Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

January 30, 1892.

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

III.--THE LITERARY DUFFER.

Why I am not a success in literature it is difficult for me to tell; indeed, I would give a good deal to anyone who would explain the reason. The Publishers, and Editors, and Literary Men decline to tell me _why_ they do not want my contributions. I am sure I have done all that I can to succeed. When my Novel, _Geoffrey's Cousin_, comes back from the Row, I do not lose heart--I pack it up, and send it off again to the Square, and so, I may say, it goes the round. The very manuscript attests the trouble I have taken. Parts of it are written in my own hand, more in that of my housemaid, to whom I have dictated passages; a good deal is in the hand of my wife. There are sentences which I have written a dozen times, on the margins, with lines leading up to them in red ink. The story is written on paper of all sorts and sizes, and bits of paper are pasted on, here and there, containing revised versions of incidents and dialogue. The whole packet is now far from clean, and has a business-like and travelled air about it, which should command respect. I always accompany it with a polite letter, expressing my willingness to cut it down, or expand it, or change the conclusion. Nobody can say that I am proud. But it always comes back from the Publishers and Editors, without any explanation as to why it will not do. This is what I resent as particularly hard. The Publishers decline to tell me what their Readers have really said about it. I have forwarded _Geoffrey's Cousin_ to at least five or six notorious authors, with a letter, which runs thus:--

"DEAR SIR,--You will be surprised at receiving a letter from a total stranger, but your well-known goodness of heart must plead my excuse. I am aware that your time is much occupied, but I am certain that you will spare enough of that valuable commodity to glance through the accompanying MS. Novel, and give me your frank opinion of it. Does it stand in need of any alterations, and, if so, what? Would you mind having it published _under your own name_, receiving one-third of the profits? A speedy answer will greatly oblige."

Would you believe it, _Mr. Punch_, not one of these over-rated and overpaid men has ever given me any advice at all? Most of them simply send back my parcel with no reply. One, however, wrote to say that he received at least six such packets every week, and that his engagements made it impossible for him to act as a guide, counsellor, and friend to the amateurs of all England. He added that, if I published the Novel at my own expense, the remarks of the public critics would doubtless prove most valuable and salutary.

This decided me; I _did_ publish, at my own expense, with Messrs. SAUL, SAMUEL, MOSS & CO. I had to pay down £150, then £35 for advertisements, then £70 for Publisher's Commission. Other expenses fell grievously on me, as I sent round printed postcards to everyone whose name is in the Red Book, asking them to ask for _Geoffrey's Cousin_ at the Libraries. I also despatched six copies, with six anonymous letters, to Mr. GLADSTONE, signing them, "A Literary Constituent," "A Wavering Anabaptist," and so forth, but, extraordinary to relate, I have received no answer, and no notice has been taken of my disinterested presents. The reviews were of the most meagre and scornful description. Messrs. SAUL, SAMUEL, Moss & Co. have just written to me, begging me to remove the "remainder" of my book, and charging £23 15s. 6d. for warehouse expenses. Yet, when I read _Geoffrey's Cousin_, I fail to see that it falls, in any way, beneath the general run of novels. I enclose a marked copy, and solicit your earnest attention for the passage in which _Geoffrey's Cousin_ blights his hopes for ever. The story, Sir, is one of controversy, and is suited to this time. _Geoffrey McPhun_ is an Auld Licht (see Mr. BARRIE's books, _passim_). His cousin is an Esoteric Buddhist. They love each other dearly, but _Geoffrey_, a rigid character, cannot marry any lady who does not burn, as an Auld Licht, "with a hard gem-like flame." _Violet Blair_, his cousin, is just as staunch an Esoteric Buddhist. Nothing stands between them but the differences of their creed.

"How can I contemplate, GEOFFREY," said VIOLET, with a rich blush, "the possibility of seeing our little ones stray from the fold of the Lama of Thibet into a chapel of the Original Secession Church?"

They determine to try to convert each other. _Geoffrey_ lends _Violet_ all his theological library, including WODROW's _Analecta_. She lends him the learned works of Mr. SINNETT and Madame BLAVATSKY. They retire, he to the Himalayas, she to Thrums, and their letters compose Volume II. (Local colour _à la_ KIPLING and BARRIE.) On the slopes of the Himalayas you see _Geoffrey_ converted; he becomes a Cheela, and returns by overland route. He rushes to Ramsgate, and announces his complete acceptance of the truth as it is in Mahatmaism. Alas! alas! _Violet_ has been over-persuaded by the seductions of Presbyterianism, she has hurried down from Thrums, rejoicing, a full-blown Auld Licht. And, in her _Geoffrey_, she finds a convinced Esoteric Buddhist! They are no better off than they were, their union is impossible, and Vol. III. ends in their poignant anguish.

