p>We must have been over an hour with him up there in the bed-room, and -even then we did not leave him. As it was manifest that he could do no -work on that day, we collected the papers together, and proposed that he -should take a walk with us. He was patient as we shovelled together the -Doctor’s pages, and did not object to our suggestion. We found it -necessary to call up Mrs. Grimes to assist us in putting away the “Opus -magnum,” and were astonished to find how much she had come to know about -the work. Added to the Doctor’s manuscript there were now the pages of -Mackenzie’s indexes,—and there were other pages of reference, for use -in making future indexes,—as to all of which Mrs. Grimes seemed to be -quite at home. We have no doubt that she was familiar with the names of -Greek tragedians, and could have pointed out to us in print the -performances of the chorus. “A little fresh air’ll do you a deal of -good, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to the unfortunate man,—“only take a -biscuit in your pocket.” We got him out to the street, but he angrily -refused to take the biscuit which she endeavoured to force into his -hands.</p> - -<p>That was a memorable walk. Turning from the end of Liquorpond Street up -Gray’s Inn Lane towards Holborn, we at once came upon the entrance into -a miserable court.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a></span> “There,” said he; “it is down there that I live. She -is sleeping it off now, and the children are hanging about her, -wondering whether mother has got money to have another go at it when she -rises. I’d take you down to see it all, only it’d sicken you.” We did -not offer to go down the court, abstaining rather for his sake than for -our own. The look of the place was as of a spot squalid, fever-stricken, -and utterly degraded. And this man who was our companion had been born -and bred a gentleman,—had been nourished with that soft and gentle care -which comes of wealth and love combined,—had received the education -which the country gives to her most favoured sons, and had taken such -advantage of that education as is seldom taken by any of those favoured -ones;—and Cucumber Court, with a drunken wife and four half-clothed, -half-starved children, was the condition to which he had brought -himself! The world knows nothing higher nor brighter than had been his -outset in life,—nothing lower nor more debased than the result. And yet -he was one whose time and intellect had been employed upon the pursuit -of knowledge,—who even up to this day had high ideas of what should be -a man’s career,—who worked very hard and had always worked,—who as far -as we knew had struck upon no rocks in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a></span> pursuit of mere pleasure. It -had all come to him from that idea of his youth that it would be good -for him “to take refuge from the conventional thraldom of so-called -gentlemen amidst the liberty of the lower orders.” His life, as he had -himself owned, had indeed been a mistake.</p> - -<p>We passed on from the court, and crossing the road went through the -squares of Gray’s Inn, down Chancery Lane, through the little iron gate -into Lincoln’s Inn, round through the old square,—than which we know no -place in London more conducive to suicide; and the new square,—which -has a gloom of its own, not so potent, and savouring only of madness, -till at last we found ourselves in the Temple Gardens. I do not know why -we had thus clung to the purlieus of the Law, except it was that he was -telling us how in his early days, when he had been sent away from -Cambridge,—as on this occasion he acknowledged to us, for an attempt to -pull the tutor’s nose, in revenge for a supposed insult,—he had -intended to push his fortunes as a barrister. He pointed up to a certain -window in a dark corner of that suicidal old court, and told us that for -one year he had there sat at the feet of a great Gamaliel in Chancery, -and had worked with all his energies. Of course we asked him why he had -left a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a></span> prospect so alluring. Though his answers to us were not quite -explicit, we think that he did not attempt to conceal the truth. He -learned to drink, and that Gamaliel took upon himself to rebuke the -failing, and by the end of that year he had quarrelled irreconcilably -with his family. There had been great wrath at home when he was sent -from Cambridge, greater wrath when he expressed his opinion upon certain -questions of religious faith, and wrath to the final severance of all -family relations when he told the chosen Gamaliel that he should get -drunk as often as he pleased. After that he had “taken refuge among the -lower orders,” and his life, such as it was, had come of it.</p> - -<p>In Fleet Street, as we came out of the Temple, we turned into an -eating-house and had some food. By this time the exercise and the air -had carried off the fumes of the liquor which he had taken, and I knew -that it would be well that he should eat. We had a mutton chop and a hot -potato and a pint of beer each, and sat down to table for the first and -last time as mutual friends. It was odd to see how in his converse with -us on that day he seemed to possess a double identity. Though the -hopeless misery of his condition was always present to him, was -constantly on his tongue, yet he could talk about his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a></span> own career and -his own character as though they belonged to a third person. He could -even laugh at the wretched mistake he had made in life, and speculate as -to its consequences. For himself he was well aware that death was the -only release that he could expect. We did not dare to tell him that if -his wife should die, then things might be better with him. We could only -suggest to him that work itself, if he would do honest work, would -console him for many sufferings. “You don’t know the filth of it,” he -said to us. Ah, dear! how well we remember the terrible word, and the -gesture with which he pronounced it, and the gleam of his eyes as he -said it! His manner to us on this occasion was completely changed, and -we had a gratification in feeling that a sense had come back upon him of -his old associations. “I remember this room so well,” he said,—“when I -used to have friends and money.” And, indeed, the room was one which has -been made memorable by Genius. “I did not think ever to have found -myself here again.” We observed, however, that he could not eat the food -that was placed before him. A morsel or two of the meat he swallowed, -and struggled to eat the crust of his bread, but he could not make a -clean plate of it, as we did,—regretting that the nature of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a></span> chops did -not allow of ampler dimensions. His beer was quickly finished, and we -suggested to him a second tankard. With a queer, half-abashed twinkle of -the eye, he accepted our offer, and then the second pint disappeared -also. We had our doubts on the subject, but at last decided against any -further offer. Had he chosen to call for it he must have had a third; -but he did not call for it. We left him at the door of the tavern, and -he then promised that in spite of all that he had suffered and all that -he had said he would make another effort to complete the Doctor’s work. -“Whether I go or stay,” he said, “I’d like to earn the money that I’ve -spent.” There was something terrible in that idea of his going! Whither -was he to go?</p> - -<p>The Doctor heard nothing of the misfortune of these three or four -inauspicious days; and the work was again going on prosperously when he -came up again to London at the end of the second month. He told us -something of his banker, and something of his lawyer, and murmured a -word or two as to a new curate whom he needed; but we knew that he had -come up to London because he could not bear a longer absence from the -great object of his affections. He could not endure to be thus parted -from his manuscript, and was again childishly anxious that a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a></span> portion of -it should be in the printer’s hands. “At sixty-five, Sir,” he said to -us, “a man has no time to dally with his work.” He had been dallying -with his work all his life, and we sincerely believed that it would be -well with him if he could be contented to dally with it to the end. If -all that Mackenzie said of it was true, the Doctor’s erudition was not -equalled by his originality, or by his judgment. Of that question, -however, we could take no cognizance. He was bent upon publishing, and -as he was willing and able to pay for his whim and was his own master, -nothing that we could do would keep him out of the printer’s hands.</p> - -<p>He was desirous of seeing Mackenzie, and was anxious even to see him -once at his work. Of course he could meet his assistant in our editorial -room, and all the papers could easily be brought backwards and forwards -in the old despatch-box. But in the interest of all parties we hesitated -as to taking our revered and reverend friend to the Spotted Dog. Though -we had told him that his work was being done at a public-house, we -thought that his mind had conceived the idea of some modest inn, and -that he would be shocked at being introduced to a place which he would -regard simply as a gin-shop. Mrs. Grimes, or if not Mrs. Grimes, then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a></span> -Mr. Grimes, might object to another visitor to their bed-room; and -Mackenzie himself would be thrown out of gear by the appearance of those -clerical gaiters upon the humble scene of his labours. We, therefore, -gave him such reasons as were available for submitting, at any rate for -the present, to having the papers brought up to him at our room. And we -ourselves went down to the Spotted Dog to make an appointment with -Mackenzie for the following day. We had last seen him about a week -before, and then the task was progressing well. He had told us that -another fortnight would finish it. We had enquired also of Mrs. Grimes -about the man’s wife. All she could tell us was that the woman had not -again troubled them at the Spotted Dog. She expressed her belief, -however, that the drunkard had been more than once in the hands of the -police since the day on which Mackenzie had walked with us through the -squares of the Inns of Court.</p> - -<p>It was late when we reached the public-house on the occasion to which we -now allude, and the evening was dark and rainy. It was then the end of -January, and it might have been about six o’clock. We knew that we -should not find Mackenzie at the public-house; but it was probable that -Mrs. Grimes could send for him, or, at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a></span> least, could make the -appointment for us. We went into the little parlour, where she was -seated with her husband, and we could immediately see, from the -countenance of both of them, that something was amiss. We began by -telling Mrs. Grimes that the Doctor had come to town. “Mackenzie aint -here, Sir,” said Mrs. Grimes, and we almost thought that the very tone -of her voice was altered. We explained that we had not expected to find -him at that hour, and asked if she could send for him. She only shook -her head. Grimes was standing with his back to the fire and his hands in -his trousers pockets. Up to this moment he had not spoken a word. We -asked if the man was drunk. She again shook her head. Could she bid him -to come to us to-morrow, and bring the box and the papers with him? -Again she shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I’ve told her that I won’t have no more of it,” said Grimes; “nor yet I -won’t. He was drunk this morning,—as drunk as an owl.”</p> - -<p>“He was sober, John, as you are, when he came for the papers this -afternoon at two o’clock.” So the box and the papers had all been taken -away!</p> - -<p>“And she was here yesterday rampaging about the place, without as much -clothes on as would cover her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a></span> nakedness,” said Mr. Grimes. “I won’t -have no more of it. I’ve done for that man what his own flesh and blood -wouldn’t do. I know that; and I won’t have no more of it. Mary Anne, -you’ll have that table cleared out after breakfast to-morrow.” When a -man, to whom his wife is usually Polly, addresses her as Mary Anne, then -it may be surmised that that man is in earnest. We knew that he was in -earnest, and she knew it also.</p> - -<p>“He wasn’t drunk, John,—no, nor yet in liquor, when he come and took -away that box this afternoon.” We understood this reiterated assertion. -It was in some sort excusing to us her own breach of trust in having -allowed the manuscript to be withdrawn from her own charge, or was -assuring us that, at the worst, she had not been guilty of the -impropriety of allowing the man to take it away when he was unfit to -have it in his charge. As for blaming her, who could have thought of it? -Had Mackenzie at any time chosen to pass down stairs with the box in his -hands, it was not to be expected that she should stop him violently. And -now that he had done so we could not blame her; but we felt that a great -weight had fallen upon our own hearts. If evil should come to the -manuscript would not the Doctor’s wrath fall upon us with a crushing -weight? Something must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a></span> be done at once. And we suggested that it would -be well that somebody should go round to Cucumber Court. “I’d go as soon -as look,” said Mrs. Grimes, “but he won’t let me.