Three days passed by, and still poor Rose received no answer to her
letter, but remained a prey to alternate hopes and fears and all “The
gnawing torture of an anxious mind.” On the fourth arrived the following
characteristic note:--
“My dear Miss Arundel,--I dare say you’ve been abusing me like a
pick-pocket; at least I must have appeared to you deserving of such
abuse, for treating your request so cavalierly; but the fact is, I have
been down in a Cornish tin mine for the last two days, and only received
your packet on my arrival in town, an hour ago. And now to business. I
don’t set up for a judge of poetry, though I know what pleases me
and what doesn’t (I should be a donkey if I did not, you’ll say); for
instance, the present school of ‘suggestive’ poetry doesn’t suit me
at all. But then I have an old-fashioned prejudice in favour of
understanding what I read, and calling a railway locomotive a ‘_resonant
steam eagle_,’ for instance, does not tend to simplify literature; the
only thing such phrases ‘suggest’ to me is that it would be a great deal
better if the authors were content to stick to plain English, and when
they have such inexpressibly grand ideas, not to trouble themselves
to express them at all. Your verses have at least one good point in
them--they are so worded that a plain man may understand them; in fact,
all that I have yet read I like--the feeling is invariably pure, true,
and beautiful (your heart’s in the right place, and no mistake); the
language is well chosen, and sometimes eloquent; there are, of course,
plenty of places where it becomes weak and young lady-like, but that
was only to be expected. We can’t all be men, unfortunately. I could
not help laughing when you ‘supposed I knew’ all the booksellers and
publishers in London, Heaven forbid! for in that case I should have a
very miscellaneous acquaintance. However, I do know several, and I
will go the first thing to-morrow morning and consult one of them--a
gentleman on whose judgment I can rely as to what will be the most
advisable course for us to pursue. I say _us_, because, as I don’t
mean to let the matter rest till I have succeeded, I consider myself
a partner in the concern. Lewis parted from me in high health and very
tolerable spirits. He left town, with General Grant, the same morning
on which I started for Cornwall. You shall hear from me again when I can
report progress. Don’t write any more nonsense about giving me trouble:
in the first place, the thing is no trouble; in the second, I should not
mind it one bit if it were.
“I am yours very truly,
“Richard Frere.”
The first thing next morning Frere called upon his friend the publisher,
who, as soon as he understood that nothing beyond advice was required of
him, became very communicative and agreeable; glanced his eye over the
verses and approved of them, though he added, with a Burleigh-like
shake of the head, that he wished they were anything but poetry. Frere
wondered why, and asked him. In reply he learned that the public mind
had acquired a sadly practical bias, which leading him to suggest that
poetry was the very thing of all others to bring it right again, he was
further informed that the evil was much too deeply seated to be affected
by so weak an application as the poetry of the present day; and the
truth of this assertion appearing undeniable, the subject was dropped.
“The best thing for you to do with these MSS., Mr. Frere,” continued his
adviser, “would be to get them inserted in some popular periodical.”
“Well, I don’t object,” returned Frere. “Which had I better send
them to? There’s ‘Gently’s Miscellany,’ and the ‘New Weekly,’ and
‘Gainsworth’s Magazine,’ and half-a-dozen more of’em.”
“What do you suppose would be the result of adopting such a line of
conduct?” inquired his friend.
“Why, as the things are in themselves good, they’d probably put ’em in
next month, and send a cheque for the amount, enclosed in a polite note
asking for more.”
“I fear not,” was the answer. “A very promising young friend of mine
sent a nicely written paper to the least exclusive of the periodicals
you have just mentioned; hearing nothing of it, he ventured at the end
of six months to write and inquire its fate. In reply he received a note
from the editor, which appeared to him more explicit than satisfactory.
It was couched in the following laconic terms:--‘Declined with thanks.’”
“Phewl that’s pleasant,” rejoined Frere. “What would you advise, then,
under the circumstances? I place myself quite in your hands.”
His friend leaned back in his chair and considered the matter deeply. At
length he seemed to have hit upon some expedient, for he muttered
with great emphasis, “Yes, that might do. He could if he would.
Yes--certainly!” Then turning suddenly to Frere, he exclaimed, “Mind,
you’ll never breathe a word of it to any living being!”
“Not for the world,” returned Frere. “And now, what is it?”
“You’ve heard of ‘Blunt’s Magazine’?”
“Yes; I’ve seen it in several places lately.”
