_Poulet Saute a la Chasseur_--Chytridian Woronina.
SECTION E... _Braised Fillet of Beef_--Lobengula Lion.
_Roast Saddle of Mutton_--Native Kalahari.
SECTION F... _Grouse_--Statistics of Slaughter.
_Partridge_--Progressive Decimation.
SECTION G... [A]_Savarin a l'Abricot_--Diamagnetic amperes.
_Sicilian Cream_--A New Lubricant.
_Victoria Jelly_--High Carbon Slag.
_Maids of Honour_--Kinetic Leverage.
_Pastry_--Approaching the Elastic Limit.
SECTION H... _Ice Pudding_--Prognathous Brachycephaloid.
_Croute d'Anchois_--Unidentified Origin.
_Dessert_--Prehistoric Jourouks.
H.B. ----, } Jackals.
W. ----, }
[Footnote A: Should the discussion of these Papers interfere with the
transactions of the other Sections, one or more will be taken as
eaten.]
[Illustration: The Pointed Beards]
Somebody has said that an Englishman will find any excuse to give a
dinner, but my experience has been that this is truer of Americans. I
have been the guest of many extraordinary dining clubs, but as the most
unique I select the Pointed Beards of New York. To club and dine
together because one has hair cut in a particular way is the _raison
d'etre_ of the club; there is nothing heroic, nothing artistic or
particularly intellectual. It is not even a club to discuss hirsute
adornments; such a club might be made as interesting as any other,
provided the members were clever.
That most delightful of _litterateurs_, Mr. James Payn, once interested
himself, and with his pen his readers, in that charming way of his, on
the all-important question, "Where do shavers learn their business? Upon
whom do they practise?" After most careful investigation he answers the
question, "The neophytes try their prentice hands upon their fellow
barbers." That may be the rule, but every rule has an exception, and I
happened once to be the unfortunate layman when a budding and
inexperienced barber practised his art upon me. I sat in the chair of a
hairdresser's not a hundred miles from Regent Street. I had selected a
highly respectable, thoroughly English establishment, as I was tired of
being held by the nose by foreigners' fingers saturated with the
nicotine of bad cigarettes. I entered gaily, and to my delight a
fresh-looking British youth tied me up in the chair of torture, lathered
my chin, and began operations. I was not aware of the fact that I was
being made a chopping-block of until the youth, agitated and extremely
nervous, produced a huge piece of lint and commenced dabbing patches of
it upon my countenance. Then I looked at myself in the glass. Good
heavens! Was I gazing upon myself, or was it some German student,
lacerated and bleeding after a sanguinary duel? I stormed and raged, and
called for the proprietor, who was gentle and sorry and apologetic, and
explained to me that the boy must begin upon somebody, and I
unfortunately was the first victim! I allow my beard to grow now.
Otherwise I should not have been eligible for the New York Pointed
Beards, for no qualification is necessary except that one wear a beard
cut to a point.
The tables were ornamented with lamps having shades cut to represent
pointed beards. A toy goat, the emblem of the club, was the centre
decoration. We had the "Head Barber," and, of course, any amount of soft
soap. A leading Republican was in the barber's chair, and during dinner
some sensation was caused by one of the guests being discovered wearing
a false beard. He was immediately seized and ejected until after the
dinner, when he returned with his music. It so happened we had present a
member of the Italian Opera, with his beautiful pointed beard, and he
had also a beautiful voice. But New York could not supply an accompanist
with a pointed beard! So a false beard was preferred to false notes. The
speeches were pointed, but not cut as short as the beard--rather too
pointed and too long. It was just after the Bryan political crisis. The
leading politician in the chair and one of the guests, a political
leader writer, who had not met--not even at their barber's--since the
election, had some electioneering dispute to settle. Americans, unlike
us, drag politics into everything. Take away this peculiarity and you
take away two-thirds of their excellent after-dinner speaking. The
Pointed Beards may have something to do with the matter. The two lost
their temper, and the evening was all but ruined thereby, when a happy
thought struck me. Although as the guest of the evening I had spoken, I
rose again to apologise for being an Englishman! I confessed that I had
listened to the two speeches, but their brilliancy and wit were
entirely lost upon me; the subtle humour of the American passed an
Englishman's understanding. Their personalities and political passages
were no doubt ingenious "bluff," but so cleverly serious and so well
acted that I had for four-fifths of the acrimonious speeches been
entirely taken in. At this all laughed loud at my stupidity, and the
evening ended pleasantly.