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t stir a foot out of this to-night;—not that way,” said Mr. -Grimes.</p> - -<p>“Who wants to stir?” said Mrs. Grimes.</p> - -<p>We felt that there was something more to be told than we had yet heard, -and a great fear fell upon us. The woman’s manner to us was altered, and -we were sure that this had come not from altered feelings on her part, -but from circumstances which had frightened her. It was not her husband -that she feared, but the truth of something that her husband had said to -her. “If there is anything more to tell, for God’s sake tell it,” we -said, addressing ourselves rather to the man than to the woman. Then -Grimes did tell us his story. On the previous evening Mackenzie had -received three or four sovereigns from Mrs. Grimes, being, of course, a -portion of the Doctor’s payments; and early on that morning all -Liquorpond Street had been in a state of excitement with the drunken -fury of Mackenzie’s wife. She had found her way into the Spotted Dog, -and was being actually extruded by the strength of Grimes himself,—of -Grimes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a></span> who had been brought down, half dressed, from his bed-room by -the row,—when Mackenzie himself, equally drunk, appeared upon the -scene. “No, John;—not equally drunk,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Bother!” -exclaimed her husband, going on with his story. The man had struggled to -take the woman by the arm, and the two had fallen and rolled in the -street together. “I was looking out of the window, and it was awful to -see,” said Mrs. Grimes. We felt that it was “awful to hear.” A man,—and -such a man, rolling in the gutter with a drunken woman,—himself -drunk,—and that woman his wife! “There aint to be no more of it at the -Spotted Dog; that’s all,” said John Grimes, as he finished his part of -the story.</p> - -<p>Then, at last, Mrs. Grimes became voluble. All this had occurred before -nine in the morning. “The woman must have been at it all night,” she -said. “So must the man,” said John. “Anyways he came back about dinner, -and he was sober then. I asked him not to go up, and offered to make him -a cup of tea. It was just as you’d gone out after dinner, John.”</p> - -<p>“He won’t have no more tea here,” said John.</p> - -<p>“And he didn’t have any then. He wouldn’t, he said, have any tea, but -went up stairs. What was I to do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a></span> I couldn’t tell him as he shouldn’t. -Well;—during the row in the morning John had said something as to -Mackenzie not coming about the premises any more.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did,” said Grimes.</p> - -<p>“He was a little cut, then, no doubt,” continued the lady; “and I didn’t -think as he would have noticed what John had said.”</p> - -<p>“I mean it to be noticed now.”</p> - -<p>“He had noticed it then, Sir, though he wasn’t just as he should be at -that hour of the morning. Well;—what does he do? He goes up stairs and -packs up all the papers at once. Leastways, that’s as I suppose. They -aint there now. You can go and look if you please, Sir. Well; when he -came down, whether I was in the kitchen,—though it isn’t often as my -eyes is off the bar, or in the tap-room, or busy drawing, which I do do -sometimes, Sir, when there are a many calling for liquor, I can’t -say;—but if I aint never to stand upright again, I didn’t see him pass -out with the box. But Miss Wilcox did. You can ask her.” Miss Wilcox was -the young lady in the bar, whom we did not think ourselves called upon -to examine, feeling no doubt whatever as to the fact of the box having -been taken away by Mackenzie. In all this Mrs. Grimes seemed to defend -herself, as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a></span> some serious charge was to be brought against her; -whereas all that she had done had been done out of pure charity; and in -exercising her charity towards Mackenzie she had shown an almost -exaggerated kindness towards ourselves.</p> - -<p>“If there’s anything wrong, it isn’t your fault,” we said.</p> - -<p>“Nor yet mine,” said John Grimes.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” we replied.</p> - -<p>“It aint none of our faults,” continued he; “only this;—you can’t wash -a blackamoor white, nor it aint no use trying. He don’t come here any -more, that’s all. A man in drink we don’t mind. We has to put up with -it. And they aint that tarnation desperate as is a woman. As long as a -man can keep his legs he’ll try to steady hisself; but there is women -who, when they’ve liquor, gets a fury for rampaging. There aint a many -as can beat this one, Sir. She’s that strong, it took four of us to hold -her; though she can’t hardly do a stroke of work, she’s that weak when -she’s sober.”</p> - -<p>We had now heard the whole story, and, while hearing it, had determined -that it was our duty to go round into Cucumber Court and seek the -manuscript and the box. We were unwilling to pry into the wretchedness -of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a></span> man’s home; but something was due to the Doctor; and we had to -make that appointment for the morrow, if it were still possible that -such an appointment should be kept. We asked for the number of the -house, remembering well the entrance into the court. Then there was a -whisper between John and his wife, and the husband offered to accompany -us. “It’s a roughish place,” he said, “but they know me.” “He’d better -go along with you,” said Mrs. Grimes. We, of course, were glad of such -companionship, and glad also to find that the landlord, upon whom we had -inflicted so much trouble, was still sufficiently our friend to take -this trouble on our behalf.</p> - -<p>“It’s a dreary place enough,” said Grimes, as he led us up the narrow -archway. Indeed it was a dreary place. The court spread itself a little -in breadth, but very little, when the passage was passed, and there were -houses on each side of it. There was neither gutter nor, as far as we -saw, drain, but the broken flags were slippery with moist mud, and here -and there, strewed about between the houses, there were the remains of -cabbages and turnip-tops. The place swarmed with children, over whom one -ghastly gas-lamp at the end of the court threw a flickering and -uncertain light. There was a clamour of scolding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a></span> voices, to which it -seemed that no heed was paid; and there was a smell of damp rotting -nastiness, amidst which it seemed to us to be almost impossible that -life should be continued. Grimes led the way without further speech, to -the middle house on the left hand of the court, and asked a man who was -sitting on the low threshold of the door whether Mackenzie was within. -“So that be you, Muster Grimes; be it?” said the man, without stirring. -“Yes; he’s there I guess, but they’ve been and took her.” Then we passed -on into the house. “No matter about that,” said the man, as we -apologised for kicking him in our passage. He had not moved, and it had -been impossible to enter without kicking him.</p> - -<p>It seemed that Mackenzie held the two rooms on the ground floor, and we -entered them at once. There was no light, but we could see the glimmer -of a fire in the grate; and presently we became aware of the presence of -children. Grimes asked after Mackenzie, and a girl’s voice told us that -he was in the inner room. The publican then demanded a light, and the -girl with some hesitation, lit the end of a farthing candle, which was -fixed in a small bottle. We endeavoured to look round the room by the -glimmer which this afforded, but could see nothing but the presence of -four children, three of whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a></span> seemed to be seated in apathy on the -floor. Grimes, taking the candle in his hand, passed at once into the -other room, and we followed him. Holding the bottle something over his -head, he contrived to throw a gleam of light upon one of the two beds -with which the room was fitted, and there we saw the body of Julius -Mackenzie stretched in the torpor of dead intoxication. His head lay -against the wall, his body was across the bed, and his feet dangled on -to the floor. He still wore his dirty boots, and his clothes as he had -worn them in the morning. No sight so piteous, so wretched, and at the -same time so eloquent had we ever seen before. His eyes were closed, and -the light of his face was therefore quenched. His mouth was open, and -the slaver had fallen upon his beard. His dark, clotted hair had been -pulled over his face by the unconscious movement of his hands. There -came from him a stertorous sound of breathing, as though he were being -choked by the attitude in which he lay; and even in his drunkenness -there was an uneasy twitching as of pain about his face. And there sat, -and had been sitting for hours past, the four children in the other -room, knowing the condition of the parent whom they most respected, but -not even endeavouring to do anything for his comfort. What could they -do? They knew, by long training and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a></span> thorough experience, that a fit of -drunkenness had to be got out of by sleep. To them there was nothing -shocking in it. It was but a periodical misfortune. “She’ll have to own -he’s been and done it now,” said Grimes, looking down upon the man, and -alluding to his wife’s good-natured obstinacy. He handed the candle to -us, and, with a mixture of tenderness and roughness, of which the -roughness was only in the manner and the tenderness was real, he raised -Mackenzie’s head and placed it on the bolster, and lifted the man’s legs -on to the bed. Then he took off the man’s boots, and the old silk -handkerchief from the neck, and pulled the trousers straight, and -arranged the folds of the coat. It was almost as though he were laying -out one that was dead. The eldest girl was now standing by us, and -Grimes asked her how long her father had been in that condition. “Jack -Hoggart brought him in just afore it was dark,” said the girl. Then it -was explained to us that Jack Hoggart was the man whom we had seen -sitting on the door-step.</p> - -<p>“And your mother?” asked Grimes.</p> - -<p>“The perlice took her afore dinner.”</p> - -<p>“And you children;—what have you had to eat?” In answer to this the -girl only shook her head. Grimes took no immediate notice of this, but -called the drunken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a></span> man by his name, and shook his shoulder, and looked -round to a broken ewer which stood on the little table, for water to -dash upon him;—but there was no water in the jug. He called again and -repeated the shaking, and at last Mackenzie opened his eyes, and in a -dull, half-conscious manner looked up at us. “Come, my man,” said -Grimes, “shake this off and have done with it.”</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t you better try to get up?” we asked.</p> - -<p>There was a faint attempt at rising, then a smile,—a smile which was -terrible to witness, so sad was all which it said; then a look of utter, -abject misery, coming, as we thought, from a momentary remembrance of -his degradation; and after that he sank back in the dull, brutal, -painless, death-like apathy of absolute unconsciousness.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be morning afore he’ll move,” said the girl.</p> - -<p>“She’s about right,” said Grimes. “He’s got it too heavy for us to do -anything but just leave him. We’ll take a look for the box and the -papers.”</p> - -<p>And the man upon whom we were looking down had been born a gentleman, -and was a finished scholar,—one so well educated, so ripe in literary -acquirement, that we knew few whom we could call his equal. Judging of -the matter by the light of our reason, we cannot say that the horror of -the scene should have been enhanced to us by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a></span> these recollections. Had -the man been a shoemaker or a coalheaver there would have been enough of -tragedy in it to make an angel weep,—that sight of the child standing -by the bedside of her drunken father, while the other parent was away in -custody,—and in no degree shocked at what she saw, because the thing -was so common to her! But the thought of what the man had been, of what -he was, of what he might have been, and the steps by which he had -brought himself to the foul degradation which we witnessed, filled us -with a dismay which we should hardly have felt had the gifts which he -had polluted and the intellect which he had wasted been less capable of -noble uses.</p> - -<p>Our purpose in coming to the court was to rescue the Doctor’s papers -from danger, and we turned to accompany Grimes into the other room. As -we did so the publican asked the girl if she knew anything of a black -box which her father had taken away from the Spotted Dog. “The box is -here,” said the girl.