“No doubt; it’s a most admirably conducted publication, and one which is
certain to become a great favourite with the public. Now I happen to be
acquainted with one of the gentlemen who edit it, and shall be happy to
give you a note of introduction to him. But you must promise me to be
most careful never to reveal his name.”
“Certainly,” rejoined Frere, “if you wish it. But may I venture to ask
what it would signify if all London knew it?”
His companion turned upon him a look of indignant surprise; but
perceiving that he made the inquiry in honest simplicity of heart, his
face assumed an expression of contemptuous pity as he replied, in such a
tone of voice as one would use to a little child who had inquired why it
might not set light to a barrel of gunpowder, “My dear sir, you do
not know--you cannot conceive the consequences. Such a thing would be
utterly impossible.”
He then wrote a few lines, which he handed to Frere, saying, “You will
find him at home till eleven.”
“And this mysterious name,” observed Frere, glancing at the address,
“is!--eh! nonsense!--Thomas Bracy, Esq. Why, he is an intimate friend
of my own! That’s famous. Oh! I’ll have some fun with him. I’m sure I’m
extremely obliged to you; good morning.” So saying Frere seized his hat,
shouldered his umbrella, and hurried off, overjoyed at his discovery.
The mendacious tiger, of whom we have already made honourable mention,
answered Frere’s inquiry as to whether his master was at home with a
most decided and unequivocal negative, adding the gratuitous information
that, “he had gone down to dine with his uncle at Hampstead the previous
day and was not expected home till four o’clock that afternoon.”
“Well, that’s a nuisance,” returned Frere. “I tell you what, boy, I’ll
step in and write your master a note.”
“Yes, sir, certainly, if you please, sir; only we’ve been a having the
sweeps hin, and the place is hall in a huproar, so as it’s unpossibul to
touch nothink.”
At this moment a bell rung violently, and the boy, begging Frere to
wait, bounded up the stairs with a cat-like rapidity, returning almost
immediately with the information that “He was wery sorry, but he’d just
been to the greengrocer’s, and while he was hout master had comed home
quite promiscuous.”
“And how about the soot?” asked Frere, a light breaking in upon him.
“Please, sir, cook’s been and cleaned it hup while I were gone.”
“I thought so,” returned Frere; “you’re a nice boy!” Then catching him
by the collar of his jacket, he continued, “Tell me, you young scamp,
how often do you speak the truth?”
The urchin, thus detected, glanced at Frere’s face, and reading there
that any attempt to keep up appearances must prove a dead failure,
replied with the utmost _sang froid,_ “Please, sir, whenever I can’t
think of nothink better.”
“There’s an answer,” returned Frere meditatively. “Well, you need never
learn swimming--water won’t harm you; but mark my words, and beware of
hemp.” So saying he loosened his hold on the boy’s collar and followed
him upstairs.
The tiger, not having recognised Frere in his European habiliments, had
merely told his master that a gentleman wished to see him on business;
and Bracy, who had reason to expect a visit from a certain literary Don,
had rushed into his dressing-room to exchange a very decidedly “fast”
smoking-jacket for the black frock-coat of editorial propriety; for
which reason Frere was left to entertain himself for a few minutes with
his own society. After examining sundry clever caricature sketches of
Bracy’s, which evinced a decided talent for that branch of art, Frere
seated himself in an easy-chair in front of a writing-table on which
lay a mysterious document, written in a bold, dashing hand, which
involuntarily attracted his attention. Perceiving at a glance that it
contained no private matter, he amused himself by perusing it. For the
reader’s edification we will transcribe it:--
_Blunt’s Magazine, June. Sheets 3 and 4
Questions on Quicksilver...4
The Homeless Heart (Stanzas by L. O. V. E.) . . .1
Hist. Parallels, No. 3 (Cromwell and Cour-de-Lion) . . 7
L’Incomprise (by the Authoress of Inconnue). . .6
Hard Work and Hard Food; or, How would you like it yourself?
A Plea for the Industrial Classes .. . 5
Dog-cart Drives (by the Editor), Chap, 10 The Spicey
Screw;” Chap. II, Doing the Governor” . .. 7
Wanted something light, abt...2_
The last item in this singular catalogue was written in pencil. “Now I
should like to know what all that means,” soliloquised Frere.
“Something light about two? A luncheon would come under that definition
exactly--two _whats?_ that’s the question! Two pounds? It would not be
particularly light if it weighed as much as that. Perhaps the figures
stand for money--the prices they pay for the magazine articles, I dare
say; 4--6--7. Now, if they happen to be sovereigns, that will suit my
young lady’s case very nicely. Ah! here he comes.”