Now, _Mr. Punch_, is not this the very novel for the times; rich in adventure (in Kafiristan), teeming with philosophical suggestiveness, and sparkling with all the epigrams of my commonplace book. Yet I am about £300 out of pocket, and, moreover, a blighted being.

I have taken every kind of pains; I have asked London Correspondents to dinner; I have written flattering letters to everybody; I have attempted to get up a deputation of Beloochis to myself; I have tried to make people interview me; I have puffed myself in all the modes which study and research can suggest. If anybody has, I have been "up to date." But Fortune is my foe, and I see others flourish by the very arts which fail in my hands.

I mention my Novel because its failure really is a mystery. But I am not at all more fortunate in the reception of my poetry. I have tried it every way--ballades by the bale, sonnets by the dozen, loyal odes, seditious songs, drawing-room poetry, an Epic on the history of Labducuo, erotic verse, all fire, foam, and fangs, reflective ditto, humble natural ballads about signal-men and newspaper-boys, Life-boat rescues, Idyls, Nocturnes in rhyme, tragedies in blank verse. Nobody will print them, or, if anybody prints them, he regrets that he cannot pay for them. My moral and discursive essays are rejected, my descriptions of nature do not even get into the newspapers. I have not been elected by the Sydenham Club (a clique of humbugs); I have let my hair grow long; I have worn a cloak and a Tyrolese hat, and attitudinised in the picture-galleries, but nobody asked who I am. I have endeavoured to hang on to well-known poets and novelists--they have not welcomed my advances.

My last dodge was a Satire, the _Logrolliad_, in which I lashed the charlatans and pretenders of the day.

While hoary statesmen scribble in reviews And guide the doubtful verdict of the Blues, While HAGGARD scrawls, with blood in lieu of ink, While MALLOCK teaches Marquises to think,

so long I have rhythmically expressed my design to wield the dripping scourge of satire. But nobody seems a penny the worse, and I am not a paragraph the better. Short stories of a startling description fill my drawers, nobody will venture on one of them. I have closely imitated every writer who succeeds, but my little barque may attendant sail, it pursues the triumph, but does not partake the gale.

I am now engaged on a Libretto for an heroic opera.

What offers?

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE IMPERIAL JACK-IN-THE-BOX.

A SONG FOR THE SHOUTING EMPEROR.

AIR--"_THE MAJOR-GENERAL._"

I am the very pattern of a Modern German Emperor, Omniscient and omnipotent, I ne'er give way to temper, or If now and then I run a-muck in a Malay-like fashion, As there's method in my madness, so there's purpose in my passion. 'Tis my aim to manage _everything_ in order categorical-- My fame as Cosmos-maker I intend shall be historical. I know they call me _Paul Pry_, say I'm fussy and pragmatical-- But that's because sheer moonshine always hates the mathematical. I'm not content to "play the King" with an imperial pose in it-- Whatever is marked "Private" I shall up and poke my nose in it.

ALL.

_He_ won't let drowsing dogs lie, he'll stir up the tabby sleeping Tom-- In fact, he is the model of a modern German Peeping Tom!

I bounce into the Ball-Room when they think I'm fast asleep at home, And measure steps and skirts and things and mark what state folks keep at home; Watch the toilette of young Beauty on the very strictest Q.T. too, Evangelise the Army and keep sentries to their duty, too, On the Navy, and the Clergy, and the Schools, my wise eyes shoot lights, Sir. I'm awfully particular to regulate the footlights, Sir. I preach sermons to my soldiers and arrange their "duds" and duels, too, And tallow their poor noses, when they've colds, and mix their gruels, too; I'll make everybody moral, and obedient, and frugal, Sir-- In fact I'm an Imperial edition of MCDOUGALL, Sir!

ALL.

He'd compel us to drink water and restrain us when to wed agog; In fact he is the model of a Modern German pedagogue.