</p> - -<p>“And the papers?” asked Grimes. Thereupon the girl shook her head, and -we both hurried into the outer room. I hardly know who first discovered -the sight which we encountered, or whether it was shown to us by the -child. The whole fire-place was strewn with half-burnt sheets of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a></span> -manuscript. There were scraps of pages of which almost the whole had -been destroyed, others which were hardly more than scorched, and heaps -of paper-ashes all lying tumbled together about the fender. We went down -on our knees to examine them, thinking at the moment that the poor -creature might in his despair have burned his own work and have spared -that of the Doctor. But it was not so. We found scores of charred pages -of the Doctor’s elaborate handwriting. By this time Grimes had found the -open box, and we perceived that the sheets remaining in it were tumbled -and huddled together in absolute confusion. There were pages of the -various volumes mixed with those which Mackenzie himself had written, -and they were all crushed, and rolled, and twisted as though they had -been thrust thither as waste-paper,—out of the way. “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twas mother as -done it,” said the girl, “and we put ’em back again when the perlice -took her.”</p> - -<p>There was nothing more to learn,—nothing more by the hearing which any -useful clue could be obtained. What had been the exact course of the -scenes which had been enacted there that morning it little booted us to -enquire. It was enough and more than enough that we knew that the -mischief had been done. We went down on our knees before the fire, and -rescued from the ashes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a></span> with our hands every fragment of manuscript that -we could find. Then we put the mass altogether in the box, and gazed -upon the wretched remnants almost in tears. “You had better go and get a -bit of some’at to eat,” said Grimes, handing a coin to the elder girl. -“It’s hard on them to starve ’cause their father’s drunk, Sir.” Then he -took the closed box in his hand and we followed him out into the street. -“I’ll send or step up to look after him to-morrow,” said Grimes, as he -put us and the box into a cab. We little thought when we made to the -drunkard that foolish request to arise, that we should never speak to -him again.</p> - -<p>As we returned to our office in the cab that we might deposit the box -there ready for the following day, our mind was chiefly occupied in -thinking over the undeserved grievances which had fallen upon ourselves. -We had been moved by the charitable desire to do services to two -different persons,—to the learned Doctor and to the red-nosed drunkard, -and this had come of it! There had been nothing for us to gain by -assisting either the one or the other. We had taken infinite trouble, -attempting to bring together two men who wanted each other’s -services,—working hard in sheer benevolence;—and what had been the -result? We had spent half an hour on our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a></span> knees in the undignified and -almost disreputable work of raking among Mrs. Mackenzie’s cinders, and -now we had to face the anger, the dismay, the reproach, and,—worse than -all,—the agony of the Doctor. As to Mackenzie,—we asserted to -ourselves again and again that nothing further could be done for him. He -had made his bed, and he must lie upon it; but, oh! why,—why had we -attempted to meddle with a being so degraded? We got out of the cab at -our office door, thinking of the Doctor’s countenance as we should see -it on the morrow. Our heart sank within us, and we asked ourselves, if -it was so bad with us now, how it would be with us when we returned to -the place on the following morning.</p> - -<p>But on the following morning we did return. No doubt each individual -reader to whom we address ourselves has at some period felt that -indescribable load of personal, short-lived care, which causes the heart -to sink down into the boots. It is not great grief that does it;—nor is -it excessive fear; but the unpleasant operation comes from the mixture -of the two. It is the anticipation of some imperfectly-understood evil -that does it,—some evil out of which there might perhaps be an escape -if we could only see the way. In this case we saw no way out of it. The -Doctor was to be with us at one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a></span> o’clock, and he would come with smiles, -expecting to meet his learned colleague. How should we break it to the -Doctor? We might indeed send to him, putting off the meeting, but the -advantage coming from that would be slight, if any. We must see the -injured Grecian sooner or later; and we had resolved, much as we feared, -that the evil hour should not be postponed. We spent an hour that -morning in arranging the fragments. Of the first volume about a third -had been destroyed. Of the second nearly every page had been either -burned or mutilated. Of the third but little had been injured. -Mackenzie’s own work had fared better than the Doctor’s; but there was -no comfort in that. After what had passed I thought it quite improbable -that the Doctor would make any use of Mackenzie’s work. So much of the -manuscript as could still be placed in continuous pages we laid out upon -the table, volume by volume,—that in the middle sinking down from its -original goodly bulk almost to the dimensions of a poor sermon;—and the -half-burned bits we left in the box. Then we sat ourselves down at our -accustomed table, and pretended to try to work. Our ears were very -sharp, and we heard the Doctor’s step upon our stairs within a minute or -two of the appointed time. Our heart went to the very toes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a></span> of our -boots. We shuffled in our chair, rose from it, and sat down again,—and -were conscious that we were not equal to the occasion. Hitherto we had, -after some mild literary form, patronised the Doctor,—as a man of -letters in town will patronise his literary friend from the -country;—but we now feared him as a truant school-boy fears his master. -And yet it was so necessary that we should wear some air of -self-assurance!</p> - -<p>In a moment he was with us, wearing that bland smile which we knew so -well, and which at the present moment almost overpowered us. We had been -sure that he would wear that smile, and had especially feared it. “Ah,” -said he, grasping us by the hand, “I thought I should have been late. I -see that our friend is not here yet.”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” we replied, “a great misfortune has happened.”</p> - -<p>“A great misfortune! Mr. Mackenzie is not dead?”</p> - -<p>“No;—he is not dead. Perhaps it would have been better that he had died -long since. He has destroyed your manuscript.” The Doctor’s face fell, -and his hands at the same time, and he stood looking at us. “I need not -tell you, Doctor, what my feelings are, and how great my remorse.”</p> - -<p>“Destroyed it!” Then we took him by the hand and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a></span> led him to the table. -He turned first upon the appetising and comparatively uninjured third -volume, and seemed to think that we had hoaxed him. “This is not -destroyed,” he said, with a smile. But before I could explain anything, -his hands were among the fragments in the box. “As I am a living man, -they have burned it!” he exclaimed. “I—I—I——” Then he turned from -us, and walked twice the length of the room, backwards and forwards, -while we stood still, patiently waiting the explosion of his wrath. “My -friend,” he said, when his walk was over, “a great man underwent the -same sorrow. Newton’s manuscript was burned. I will take it home with -me, and we will say no more about it.” I never thought very much of the -Doctor as a divine, but I hold him to have been as good a Christian as I -ever met.</p> - -<p>But that plan of his of saying no more about it could not quite be -carried out. I was endeavouring to explain to him, as I thought it -necessary to do, the circumstances of the case, and he was protesting -his indifference to any such details, when there came a knock at the -door, and the boy who waited on us below ushered Mrs. Grimes into the -room. As the reader is aware, we had, during the last two months, become -very intimate with the landlady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a></span> of the Spotted Dog, but we had never -hitherto had the pleasure of seeing her outside her own house. “Oh, Mr. -----” she began, and then she paused, seeing the Doctor.</p> - -<p>We thought it expedient that there should be some introduction. “Mrs. -Grimes,” we said, “this is the gentleman whose invaluable manuscript has -been destroyed by that unfortunate drunkard.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then you’re the Doctor, Sir?” The Doctor bowed and smiled. His -heart must have been very heavy, but he bowed politely and smiled -sweetly. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I don’t know how to tell you!”</p> - -<p>“To tell us what?” asked the Doctor.</p> - -<p>“What has happened since?” we demanded. The woman stood shaking before -us, and then sank into a chair. Then arose to us at the moment some idea -that the drunken woman, in her mad rage, had done some great damage to -the Spotted Dog,—had set fire to the house, or injured Mr. Grimes -personally, or perhaps run a muck amidst the jugs and pitchers, window -glass, and gas lights. Something had been done which would give the -Grimeses a pecuniary claim on me or on the Doctor, and the woman had -been sent hither to make the first protest. Oh,—when should I see the -last of the results<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a></span> of my imprudence in having attempted to befriend -such a one as Julius Mackenzie! “If you have anything to tell, you had -better tell it,” we said, gravely.</p> - -<p>“He’s been, and——”</p> - -<p>“Not destroyed himself?” asked the Doctor.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Sir. He have indeed,—from ear to ear,—and is now a lying at -the Spotted Dog!”</p> - -<p class="astt">* * * * *</p> - -<p>And so, after all, that was the end of Julius Mackenzie! We need hardly -say that our feelings, which up to that moment had been very hostile to -the man, underwent a sudden revulsion. Poor, overburdened, struggling, -ill-used, abandoned creature! The world had been hard upon him, with a -severity which almost induced one to make complaint against Omnipotence. -The poor wretch had been willing to work, had been industrious in his -calling, had had capacity for work; and he had also struggled gallantly -against his evil fate, had recognised and endeavoured to perform his -duty to his children and to the miserable woman who had brought him to -his ruin!</p> - -<p>And that sin of drunkenness had seemed to us to be in him rather the -reflex of her vice than the result of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a></span> his own vicious tendencies. Still -it might be doubtful whether she had not learned the vice from him. They -had both in truth been drunkards as long as they had been known in the -neighbourhood of the Spotted Dog; but it was stated by all who had known -them there that he was never seen to be drunk unless when she had -disgraced him by the public exposure of her own abomination. Such as he -was he had now come to his end! This was the upshot of his loud claims -for liberty from his youth upwards;—liberty as against his father and -family; liberty as against his college tutor; liberty as against all -pastors, masters, and instructors; liberty as against the conventional -thraldom of the world. He was now lying a wretched corpse at the Spotted -Dog, with his throat cut from ear to ear, till the coroner’s jury should -have decided whether or not they would call him a suicide!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Grimes had come to tell us that the coroner was to be at the -Spotted Dog at four o’clock, and to say that her husband hoped that we -would be present. We had seen Mackenzie so lately, and had so much to do -with the employment of the last days of his life, that we could not -refuse this request, though it came accompanied by no legal summons. -Then Mrs. Grimes again became voluble<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a></span> and poured out to us her -biography of Mackenzie as far as she knew it. He had been married to the -woman ten years, and certainly had been a drunkard before he married -her. “As for her, she’d been well-nigh suckled on gin,” said Mrs. -Grimes, “though he didn’t know it, poor fellow.” Whether this was true -or not, she had certainly taken to drink soon after her marriage, and -then his life had been passed in alternate fits of despondency and of -desperate efforts to improve his own condition and that of his children. -Mrs. Grimes declared to us that when the fit came on them,—when the -woman had begun and the man had followed,—they would expend upon drink -in two days what would have kept the family for a fortnight. “They say -as how it was nothing for them to swallow forty shillings’ worth of gin -in forty-eight hours.” The Doctor held up his hands in horror. “And it -didn’t, none of it, come our way,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Indeed, John -wouldn’t let us serve it for ’em.”</p> - -<p>She sat there for half an hour, and during the whole time she was -telling us of the man’s life; but the reader will already have heard -more than enough of it. By what immediate demon the woman had been -instigated to burn the husband’s work almost immediately on its -production<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a></span> within her own home, we never heard. Doubtless there had -been some terrible scene in which the man’s sufferings must have been -carried almost beyond endurance. “And he had feelings, Sir, he had,” -said Mrs. Grimes; “he knew as a woman should be decent, and a man’s wife -especial; I’m sure we pitied him so, John and I, that we could have -cried over him. John would say a hard word to him at times, but he’d -have walked round London to do him a good turn. John aint to say -edicated hisself, but he do respect learning.”