I've all the god-like attributes, omniscient, ubiquitous, I mean to squelch free impulse, which is commonly iniquitous. But what's the good of being Chief Inspector of the Universe, And prying into everything from pompous Law to puny verse, If everything or nearly so, shows a confounded tendency _To go right of its own accord_? My Masterful Resplendency Would radiate aurorally, a world would gaze on trustingly If only things in general wouldn't go on so disgustingly. Where _is_ the pull of being Earth's Inspector autocratical, When the Progress _I_'d be motor of seems mainly automatical?

ALL.

Hooray! My would-be Jupiter, a _parvenu_ is told again He's not the true Olympian, Jack-in-the-Box is "Sold Again!!!"

* * * * *

"ARTIFICIAL OYSTER-CULTIVATION," read Mrs. R., as the heading of a par in the _Times_. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "who on earth would ever think of eating 'artificial oysters!'"

* * * * *

NOTHING is certain in this life except Death, Quarter Day and stoppage for ten minutes at Swindon Station.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PARLIAMENT À LA MODE DE PARIS.

SCENE--_The Chamber during a Debate of an exciting character. Member with a newspaper occupying the Tribune._

_Member_. I ask if the report in this paper is true? It calls the Minister a scoundrel! [_Frantic applause._

_President_. I must interpose. It is not right that such a document should be read.

_Member_. But it is true. I hold in my hand this truth-telling sheet. (_Shouts of_ "_Well done_!") This admirable journal describes the Minister as a trickster, a man without a heart! [_Yells of approbation._

_President_. I warn the Member that he is going too far. He is outraging the public conscience. ["_Hear! hear_!"

_Member_. It is you that outrage the public conscience. [_Sensation._

_President_. This is too much! If I hear another word of insult, I will assume my hat.

[_Profound and long-continued agitation._

_Member_. A hat is better than a turned coat! (_Thunders of applause._) I say that this paper is full of wholesome things, and that when it denounces the Minister as a good-for-nothing, as a slanderer, as a thief--it does but its duty.

[_Descends from the Tribune amidst tumultuous applause, and is met by the Minister. Grand altercation, with results._

_Minister's Friends_. What have you done to him?

_Minister_ (_with dignity_). I have avenged my honour--I have hit him in the eye!

[_Scene closes in upon the Minister receiving hearty congratulations from all sides of the Chamber._

* * * * *

PRESERVED VENICE.

(_SPECIALLY IMPORTED FOR THE LONDON MARKET._)

A SATURDAY NIGHT SCENE AT OLYMPIA.

IN THE PROMENADE.

_A Pessimistic Matron_ (_the usual beady and bugle-y female, who takes all her pleasure as a penance_). Well, they may _call_ it "Venice," but _I_ don't see no difference from what it was when the Barnum Show was 'ere--except--(_regretfully_)--that then they 'ad the Freaks o' Nature, and Jumbo's skelinton!

_Her Husband_ (_an Optimist--less from conviction than contradiction_). There you go, MARIA, finding fault the minute you've put your nose inside! We ain't _in_ Venice yet. It's up at the top o' them steps.

_The P.M._ Up all them stairs? Well, I 'ope it'll be worth seeing when we _do_ get there, that's all!

_An Attendant_ (_as she arrives at the top_). Not this door, Ma'am--next entrance for Modern Venice.

_The Opt. Husb._ You needn't go all the way down again, when the steps join like that!

_The P.M._ I'm not going to walk sideways--_I_'m not a crab, JOE, whatever _you_ may think. (_JOE assents, with reservations_). Now wherever have those other two got to? 'urrying off that way! Oh, _there_ they are. 'Ere, LIZZIE and JEM, keep along o' me and Father, do, or we shan't see half of what's to be seen!

_Lizzie_. Oh, all right, Ma; don't you worry so! (_To JEM, her fiancé_.) Don't those tall fellows look smart with the red feathers in their cocked 'ats? What do they call _them_?

_Jem_ (_a young man, who thinks for himself_). Well, I shouldn't wonder if those were the parties they call "Doges"--sort o' police over there, d'ye see?

_Lizzie_. They're 'andsomer than 'elmets, I will say _that_ for them. (_They enter Modern Venice, amidst cries of "This way for Gondoala Tickets! Pass along, please! Keep to your right!"_ &c., &c.) It _does_ have a foreign look, with all those queer names written up. Think it's like what it is, JEM?