</p> - -<p>When she had told us all, Mrs. Grimes went, and we were left alone with -the Doctor. He at once consented to accompany us to the Spotted Dog, and -we spent the hour that still remained to us in discussing the fate of -the unfortunate man. We doubt whether an allusion was made during the -time to the burned manuscript. If so, it was certainly not made by the -Doctor himself. The tragedy which had occurred in connection with it had -made him feel it to be unfitting even to mention his own loss. That such -a one should have gone to his account in such a manner, without hope, -without belief, and without fear,—as Burley said to Bothwell, and -Bothwell boasted to Burley,—that was the theme of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a></span> Doctor’s -discourse. “The mercy of God is infinite,” he said, bowing his head, -with closed eyes and folded hands. To threaten while the life is in the -man is human. To believe in the execution of those threats when the life -has passed away is almost beyond the power of humanity.</p> - -<p>At the hour fixed we were at the Spotted Dog, and found there a crowd -assembled. The coroner was already seated in Mrs. Grimes’s little -parlour, and the body as we were told had been laid out in the tap-room. -The inquest was soon over. The fact that he had destroyed himself in the -low state of physical suffering and mental despondency which followed -his intoxication was not doubted. At the very time that he was doing it, -his wife was being taken from the lock-up house to the police office in -the police van. He was not penniless, for he had sent the children out -with money for their breakfasts, giving special caution as to the -youngest, a little toddling thing of three years old;—and then he had -done it. The eldest girl, returning to the house, had found him lying -dead upon the floor. We were called upon for our evidence, and went into -the tap-room accompanied by the Doctor. Alas! the very table which had -been dragged up stairs into the landlady’s bed-room with the charitable -object of assisting Mackenzie in his work,—the table at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a></span> which we had -sat with him conning the Doctor’s pages—had now been dragged down again -and was used for another purpose. We had little to say as to the matter, -except that we had known the man to be industrious and capable, and that -we had, alas! seen him utterly prostrated by drink on the evening before -his death.</p> - -<p>The saddest sight of all on this occasion was the appearance of -Mackenzie’s wife,—whom we had never before seen. She had been brought -there by a policeman, but whether she was still in custody we did not -know. She had been dressed, either by the decency of the police or by -the care of her neighbours, in an old black gown, which was a world too -large and too long for her. And on her head there was a black bonnet -which nearly enveloped her. She was a small woman, and, as far as we -could judge from the glance we got of her face, pale, and worn, and wan. -She had not such outward marks of a drunkard’s career as those which -poor Mackenzie always carried with him. She was taken up to the coroner, -and what answers she gave to him were spoken in so low a voice that they -did not reach us. The policeman, with whom we spoke, told us that she -did not feel it much,—that she was callous now and beyond the power of -mental suffering. “She’s frightened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a></span> just this minute, Sir; but it isn’t -more than that,” said the policeman. We gave one glance along the table -at the burden which it bore, but we saw nothing beyond the outward lines -of that which had so lately been the figure of a man. We should have -liked to see the countenance once more. The morbid curiosity to see such -horrid sights is strong with most of us. But we did not wish to be -thought to wish to see it,—especially by our friend the Doctor,—and we -abstained from pushing our way to the head of the table. The Doctor -himself remained quiescent in the corner of the room the farthest from -the spectacle. When the matter was submitted to them, the jury lost not -a moment in declaring their verdict. They said that the man had -destroyed himself while suffering under temporary insanity produced by -intoxication. And that was the end of Julius Mackenzie, the scholar.</p> - -<p>On the following day the Doctor returned to the country, taking with him -our black box, to the continued use of which, as a sarcophagus, he had -been made very welcome. For our share in bringing upon him the great -catastrophe of his life, he never uttered to us, either by spoken or -written word, a single reproach. That idea of suffering as the great -philosopher had suffered seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a></span> comfort him. “If Newton bore it, -surely I can,” he said to us with his bland smile, when we renewed the -expression of our regret. Something passed between us, coming more from -us than from him, as to the expediency of finding out some youthful -scholar who could go down to the rectory, and reconstruct from its ruins -the edifice of our friend’s learning. The Doctor had given us some -encouragement, and we had begun to make enquiry, when we received the -following letter:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“—— Rectory, —— ——, 18—.<br /> -</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr.</span> ——, —You were so kind as to say that you would -endeavour to find for me an assistant in arranging and -reconstructing the fragments of my work on The Metres of the Greek -Dramatists. Your promise has been an additional kindness.” Dear, -courteous, kind old gentleman! For we knew well that no slightest -sting of sarcasm was intended to be conveyed in these words. “Your -promise has been an additional kindness; but looking upon the -matter carefully, and giving to it the best consideration in my -power, I have determined to relinquish the design. That which has -been destroyed cannot be replaced; and it may well be that it was -not worth replacing. I am old now, and never could do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a></span> again that -which perhaps I was never fitted to do with any fair prospect of -success. I will never turn again to the ashes of my unborn child; -but will console myself with the memory of my grievance, knowing -well, as I do so, that consolation from the severity of harsh but -just criticism might have been more difficult to find. When I think -of the end of my efforts as a scholar, my mind reverts to the -terrible and fatal catastrophe of one whose scholarship was -infinitely more finished and more ripe than mine.</p> - -<p>“Whenever it may suit you to come into this part of the country, -pray remember that it will give very great pleasure to myself and -to my daughter to welcome you at our parsonage.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 30%;">“Believe me to be,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-right: 20%;">“My dear Mr. ——,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-right: 10%;">“Yours very sincerely,</span><br /> - -“—— ——.”</p></div> - -<p>We never have found the time to accept the Doctor’s invitation, and our -eyes have never again rested on the black box containing the ashes of -the unborn child to which the Doctor will never turn again. We can -picture him to ourselves standing, full of thought, with his hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a></span> upon -the lid, but never venturing to turn the lock. Indeed, we do not doubt -but that the key of the box is put away among other secret treasures, a -lock of his wife’s hair, perhaps, and the little shoe of the boy who did -not live long enough to stand at his father’s knee. For a tender, -soft-hearted man was the Doctor, and one who fed much on the memories of -the past.</p> - -<p>We often called upon Mr. and Mrs. Grimes at the Spotted Dog, and would -sit there talking of Mackenzie and his family. Mackenzie’s widow soon -vanished out of the neighbourhood, and no one there knew what was the -fate of her or of her children. And then also Mr. Grimes went and took -his wife with him. But they could not be said to vanish. Scratching his -head one day, he told me with a dolorous voice that he had—made his -fortune. “We’ve got as snug a little place as ever you see, just two -mile out of Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes triumphantly,—“with thirty -acres of land just to amuse John. And as for the Spotted Dog, I’m that -sick of it, another year’d wear me to a dry bone.” We looked at her, and -saw no tendency that way. And we looked at John, and thought that he was -not triumphant.</p> - -<p>Who followed Mr. and Mrs. Grimes at the Spotted Dog we have never -visited Liquorpond Street to see.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="MRS_BRUMBY" id="MRS_BRUMBY"></a>MRS. BRUMBY.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a></span> </p> - -<p class="c"><img src="images/brumby.jpg" -alt="[text decoration unavailable.]" -/> -</p> - -<h2>MRS. BRUMBY.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>E think that we are justified in asserting that of all the persons with -whom we have been brought in contact in the course of our editorial -experiences, men or women, boys or girls, Mrs. Brumby was the most -hateful and the most hated. We are sure of this,—that for some months -she was the most feared, during which period she made life a burden to -us, and more than once induced us to calculate whether it would not be -well that we should abandon our public duties and retire to some private -corner into which it would be impossible that Mrs. Brumby should follow -us. Years have rolled on since then, and we believe that Mrs. Brumby has -gone before the great Judge and been called upon to account for the -injuries<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a></span> she did us. We know that she went from these shores to a -distant land when her nefarious projects failed at home. She was then by -no means a young woman. We never could find that she left relative or -friend behind her, and we know of none now, except those close and -dearest friends of our own who supported us in our misery, who remember -even that she existed. Whether she be alive or whether she be dead, her -story shall be told,—not in a spirit of revenge, but with strict -justice.</p> - -<p>What there was in her of good shall be set down with honesty; and indeed -there was much in her that was good. She was energetic, full of -resources, very brave, constant, devoted to the interests of the poor -creature whose name she bore, and by no means a fool. She was utterly -unscrupulous, dishonest, a liar, cruel, hard as a nether mill-stone to -all the world except Lieutenant Brumby,—harder to him than to all the -world besides when he made any faintest attempt at rebellion,—and as -far as we could judge, absolutely without conscience. Had she been a man -and had circumstances favoured her, she might have been a prime -minister, or an archbishop, or a chief justice. We intend no silly -satire on present or past holders of the great offices indicated; but we -think that they have generally been achieved by such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a></span> a combination of -intellect, perseverance, audacity, and readiness as that which Mrs. -Brumby certainly possessed. And that freedom from the weakness of -scruple,—which in men who have risen in public life we may perhaps call -adaptability to compromise,—was in her so strong, that had she been a -man, she would have trimmed her bark to any wind that blew, and -certainly have sailed into some port. But she was a woman,—and the -ports were not open to her.</p> - -<p>Those ports were not open to her which had she been a man would have -been within her reach; but,—fortunately for us and for the world at -large as to the general question, though so very unfortunately as -regarded this special case,—the port of literature is open to women. It -seems to be the only really desirable harbour to which a female captain -can steer her vessel with much hope of success. There are the Fine Arts, -no doubt. There seems to be no reason why a woman should not paint as -well as Titian. But they don’t. With the pen they hold their own, and -certainly run a better race against men on that course than on any -other. Mrs. Brumby, who was very desirous of running a race and winning -a place, and who had seen all this, put on her cap, and jacket, and -boots, chose her colours, and entered her name. Why,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a></span> oh why, did she -select the course upon which we, wretched we, were bound by our duties -to regulate the running?