_Jem_. Bound to be, with all the money they've spent on it. I daresay they've idle-ised it a bit, though.

_The P.M._ Where are all these kinals they talk so much about? I don't see none!

_Jem_ (_as a break in the crowd reveals a narrow olive-green channel_). Why, what d'ye call _that_, Ma?

_The P.M._ That a kinal! Why, you don't mean to tell me any barge 'ud--

_The Opt. Husb._ Go on!--you didn't suppose you'd find the Paddington Canal in _these_ parts, did you? This is big enough for all _they_ want. (_A gondola goes by lurchily, crowded with pot-hatted passengers, smoking pipes, and wearing the uncomfortable smile of children enjoying their first elephant-ride._) That's one o' these 'ere gondoalers--it's a rum-looking concern, ain't it? But I suppose you get _used_ to 'em--(_philosophically_)--like everything else!

_The P.M._ It gives me the creeps to look at 'em. Talk about _'earses_!

_The Opt. Husb._ Well, look 'ere, we've come out to enjoy ourselves--what d'ye say to having a ride in one, eh?

_The P.M._ You won't ketch me trusting _my_self in one o' them tituppy things, so don't you deceive yourself!

_The Opt. Husb._ Oh, it's on'y two foot o' warm water if you do tip over. _Come_ on! (_Hailing Gondolier, who has just landed his cargo._) 'Ere, 'ow much'll you take the lot of us for, hey?

_Gondolier_ (_gesticulating_). Teekits! you tek teekits--là--you vait!

_Jem_. He means we've got to go to the orfice and take tickets and stand in a cue, d'yer see?

_The P.M._ Me go and form a cue down there and get squeeged like at the Adelphi Pit, all to set in a rickety gondoaler! I can see all _I_ want to see without messing about in one o' them things!

_The Others_. Well, I dunno as it's worth the extry sixpence, come to think of it. (_They pass on, contentedly._)

_Jem_. We're on the Rialto Bridge now, LIZZIE, d'ye see? The one in SHAKSPEARE, _you_ know.

_Lizzie_. That's the one they call the "Bridge o' Sighs," ain't it? (_Hazily._) Is that because there's _shops_ on it?

_Jem_. I dessay. Shops--or else suicides.

_Lizzie_ (_more hazily than ever_). Ah, the same as the Monument. (_They walk on with a sense of mental enlargement._)

_Mrs. Lavender Salt_. It's wonderfully like the real thing, LAVENDER, isn't it? Of course they can't _quite_ get the true Venetian atmosphere!

_Mr. L.S._ Well, MIMOSA, they'd have the Sanitary Authorities down on them if they _did_, you know!

_Mrs. L.S._ Oh, you're so horribly unromantic! But, LAVENDER, couldn't we get one of those gondolas and go about. It would be so lovely to be in one again, and fancy ourselves back in dear Venice, now _wouldn't_ it?

_Mr. L.S._ The illusion is cheap at sixpence; so come along, MIMOSA!

[_He secures, tickets, and presently the LAVENDER SALTS, find themselves part of a long queue, being marshalled between barriers by Italian gendarmes in a state of politely suppressed amusement._

_Mrs. L.S._ (_over her shoulder to her husband, as she imagines_). I'd no idea we should have to go through all this! Must we really herd in with all these people? Can't we two manage to get a gondola all to ourselves?

_A Voice_ (_not LAVENDER's--in her ear_). I'm sure I'm 'ighly flattered, Mum, but I'm already suited; yn't I, DYSY?

[_DYSY corroborates his statement with unnecessary emphasis._

_A Sturdy Democrat_ (_in front, over his shoulder_). Pity yer didn't send word you was coming, Mum, and then they'd ha' kep' the place clear of us common people for yer! [Mrs. L.S. _is sorry she spoke._

IN THE GONDOLA.--_Mr. and Mrs. L.S. are seated in the back seat, supported on one side by the Humorous 'ARRY and his Fiancée, and on the other by a pale, bloated youth, with a particularly rank cigar, and the Sturdy Democrat, whose two small boys occupy the seat in front._

_The St. Dem._ (_with malice aforethought_). If you two lads ain't got room there, I dessay this lady won't mind takin' one of yer on her lap. (_To Mrs. L.S., who is frozen with horror at the suggestion._) They're 'umin beans, Mum, like yerself!

_Mrs. L.S._ (_desperately ignoring her other neighbours_). Isn't that lovely balcony there copied from the one at the Pisani, LAVENDER--or is it the Contarini? I forget.

_Mr. L.S._ Don't remember--got the Rialto rather well, haven't they? I suppose that's intended for the dome of the Salute down there--not quite the outline, though, if I remember right. And, if that's the Campanile of St. Mark, the colour's too brown, eh?

_The Hum. 'Arry_ (_with intention_). Oh, I sy, DYSY, yn't that the Kempynoily of Kennington Oval, right oppersite? and 'aven't they got the Grand Kinel in the Ole Kent Road proper, eh?

_Dysy_ (_playing up to him, with enjoyment_). Jest 'aven't they! On'y I don't quoite remember whether the colour o' them gas-lamps is correct. But there, if we go on torkin' this w'y, other parties might think we wanted to show orf!

_Mrs. L.S._ Do you remember our _last_ gondola expedition, LAVENDER, coming home from the Giudecca in that splendid sunset?

_The Hum. A._ Recklect you and me roidin' 'ome from Walworth on a rhinebow, DYSY, eh?

_Chorus of Chaff from the bridges and terraces as they pass._ 'Ullo, 'ere comes another boat-load! 'Igher up, there!... Four-wheeler!... Ain't that toff in the tall 'at enjoyin' himself? Quite a 'appy funeral! &c., &c.

_Mrs. L.S._ (_faintly, as they enter the Canal in front of the Stage_). LAVENDER, dear, I really can't stand this _much_ longer!

_Mr. L.S._ (_to the Bloated Youth_). Might I ask you, Sir, not to puff your smoke in this lady's face--it's extremely unpleasant for her!

_The B.Y._ All right, Mister, I'm always ready to oblige a lydy--but--(_with wounded pride_)--as to its bein' _unpleasant_, yer know, all _I_ can tell yer is--(_with sarcasm_)--that this 'appens to be one of the best tuppeny smokes in 'Ammersmith!

_Mr. L.S._ (_diplomatically_). I am sure of that--from the aroma, but if you _could_ kindly postpone its enjoyment for a little while, we should be extremely obliged!

_The B.Y._ Well, I must keep it _aloive_, yer know. If there's anyone 'ere that understands cigars, they'll bear me out as it never smokes the same when you once let it out.

[_The other Passengers confirm him in this epicurean dictum, whereupon he sucks the cigar at intervals behind Mrs. L.S.'s back, during the remainder of the trip._

_Mr. L.S._ (_to Mrs. L.S. when they are alone again_). Well, MIMOSA, illusion successful, eh?

_Mrs. L.S._ Oh, _don't_!

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO MY CIGARETTE.

My own, my loved, my Cigarette, My dainty joy disguised in tissue, What fate can make your slave regret The day when first he dared to kiss you?

I had smoked briars, like to most Who joy in smoking, and had been a Too ready prey to those who boast Their bonded stores of Reina Fina.

In honeydew had steeped my soul Had been of cherry pipes a cracker, And watched the creamy meerschaum's bowl Grow weekly, daily, hourly blacker.

Read CALVERLEY and learnt by heart The lines he celebrates the weed in; And blew my smoke in rings, an art That many try, but few succeed in.

In fact of nearly every style Of smoke I was a kindly critic, Though I had found Manillas vile, And Trichinopolis mephitic.

The stout tobacco-jar became Within my smoking-room a fixture; I heard my friends extol by name Each one his own peculiar mixture.

And tried them every one in turn (_O varium, tobacco, semper_!); The strong I found too apt to burn My tongue, the week to try my temper.

And all were failures, and I grew More tentative and undecided, Consulted friends, and found they knew As little as or less than I did.

Havannah yielded up her pick Of prime cigars to my fruition; I bought a case, and some went "sick." The rest were never in condition.

Until in sheer fatigue I turned To you, tobacco's white-robed tyro, And from your golden legend learned Your maker dwelt and wrought in Cairo.

O worshipped wheresoe'er I roam, As fondly as a wife by some is, Waif from the far Egyptian home Of Pharaohs, crocodiles, and mummies;

Beloved, in spite of jeer and frown; The more the Philistines assail you, The more the doctors run you down, The more I puff you--and inhale you.

Though worn with toil and vexed with strife (Ye smokers all, attend and hear me), Undaunted still I live my life, With you, my Cigarette, to cheer me.

* * * * *