</p> - -<p>We may as well say at once that though Mrs. Brumby might have made a -very good prime minister, she could not write a paper for a magazine, or -produce literary work of any description that was worth paper and ink. -We feel sure that we may declare without hesitation that no perseverance -on her part, no labour however unswerving, no training however long, -would have enabled her to do in a fitting manner even a review for the -“Literary Curricle.” There was very much in her, but that was not in -her. We find it difficult to describe the special deficiency under which -she laboured;—but it existed and was past remedy. As a man suffering -from a chronic stiff joint cannot run, and cannot hope to run, so was it -with her. She could not combine words so as to make sentences, or -sentences so as to make paragraphs. She did not know what style meant. -We believe that had she ever read, Johnson, Gibbon, Archdeacon Coxe, Mr. -Grote, and Macaulay would have been all the same to her. And yet this -woman chose literature as her profession, and clung to it for awhile -with a persistence which brought her nearer to the rewards of success -than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a></span> many come who are at all points worthy to receive them.</p> - -<p>We have said that she was not a young woman when we knew her. We cannot -fancy her to have been ever young. We cannot bring our imagination to -picture to ourselves the person of Mrs. Brumby surrounded by the -advantages of youth. When we knew her she may probably have been forty -or forty-five, and she then possessed a rigidity of demeanour and a -sternness of presence which we think must have become her better than -any softer guise or more tender phase of manner could ever have done in -her earlier years. There was no attempt about her to disguise or modify -her sex, such as women have made since those days. She talked much about -her husband, the lieutenant, and she wore a double roll of very stiff -dark brown curls on each side of her face,—or rather over her -brows,—which would not have been worn by a woman meaning to throw off -as far as possible her femininity. Whether those curls were or were not -artificial we never knew. Our male acquaintances who saw her used to -swear that they were false, but a lady who once saw her, assured us that -they were real. She told us that there is a kind of hair growing on the -heads of some women, thick, short, crisp, and shiny,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a></span> which will -maintain its curl unbroken and unruffled for days. She told us, also, -that women blessed with such hair are always pachy-dermatous and -strong-minded. Such certainly was the character of Mrs. Brumby. She was -a tall, thin woman, not very tall or very thin. For aught that we can -remember, her figure may have been good;—but we do remember well that -she never seemed to us to have any charm of womanhood. There was a -certain fire in her dark eyes,—eyes which were, we think, quite -black,—but it was the fire of contention and not of love. Her features -were well formed, her nose somewhat long, and her lips thin, and her -face too narrow, perhaps, for beauty. Her chin was long, and the space -from her nose to her upper lip was long. She always carried a -well-wearing brown complexion;—a complexion with which no man had a -right to find fault, but which, to a pondering, speculative man, -produced unconsciously a consideration whether, in a matter of kissing, -an ordinary mahogany table did not offer a preferable surface. When we -saw her she wore, we think always, a dark stuff dress,—a fur tippet in -winter and a most ill-arranged shawl in summer,—and a large commanding -bonnet, which grew in our eyes till it assumed all the attributes of a -helmet,—inspiring that reverence and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a></span> creating that fear which -Minerva’s headgear is intended to produce. When we add our conviction -that Mrs. Brumby trusted nothing to female charms, that she neither -suffered nor enjoyed anything from female vanity, and that the -lieutenant was perfectly safe, let her roam the world alone, as she -might, in search of editors, we shall have said enough to introduce the -lady to our readers.</p> - -<p>Of her early life, or their early lives, we know nothing; but the -unfortunate circumstances which brought us into contact with Mrs. -Brumby, made us also acquainted with the lieutenant. The lieutenant, we -think, was younger than his wife;—a good deal younger we used to -imagine, though his looks may have been deceptive. He was a confirmed -invalid, and there are phases of ill-health which give an appearance of -youthfulness rather than of age. What was his special ailing we never -heard,—though, as we shall mention further on, we had our own idea on -that subject; but he was always spoken of in our hearing as one who -always had been ill, who always was ill, who always would be ill, and -who never ought to think of getting well. He had been in some regiment -called the Duke of Sussex’s Own, and his wife used to imagine that her -claims upon the public as a woman of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a></span> literature were enhanced by the -royalty of her husband’s corps. We never knew her attempt to make any -other use whatever of his services. He was not confined to his bed, and -could walk at any rate about the house; but she never asked him, or -allowed him to do anything. Whether he ever succeeded in getting his -face outside the door we do not know. He wore, when we saw him, an old -dressing-gown and slippers. He was a pale, slight, light-haired man, and -we fancy that he took a delight in novels.</p> - -<p>Their settled income consisted of his half-pay and some very small -property which belonged to her. Together they might perhaps have -possessed £150 per annum. When we knew them they had lodgings in Harpur -Street, near Theobald’s Road, and she had resolved to push her way in -London as a woman of literature. She had been told that she would have -to deal with hard people, and that she must herself be hard;—that -advantage would be taken of her weakness, and that she must therefore -struggle vehemently to equal the strength of those with whom she would -be brought in contact;—that editors, publishers, and brother authors -would suck her brains and give her nothing for them, and that, -therefore, she must get what she could out of them, giving them as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a></span> -little as possible in return. It was an evil lesson that she had -learned; but she omitted nothing in the performance of the duties which -that lesson imposed upon her.</p> - -<p>She first came to us with a pressing introduction from an acquaintance -of ours who was connected with a weekly publication called the “Literary -Curricle.” The “Literary Curricle” was not in our estimation a strong -paper, and we will own that we despised it. We did not think very much -of the acquaintance by whom the strong introductory letter was written. -But Mrs. Brumby forced herself into our presence with the letter in her -hand, and before she left us extracted from us a promise that we would -read a manuscript which she pulled out of a bag which she carried with -her. Of that first interview a short account shall be given, but it must -first be explained that the editor of the “Literary Curricle” had -received Mrs. Brumby with another letter from another editor, whom she -had first taken by storm without any introduction whatever. This first -gentleman, whom we had not the pleasure of knowing, had, under what -pressure we who knew the lady can imagine, printed three or four short -paragraphs from Mrs. Brumby’s pen. Whether they reached publication we -never could learn,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a></span> but we saw the printed slips. He, however, passed -her on to the “Literary Curricle,”—which dealt almost exclusively in -the reviewing of books,—and our friend at the office of that -influential “organ” sent her to us with an intimation that her very -peculiar and well-developed talents were adapted rather for the creation -of tales, or the composition of original treatises, than for reviewing. -The letter was very strong, and we learned afterwards that Mrs. Brumby -had consented to abandon her connection with the “Literary Curricle” -only on the receipt of a letter in her praise that should be very strong -indeed. She rejected the two first offered to her, and herself dictated -the epithets with which the third was loaded. On no other terms would -she leave the office of the “Literary Curricle.”</p> - -<p>We cannot say that the letter, strong as it was, had much effect upon -us; but this effect it had perhaps,—that after reading it we could not -speak to the lady with that acerbity which we might have used had she -come to us without it. As it was we were not very civil, and began our -intercourse by assuring her that we could not avail ourselves of her -services. Having said so, and observing that she still kept her seat, we -rose from our chair, being well aware how potent a spell that movement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a></span> -is wont to exercise upon visitors who are unwilling to go. She kept her -seat and argued the matter out with us. A magazine such as that which we -then conducted must, she surmised, require depth of erudition, keenness -of intellect, grasp of hand, force of expression, and lightness of -touch. That she possessed all these gifts she had, she alleged, brought -to us convincing evidence. There was the letter from the editor of the -“Literary Curricle,” with which she had been long connected, declaring -the fact! Did we mean to cast doubt upon the word of our own intimate -friend? For the gentleman at the office of the “Literary Curricle” had -written to us as “Dear ——,” though as far as we could remember we had -never spoken half-a-dozen words to him in our life. Then she repeated -the explanation, given by her godfather, of the abrupt termination of -the close connection which had long existed between her and the -“Curricle.” She could not bring herself to waste her energies in the -reviewing of books. At that moment we certainly did believe that she had -been long engaged on the “Curricle,” though there was certainly not a -word in our correspondent’s letter absolutely stating that to be the -fact. He declared to us her capabilities and excellences, but did not -say that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a></span> had ever used them himself. Indeed, he told us that great -as they were, they were hardly suited for his work. She, before she had -left us on that occasion, had committed herself to positive falsehoods. -She boasted of the income she had earned from two periodicals, whereas -up to that moment she had never received a shilling for what she had -written.</p> - -<p>We find it difficult, even after so many years,—when the shame of the -thing has worn off together with the hairs of our head,—to explain how -it was that we allowed her to get, in the first instance, any hold upon -us. We did not care a brass farthing for the man who had written from -the “Literary Curricle.” His letter to us was an impertinence, and we -should have stated as much to Mrs. Brumby had we cared to go into such -matter with her. And our first feelings with regard to the lady herself -were feelings of dislike,—and almost of contempt even, though we did -believe that she had been a writer for the press. We disliked her nose, -and her lips, and her bonnet, and the colour of her face. We didn’t want -her. Though we were very much younger then than we are now, we had -already learned to set our backs up against strong-minded female -intruders. As we said before, we rose from our chair with the idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a></span> of -banishing her, not absolutely uncivilly, but altogether unceremoniously. -It never occurred to us during that meeting that she could be of any -possible service to us, or that we should ever be of any slightest -service to her. Nevertheless she had extracted from us a great many -words, and had made a great many observations herself before she left -us.</p> - -<p>When a man speaks a great many words it is impossible that he should -remember what they all were. That we told Mrs. Brumby on that occasion -that we did not doubt but that we would use the manuscript which she -left in our hands, we are quite sure was not true. We never went so near -making a promise in our lives,—even when pressed by youth and -beauty,—and are quite sure that what we did say to Mrs. Brumby was by -no means near akin to this. That we undertook to read the manuscript we -think probable, and therein lay our first fault,—the unfortunate slip -from which our future troubles sprang, and grew to such terrible -dimensions. We cannot now remember how the hated parcel, the abominable -roll, came into our hands. We do remember the face and form and figure -of the woman as she brought it out of the large reticule which she -carried, and we remember also how we put our hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a></span> behind us to avoid -it, as she presented it to us. We told her flatly that we did not want -it, and would not have it;—and yet it came into our hands! We think -that it must have been placed close to our elbow, and that, being used -to such playthings, we took it up. We know that it was in our hands, and -that we did not know how to rid ourselves of it when she began to tell -us the story of the lieutenant. We were hard-hearted enough to inform -her,—as we have, under perhaps lesser compulsion, informed others -since,—that the distress of the man or of the woman should never be -accepted as a reason for publishing the works of the writer. She -answered us gallantly enough that she had never been weak enough or -foolish enough so to think “I base my claim to attention,” she said, “on -quite another ground. Do not suppose, Sir, that I am appealing to your -pity. I scorn to do so. But I wish you should know my position as a -married woman, and that you should understand that my husband, though -unfortunately an invalid, has been long attached to a regiment which is -peculiarly the Duke of Sussex’s own. You cannot but be aware of the -connection which His Royal Highness has long maintained with -literature.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Brumby could not write, but she could speak. The words she had just -uttered were absolutely devoid of sense. The absurdity of them was -ludicrous and gross. But they were not without a certain efficacy. They -did not fill us with any respect for her literary capacity because of -her connection with the Duke of Sussex, but they did make us feel that -she was able to speak up for herself. We are told sometimes that the -world accords to a man that treatment which he himself boldly demands; -and though the statement seems to be monstrous, there is much truth in -it. When Mrs. Brumby spoke of her husband’s regiment being “peculiarly -the Duke of Sussex’s own,” she used a tone which compelled from us more -courtesy than we had hitherto shown her. We knew that the duke was -neither a man of letters nor a warrior, though he had a library, and, as -we were now told, a regiment. Had he been both, his being so would have -formed no legitimate claim for Mrs. Brumby upon us. But, nevertheless, -the royal duke helped her to win her way. It was not his royalty, but -her audacity that was prevailing. She sat with us for more than an hour; -and when she left us the manuscript was with us, and we had no doubt -undertaken to read it. We are perfectly certain that at that time we had -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a></span> gone beyond this in the way of promising assistance to Mrs. Brumby.</p> - -<p>The would-be author, who cannot make his way either by intellect or -favour, can hardly do better, perhaps, than establish a grievance. Let -there be anything of a case of ill-usage against editor or publisher, -and the aspirant, if he be energetic and unscrupulous, will greatly -increase his chance of working his way into print. Mrs. Brumby was both -energetic and unscrupulous, and she did establish her grievance. As soon -as she brought her first visit to a close, the roll, which was still in -our hands, was chucked across our table to a corner commodiously -supported by the wall, so that occasionally there was accumulated in it -a heap of such unwelcome manuscripts. In the doing of this, in the -moment of our so chucking the parcel, it was always our conscientious -intention to make a clearance of the whole heap, at the very furthest, -by the end of the week. We knew that strong hopes were bound up in those -various little packets, that eager thoughts were imprisoned there the -owners of which believed that they were endowed with wings fit for -aërial soaring, that young hearts,—ay, and old hearts, too,—sore with -deferred hope, were waiting to know whether their aspirations might now -be realised, whether those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a></span> azure wings might at last be released from -bondage and allowed to try their strength in the broad sunlight of -public favour. We think, too, that we had a conscience; and, perhaps, -the heap was cleared as frequently as are the heaps of other editors. -But there it would grow, in the commodious corner of our big table, too -often for our own peace of mind. The aspect of each individual little -parcel would be known to us, and we would allow ourselves to fancy that -by certain external signs we could tell the nature of the interior. Some -of them would promise well,—so well as to create even almost an -appetite for their perusal. But there would be others from which we -would turn with aversion, which we seemed to abhor, which, when we -handled the heap, our fingers would refuse to touch, and which, thus -lying there neglected and ill-used, would have the dust of many days -added to those other marks which inspired disgust. We confess that as -soon as Mrs. Brumby’s back was turned her roll was sent in upon this -heap with that determined force which a strong feeling of dislike can -lend even to a man’s little finger. And there it lay for,—perhaps a -fortnight. When during that period we extracted first one packet and -then another for judgment, we would still leave Mrs. Brumby’s roll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a></span> -behind in the corner. On such occasions a pang of conscience will touch -the heart; some idea of neglected duty will be present to the mind; a -silent promise will perhaps be made that it shall be the next; some -momentary sudden resolve will be half formed that for the future a rigid -order of succession shall be maintained, which no favour shall be -allowed to infringe. But, alas! when the hand is again at work -selecting, the odious ugly thing is left behind, till at last it becomes -infested with strange terrors, with an absolute power of its own, and -the guilty conscience will become afraid. All this happened in regard to -Mrs. Brumby’s manuscript. “Dear, dear, yes;—Mrs. Brumby!” we would -catch ourselves exclaiming with that silent inward voice which -occasionally makes itself audible to most of us. And then, quite -silently, without even whispered violence, we would devote Mrs. Brumby -to the infernal gods. And so the packet remained amidst the -heap,—perhaps for a fortnight.</p> - -<p>“There’s a lady waiting in your room, Sir!” This was said to us one -morning on our reaching our office by the lad whom we used to call our -clerk. He is now managing a red-hot Tory newspaper down in Barsetshire, -has a long beard, a flaring eye, a round belly, and is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a></span> upon the whole -the most arrogant personage we know. In the days of Mrs. Brumby he was a -little wizened fellow about eighteen years old, but looking three years -younger, modest, often almost dumb, and in regard to ourselves not only -reverential but timid. We turned upon him in great anger. What business -had any woman to be in our room in our absence? Were not our orders on -this subject exact and very urgent? Was he not kept at an expense of -14<i>s.</i> a week,—we did not actually throw the amount in his teeth, but -such was intended to be the effect of our rebuke,—at 14<i>s.</i> a week, -paid out of our own pocket,—nominally, indeed, as a clerk, but chiefly -for the very purpose of keeping female visitors out of our room? And -now, in our absence and in his, there was actually a woman among the -manuscripts! We felt from the first moment that it was Mrs. Brumby.</p> - -<p>With bated breath and downcast eyes the lad explained to us his -inability to exclude her. “She walked straight in, right over me,” he -said; “and as for being alone,—she hasn’t been alone. I haven’t left -her, not a minute.”</p> - -<p>We walked at once into our own room, feeling how fruitless it was to -discuss the matter further with the boy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a></span> in the passage, and there we -found Mrs. Brumby seated in the chair opposite to our own. We had -gathered ourselves up, if we may so describe an action which was purely -mental, with a view to severity. We thought that her intrusion was -altogether unwarrantable, and that it behoved us to let her know that -such was the case. We entered the room with a clouded brow, and intended -that she should read our displeasure in our eyes. But Mrs. Brumby -could,—“gather herself up,” quite as well as we could do, and she did -so. She also could call clouds to her forehead and could flash anger -from her eyes. “Madam,” we exclaimed, as we paused for a moment, and -looked at her.</p> - -<p>But she cared nothing for our “Madam,” and condescended to no apology. -Rising from her chair, she asked us why we had not kept the promise we -had made her to use her article in our next number. We don’t know how -far our readers will understand all that was included in this -accusation. Use her contribution in our next number! It had never -occurred to us as probable, or hardly as possible, that we should use it -in any number. Our eye glanced at the heap to see whether her fingers -had been at work, but we perceived that the heap had not been touched. -We have always flattered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a></span> ourselves that no one can touch our heap -without our knowing it. She saw the motion of our eye, and at once -understood it. Mrs. Brumby, no doubt, possessed great intelligence, and, -moreover, a certain majesty of demeanour. There was always something of -the helmet of Minerva in the bonnet which she wore. Her shawl was an old -shawl, but she was never ashamed of it; and she could always put herself -forward, as though there were nothing behind her to be concealed, the -concealing of which was a burden to her. “I cannot suppose,” she said, -“that my paper has been altogether neglected!”</p> - -<p>We picked out the roll with all the audacity we could assume, and -proceeded to explain how very much in error she was in supposing that we -had ever even hinted at its publication. We had certainly said that we -would read it, mentioning no time. We never did mention any time in -making any such promise. “You named a week, Sir,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and -now a month has passed by. You assured me that it would be accepted -unless returned within seven days. Of course it will be accepted now.” -We contradicted her flatly. We explained, we protested, we threatened. -We endeavoured to put the manuscript into her hand, and made a faint -attempt to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a></span> stick it into her bag. She was indignant, dignified, and -very strong. She said nothing on that occasion about legal proceedings, -but stuck manfully to her assertion that we had bound ourselves to -decide upon her manuscript within a week. “Do you think, Sir,” said she, -“that I would entrust the very essence of my brain to the keeping of a -stranger, without some such assurance as that?” We acknowledged that we -had undertaken to read the paper, but again disowned the week. “And how -long would you be justified in taking?” demanded Mrs. Brumby. “If a -month, why not a year? Does it not occur to you, Sir, that when the very -best of my intellect, my inmost thoughts, lie there at your disposal,” -and she pointed to the heap, “it may be possible that a property has -been confided to you too valuable to justify neglect? Had I given you a -ring to keep you would have locked it up, but the best jewels of my mind -are left to the tender mercies of your charwoman.” What she said was -absolutely nonsense,—abominable, villanous trash; but she said it so -well that we found ourselves apologising for our own misconduct. There -had perhaps been a little undue delay. In our peculiar business such -would occasionally occur. When we had got to this, any expression of our -wrath at her intrusion was impossible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a></span> As we entered the room we had -intended almost to fling her manuscript at her head. We now found -ourselves handling it almost affectionately while we expressed regret -for our want of punctuality. Mrs. Brumby was gracious, and pardoned us, -but her forgiveness was not of the kind which denotes the intention of -the injured one to forget as well as forgive the trespass. She had -suffered from us a great injustice; but she would say no more on that -score now, on the condition that we would at once attend to her essay. -She thrice repeated the words, “at once,” and she did so without rebuke -from us. And then she made us a proposition, the like of which never -reached us before or since. Would we fix an hour within the next day or -two at which we would call upon her in Harpur Street and arrange as to -terms? The lieutenant, she said, would be delighted to make our -acquaintance. Call upon her!—upon Mrs. Brumby! Travel to Harpur Street, -Theobald’s Road, on the business of a chance bit of scribbling, which -was wholly indifferent to us except in so far as it was a trouble to us! -And then we were invited to make arrangements as to terms! Terms!! Had -the owner of the most illustrious lips in the land offered to make us -known in those days to the partner of her greatness, she could not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a></span> -done so with more assurance that she was conferring on us an honour, -than was assumed by Mrs. Brumby when she proposed to introduce us to the -lieutenant.</p> - -<p>When many wrongs are concentrated in one short speech, and great -injuries inflicted by a few cleverly-combined words, it is generally -difficult to reply so that some of the wrongs shall not pass unnoticed. -We cannot always be so happy as was Mr. John Robinson, when in saying -that he hadn’t been “dead at all,” he did really say everything that the -occasion required. We were so dismayed by the proposition that we should -go to Harpur Street, so hurt in our own personal dignity, that we lost -ourselves in endeavouring to make it understood that such a journey on -our part was quite out of the question. “Were we to do that, Mrs. -Brumby, we should live in cabs and spend our entire days in making -visits.” She smiled at us as we endeavoured to express our indignation, -and said something as to circumstances being different in different -cases;—something also, if we remember right, she hinted as to the -intelligence needed for discovering the differences. She left our office -quicker than we had expected, saying that as we could not afford to -spend our time in cabs she would call again on the day but one -following. Her departure was almost abrupt,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a></span> but she went apparently in -good-humour. It never occurred to us at the moment to suspect that she -hurried away before we should have had time to repudiate certain -suggestions which she had made.</p> - -<p>When we found ourselves alone with the roll of paper in our hands, we -were very angry with Mrs. Brumby, but almost more angry with ourselves. -We were in no way bound to the woman, and yet she had in some degree -substantiated a claim upon us. We piqued ourselves specially on never -making any promise beyond the vaguest assurance that this or that -proposed contribution should receive consideration at some altogether -undefined time; but now we were positively pledged to read Mrs. Brumby’s -effusion and have our verdict ready by the day after to-morrow. We were -wont, too, to keep ourselves much secluded from strangers; and here was -Mrs. Brumby, who had already been with us twice, positively entitled to -a third audience. We had been scolded, and then forgiven, and then -ridiculed by a woman who was old, and ugly, and false! And there was -present to us a conviction that though she was old, and ugly, and false, -Mrs. Brumby was no ordinary woman. Perhaps it might be that she was -really qualified to give us valuable assistance in regard to the -magazine, as to which we must own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a></span> we were sometimes driven to use -matter that was not quite so brilliant as, for our readers’ sakes, we -would have wished it to be. We feel ourselves compelled to admit that -old and ugly women, taken on the average, do better literary work than -they who are young and pretty. I did not like Mrs. Brumby, but it might -be that in her the age would find another De Staël. So thinking, we cut -the little string, and had the manuscript open in our own hands. We -cannot remember whether she had already indicated to us the subject of -the essay, but it was headed, “Costume in 18—.” There were perhaps -thirty closely-filled pages, of which we read perhaps a third. The -handwriting was unexceptionable, orderly, clean, and legible; but the -matter was undeniable twaddle. It proffered advice to women that they -should be simple, and to men that they should be cleanly in their -attire. Anything of less worth for the purpose of amusement or of -instruction could not be imagined. There was, in fact, nothing in it. It -has been our fate to look at a great many such essays, and to cause them -at once either to be destroyed or returned. There could be no doubt at -all as to Mrs. Brumby’s essay.</p> - -<p>She came punctual as the clock. As she seated herself in our chair and -made some remark as to her hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a></span> that we were satisfied, we felt -something like fear steal across our bosom. We were about to give -offence, and dreaded the arguments that would follow. It was, however, -quite clear that we could not publish Mrs. Brumby’s essay on Costume, -and therefore, though she looked more like Minerva now than ever, we -must go through our task. We told her in half-a-dozen words that we had -read the paper, and that it would not suit our columns.</p> - -<p>“Not suit your columns!” she said, looking at us by no means in sorrow, -but in great anger. “You do not mean to trifle with me like that after -all you have made me suffer?” We protested that we were responsible for -none of her sufferings. “Sir,” she said, “when I was last here you owned -the wrong you had done me.” We felt that we must protest against this, -and we rose in our wrath. There were two of us angry now.</p> - -<p>“Madam,” we said, “you have kindly offered us your essay, and we have -courteously declined it. You will allow us to say that this must end the -matter.” There were allusions here to kindness and courtesy, but the -reader will understand that the sense of the words was altogether -changed by the tone of the voice.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Sir, the matter will not be ended so. If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a></span> think that your -position will enable you to trample upon those who make literature -really a profession, you are very much mistaken.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Brumby,” we said, “we can give you no other answer, and as our -time is valuable——”</p> - -<p>“Time valuable!” she exclaimed,—and as she stood up an artist might -have taken her for a model of Minerva had she only held a spear in her -hand. “And is no time valuable, do you think, but yours? I had, Sir, -your distinct promise that the paper should be published if it was left -in your hands above a week.”</p> - -<p>“That is untrue, Madam.”</p> - -<p>“Untrue, Sir?”</p> - -<p>“Absolutely untrue.” Mrs. Brumby was undoubtedly a woman, and might be -very like a goddess, but we were not going to allow her to palm off upon -us without flat contradiction so absolute a falsehood as that. “We never -dreamed of publishing your paper.”</p> - -<p>“Then why, Sir, have you troubled yourself to read it,—from the -beginning to the end?” We had certainly intimated that we had made -ourselves acquainted with the entire essay, but we had in fact skimmed -and skipped through about a third of it.</p> - -<p>“How dare you say, Sir, you have never dreamed of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a></span> publishing it, when -you know that you studied it with that view?”</p> - -<p>“We didn’t read it all,” we said, “but we read quite enough.”</p> - -<p>“And yet but this moment ago you told me that you had perused it -carefully.” The word peruse we certainly never used in our life. We -object to “perusing,” as we do to “commencing” and “performing.” We -“read,” and we “begin,” and we “do.” As to that assurance which the word -“carefully” would intend to convey, we believe that we were to that -extent guilty. “I think, Sir,” she continued, “that you had better see -the lieutenant.”</p> - -<p>“With a view to fighting the gentleman?” we asked.</p> - -<p>“No, Sir. An officer in the Duke of Sussex’s Own draws his sword against -no enemy so unworthy of his steel.” She had told me at a former -interview that the lieutenant was so confirmed an invalid as to be -barely able, on his best days, to drag himself out of bed. “One fights -with one’s equal, but the law gives redress from injury, whether it be -inflicted by equal, by superior, or by,—<span class="smcap">Inferior</span>.” And Mrs. Brumby, as -she uttered the last word, wagged her helmet at us in a manner which -left no doubt as to the position which she assigned to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a></span></p> - -<p>It became clearly necessary that an end should be put to an intercourse -which had become so very unpleasant. We told our Minerva very plainly -that we must beg her to leave us. There is, however, nothing more -difficult to achieve than the expulsion of a woman who is unwilling to -quit the place she occupies. We remember to have seen a lady take -possession of a seat in a mail coach to which she was not entitled, and -which had been booked and paid for by another person. The agent for the -coaching business desired her with many threats to descend, but she -simply replied that the journey to her was a matter of such moment that -she felt herself called upon to keep her place. The agent sent the -coachman to pull her out. The coachman threatened,—with his hands as -well as with his words,—and then set the guard at her. The guard -attacked her with inflamed visage and fearful words about Her Majesty’s -mails, and then set the ostlers at her. We thought the ostlers were -going to handle her roughly, but it ended by their scratching their -heads, and by a declaration on the part of one of them that she was “the -rummest go he’d ever seen.” She was a woman, and they couldn’t touch -her. A policeman was called upon for assistance, who offered to lock her -up, but he could only do so if allowed to lock up the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a></span> coach as -well. It was ended by the production of another coach, by an exchange of -the luggage and passengers, by a delay of two hours, and an embarrassing -possession of the original vehicle by the lady in the midst of a crowd -of jeering boys and girls. We could tell Mrs. Brumby to go, and we could -direct our boy to open the door, and we could make motions indicatory of -departure with our left hand, but we could not forcibly turn her out of -the room. She asked us for the name of our lawyer, and we did write down -for her on a slip of paper the address of a most respectable firm, whom -we were pleased to regard as our attorneys, but who had never yet earned -six and eightpence from the magazine. Young Sharp, of the firm of Sharp -and Butterwell, was our friend, and would no doubt see to the matter for -us should it be necessary;—but we could not believe that the woman -would be so foolish. She made various assertions to us as to her -position in the world of literature, and it was on this occasion that -she brought out those printed slips which we have before mentioned. She -offered to refer the matter in dispute between us to the arbitration of -the editor of the “Curricle;” and when we indignantly declined such -interference, protesting that there was no matter in dispute, she again -informed us that if we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a></span> thought to trample upon her we were very much -mistaken. Then there occurred a little episode which moved us to -laughter in the midst of our wrath. Our boy, in obedience to our -pressing commands that he should usher Mrs. Brumby out of our presence, -did lightly touch her arm. Feeling the degradation of the assault, -Minerva swung round upon the unfortunate lad and gave him a box on the -ear which we’ll be bound the editor of the “West Barsetshire Gazette” -remembers to this day. “Madam,” we said, as soon as we had swallowed -down the first involuntary attack of laughter, “if you conduct yourself -in this manner we must send for the police.”</p> - -<p>“Do, Sir, if you dare,” replied Minerva, “and every man of letters in -the metropolis shall hear of your conduct.” There was nothing in her -threat to move us, but we confess that we were uncomfortable. “Before I -leave you, Sir,” she said, “I will give you one more chance. Will you -perform your contract with me and accept my contribution?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” we replied. She afterwards quoted this answer as -admitting a contract.</p> - -<p>We are often told that everything must come to an end,—and there was an -end at last to Mrs. Brumby’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a></span> visit. She went from us with an assurance -that she should at once return home, pick up the lieutenant,—hinting -that the exertion, caused altogether by our wickedness, might be the -death of that gallant officer,—and go with him direct to her attorney. -The world of literature should hear of the terrible injustice which had -been done to her, and the courts of law should hear of it too.</p> - -<p>We confess that we were grievously annoyed. By the time that Mrs. Brumby -had left the premises, our clerk had gone also. He had rushed off to the -nearest police-court to swear an information against her on account of -the box on the ear which she had given him, and we were unable to leave -our desk till he had returned. We found that for the present the doing -of any work in our line of business was quite out of the question. A -calm mind is required for the critical reading of manuscripts, and whose -mind could be calm after such insults as those we had received? We sat -in our chair, idle, reflective, indignant, making resolutions that we -would never again open our lips to a woman coming to us with a letter of -introduction and a contribution, till our lad returned to us. We were -forced to give him a sovereign before we could induce him to withdraw -his information. We object strongly to all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a></span> bribery, but in this case we -could see the amount of ridicule which would be heaped upon our whole -establishment if some low-conditioned lawyer were allowed to -cross-examine us as to our intercourse with Mrs. Brumby. It was with -difficulty that the clerk arranged the matter the next day at the police -office, and his object was not effected without the farther payment by -us of £1 2s. 6d. for costs.</p> - -<p>It was then understood between us and the clerk that on no excuse -whatever should Mrs. Brumby be again admitted to my room, and I thought -that the matter was over. “She shall have to fight her way through if -she does get in,” said the lad. “She aint going to knock me about any -more,—woman or no woman.” “O, dea, certe,” we exclaimed. “It shall be a -dear job to her if she touches me again,” said the clerk, catching up -the sound.</p> - -<p>We really thought we had done with Mrs. Brumby, but at the end of four -or five days there came to us a letter, which we have still in our -possession, and which we will now venture to make public. It was as -follows. It was addressed not to ourselves but to Messrs. X., Y., and -Z., the very respectable proprietors of the periodical which we were -managing on their behalf.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“Pluck Court, Gray’s Inn, 31st March, 18—.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Gentlemen</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“We are instructed by our client, Lieutenant Brumby, late of the -Duke of Sussex’s Own regiment, to call upon you for payment of the -sum of twenty-five guineas due to him for a manuscript essay on -Costume, supplied by his wife to the —— Magazine, which is, we -believe, your property, by special contract with Mr. ——, the -Editor. We are also directed to require from you and from Mr. —— -a full apology in writing for the assault committed on Mrs. Brumby -in your Editor’s room on the 27th instant; and an assurance also -that the columns of your periodical shall not be closed against -that lady because of this transaction. We request that £1 13s. 8d., -our costs, may be forwarded to us, together with the above-named -sum of twenty-five guineas.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 20%;">“We are, gentlemen,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-right: 10%;">“Your obedient servants,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Badger and Blister</span>.<br /> -</p> - -<p><small>“Messrs. X., Y., Z., Paternoster Row.”</small></p></div> - -<p>We were in the habit of looking in at the shop in Paternoster Row on the -first of every month, and on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a></span> inauspicious first of April the above -letter was handed to us by our friend Mr. X. “I hope you haven’t been -and put your foot in it,” said Mr. X. We protested that we had not put -our foot in it at all, and we told him the whole story. “Don’t let us -have a lawsuit, whatever you do,” said Mr. X. “The magazine isn’t worth -it.” We ridiculed the idea of a lawsuit, but we took away with us -Messrs. Badger and Blister’s letter and showed it to our legal adviser, -Mr. Sharp. Mr. Sharp was of opinion that Badger and Blister meant -fighting. When we pointed out to him the absolute absurdity of the whole -thing, he merely informed us that we did not know Badger and Blister. -“They’ll take up any case,” said he, “however hopeless, and work it with -superhuman energy, on the mere chance of getting something out of the -defendant. Whatever is got out of him becomes theirs. They never -disgorge.” We were quite confident that nothing could be got out of the -magazine on behalf of Mrs. Brumby, and we left the case in Mr. Sharp’s -hands, thinking that our trouble in the matter was over.</p> - -<p>A fortnight elapsed, and then we were called upon to meet Mr. Sharp in -Paternoster Row. We found our friend Mr. X. with a somewhat unpleasant -visage. Mr. X. was a thriving man, usually just, and sometimes generous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a></span> -but he didn’t like being “put upon.” Mr. Sharp had actually recommended -that some trifle should be paid to Mrs. Brumby, and Mr. X. seemed to -think that this expense would, in case that advice were followed, have -been incurred through fault on our part. “A ten-pound note will set it -all right,” said Mr. Sharp.</p> - -<p>“Yes;—a ten-pound note,—just flung into the gutter. I wonder that you -allowed yourself to have anything to do with such a woman.” We protested -against this injustice, giving Mr. X. to know that he didn’t understand -and couldn’t understand our business. “I’m not so sure of that,” said -Mr. X. There was almost a quarrel, and we began to doubt whether Mrs. -Brumby would not be the means of taking the very bread from out of our -mouths. Mr. Sharp at last suggested that in spite of what he had seen -from Mrs. Brumby, the lieutenant would probably be a gentleman. “Not a -doubt about it,” said Mr. X., who was always fond of officers and of the -army, and at the moment seemed to think more of a paltry lieutenant than -of his own Editor.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sharp actually pressed upon us and upon Mr. X. that we should call -upon the lieutenant and explain matters to him. Mrs. Brumby had always -been with us at twelve o’clock. “Go at noon,” said Mr. Sharp, “and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a></span> -you’ll certainly find her out.” He instructed us to tell the lieutenant -“just the plain truth,” as he called it, and to explain that in no way -could the proprietors of a magazine be made liable to payment for an -article because the Editor in discharge of his duty had consented to -read it. “Perhaps the lieutenant doesn’t know that his name has been -used at all,” said Mr. Sharp. “At any rate, it will be well to learn -what sort of a man he is.”</p> - -<p>“A high minded gentleman, no doubt,” said Mr. X. the name of whose -second boy was already down at the Horse Guards for a commission.</p> - -<p>Though it was sorely against the grain, and in direct opposition to our -own opinion, we were constrained to go to Harpur Street, Theobald’s -Road, and to call upon Lieutenant Brumby. We had not explained to Mr. X. -or to Mr. Sharp what had passed between Mrs. Brumby and ourselves when -she suggested such a visit, but the memory of the words which we and she -had then spoken was on us as we endeavoured to dissuade our lawyer and -our publisher. Nevertheless, at their instigation, we made the visit. -The house in Harpur Street was small, and dingy, and old. The door was -opened for us by the normal lodging-house maid-of-all-work, who when we -asked for the lieutenant, left us in the passage, that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a></span> might go and -see. We sent up our name, and in a few minutes were ushered into a -sitting-room up two flights of stairs. The room was not untidy, but it -was as comfortless as any chamber we ever saw. The lieutenant was lying -on an old horsehair sofa, but we had been so far lucky as to find him -alone. Mr. Sharp had been correct in his prediction as to the customary -absence of the lady at that hour in the morning. In one corner of the -room we saw an old ram-shackle desk, at which, we did not doubt, were -written those essays on costume and other subjects, in the disposing of -which the lady displayed so much energy. The lieutenant himself was a -small gray man, dressed, or rather enveloped, in what I supposed to be -an old wrapper of his wife’s. He held in his hands a well-worn volume of -a novel, and when he rose to greet us he almost trembled with dismay and -bashfulness. His feet were thrust into slippers which were too old to -stick on them, and round his throat he wore a dirty, once white, woollen -comforter. We never learned what was the individual character of the -corps which specially belonged to H.R.H. the Duke of Sussex; but if it -was conspicuous for dash and gallantry, Lieutenant Brumby could hardly -have held his own among his brother officers. We knew, however, from his -wife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a></span> that he had been invalided, and as an invalid we respected him. We -proceeded to inform him that we had been called upon to pay him a sum of -twenty-five guineas, and to explain how entirely void of justice any -such claim must be. We suggested to him that he might be made to pay -some serious sum by the lawyers he employed, and that the matter to us -was an annoyance and a trouble,—chiefly because we had no wish to be -brought into conflict with any one so respectable as Lieutenant Brumby. -He looked at us with imploring eyes, as though begging us not to be too -hard upon him in the absence of his wife, trembled from head to foot, -and muttered a few words which were nearly inaudible. We will not state -as a fact that the lieutenant had taken to drinking spirits early in -life, but that certainly was our impression during the only interview we -ever had with him. When we pressed upon him as a question which he must -answer whether he did not think that he had better withdraw his claim, -he fell back upon his sofa, and began to sob. While he was thus weeping -Mrs. Brumby entered the room. She had in her hand the card which we had -given to the maid-of-all-work, and was therefore prepared for the -interview. “Sir,” she said, “I hope you have come to settle my husband’s -just demands.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a></span></p> - -<p>Amidst the husband’s wailings there had been one little sentence which -reached our ears. “She does it all,” he had said, throwing his eyes up -piteously towards our face. At that moment the door had been opened, and -Mrs. Brumby had entered the room. When she spoke of her husband’s “just -demands,” we turned to the poor prostrate lieutenant, and were deterred -from any severity towards him by the look of supplication in his eye,. -“The lieutenant is not well this morning,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and you -will therefore be pleased to address yourself to me.” We explained that -the absurd demand for payment had been made on the proprietors of the -magazine in the name of Lieutenant Brumby, and that we had therefore -been obliged, in the performance of a most unpleasant duty, to call upon -that gentleman; but she laughed our argument to scorn. “You have driven -me to take legal steps,” she said, “and as I am only a woman I must take -them in the name of my husband. But I am the person aggrieved, and if -you have any excuse to make you can make it to me. Your safer course, -Sir, will be to pay me the money that you owe me.”</p> - -<p>I had come there on a fool’s errand, and before I could get away was -very angry both with Mr. Sharp and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a></span> X. I could hardly get a word in -amidst the storm of indignant reproaches which was bursting over my head -during the whole of the visit. One would have thought from hearing her -that she had half filled the pages of the magazine for the last six -months, and that we, individually, had pocketed the proceeds of her -labour. She laughed in our face when we suggested that she could not -really intend to prosecute the suit, and told us to mind our own -business when we hinted that the law was an expensive amusement. “We, -Sir,” she said, “will have the amusement, and you will have to pay the -bill.” When we left her she was indignant, defiant, and self-confident.</p> - -<p>And what will the reader suppose was the end of all this? The whole -truth has been told as accurately as we can tell it. As far as we know -our own business we were not wrong in any single step we took. Our -treatment of Mrs. Brumby was courteous, customary, and conciliatory. We -had treated her with more consideration than we had perhaps ever before -shown to an unknown, would-be contributor. She had been admitted thrice -to our presence. We had read at any rate enough of her trash to be sure -of its nature. On the other hand, we had been insulted, and our clerk -had had his ears boxed. What should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a></span> have been the result? We will tell -the reader what was the result. Mr. X. paid £10 to Messrs. Badger and -Blister on behalf of the lieutenant; and we, under Mr. Sharp’s advice, -wrote a letter to Mrs. Brumby in which we expressed deep sorrow for our -clerk’s misconduct, and our own regret that we should have -delayed,—“the perusal of her manuscript.” We could not bring ourselves -to write the words ourselves with our own fingers, but signed the -document which Mr. Sharp put before us. Mr. Sharp had declared to -Messrs. X., Y., and Z., that unless some such arrangement were made, he -thought that we should be cast for a much greater sum before a jury. For -one whole morning in Paternoster Row we resisted this infamous tax, not -only on our patience, but,—as we then felt it,—on our honour. We -thought that our very old friend Mr. X. should have stood to us more -firmly, and not have demanded from us a task that was so peculiarly -repugnant to our feelings. “And it is peculiarly repugnant to my -feelings to pay £10 for nothing,” said Mr. X., who was not, we think, -without some little feeling of revenge against us; “but I prefer that to -a lawsuit.” And then he argued that the simple act on our part of -signing such a letter as that presented to us could cost us no trouble, -and ought to occasion us<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a></span> no sorrow. “What can come of it? Who’ll know -it?” said Mr. X. “We’ve got to pay £10, and that we shall feel.” It came -to that at last, that we were constrained to sign the letter,—and did -sign it. It did us no harm, and can have done Mrs. Brumby no good but -the moment in which we signed it was perhaps the bitterest we ever knew.</p> - -<p>That in such a transaction Mrs. Brumby should have been so thoroughly -successful, and that we should have been so shamefully degraded, has -always appeared to us to be an injury too deep to remain unredressed for -ever. Can such wrongs be, and the heavens not fall! Our greatest comfort -has been in the reflection that neither the lieutenant nor his wife ever -saw a shilling of the £10. That, doubtless, never went beyond Badger and -Blister.</p> - -<p class="c"> -THE END.<br /> -<br /><br /> -<small>PRINTED BY W. H. SMITH AND SON, 186, STRAND, LONDON.</small> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY GRESLEY AND AN EDITOR’S TALES ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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