The secretary of this dinner, which was a most excellent one, was the
celebrated Delmonico, but it was not held at his famous restaurant. To
have been complete it ought really to have been held in a barber's shop,
for some of those establishments in America are palatial, and even minor
barbers' shops are utilised in a curious way. One Sunday afternoon as I
was taking a walk I overheard some singing in a shop devoted to hair
dressing, and looking in I saw an extraordinary sight. There were about
a dozen old ladies seated in the barbers' chairs, with their backs to
the looking-glasses and brushes, singing hymns. It was a meeting of the
Plymouth Brethren, who hired the shop for their devotions!
Of course at the Pointed Beards' dinner in New York we had oysters with
beards--but no American dinner is complete without their famous oysters.
Unfortunately I have to make the extraordinary confession that I never
tasted an oyster in my life, and as I am touching upon gastronomy, I may
also mention that I never touch cheese, or hare, or rabbit, or eel, and
I would have to be in the last stage of starvation before I could eat
cold lamb or cold veal; so it will be seen by these confessions that my
cook's berth is not a sinecure, and that these complimentary dinners, as
dinners, are to a great extent wasted upon me. I once, in fact, was
asked to a dinner at a club, and I could not touch one single dish! But
my friends kindly provided some impromptu dishes without cheese or
oysters and other, to me, objectionable things. I was not so lucky in
Baltimore. We all know Baltimore is celebrated for its oysters, and the
night I arrived a dinner was given to me at the Baltimore Club, which
opened as usual with dishes of magnificent oysters. The head waiter, a
well-known figure, an old "darkie" with grey hair, placed a dish of
oysters down before me with pride, and stood to watch my delight. I
beckoned to him to take them away. He seized the dish and examined the
oysters; got another dish, placed them before me. I again requested him
to remove them. This happened a third time. I then told him plainly and
emphatically that I did not eat oysters. By this time my host and his
guests were at their third course, and I and the head waiter were still
discussing oysters. My host did not notice this, as he was at the other
end of the table, and there were many floral decorations between us; but
I made bold to inform him of the fact that the waiter had not only taken
away my plates but had removed my glasses, knives and forks, and left me
with a bare cloth and no dinner. My host had to call the waiter out of
the room and remonstrate with him, but it required some time and a great
deal of persuasion before I, the guest of the evening, was allowed to
begin my dinner when they were finishing theirs. It transpired that the
humorous paper of Baltimore had published the impressions I would
receive on visiting their great city, and prominently was a caricature
of myself swallowing my first Baltimore oyster. This so interested the
waiters of the club that they selected the largest for me, and were so
disappointed at my refusing them that they punished me in the same way
as Sancho Panza was punished before me.
Perhaps the most extraordinary dinner I ever took part in was held in
New York on November 3rd, 1896, when twelve leading Democrats and twelve
Republicans sat down on the night of the most sensational election that
has ever taken place in the United States. English readers will hardly
realise what such a combination meant. The only parallel in this country
was probably caused by Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule Bill, when leading
Liberals and Conservatives stood on the same platform. But that was the
result of a purely political question; political questions of that
national character do not interest the better-class American. For
instance, on my first visit to America I sat next to a very influential
New Yorker at dinner. At that time also elections were pending, and I
casually asked my acquaintance what he thought of the situation. He
raised his eyebrows with great surprise and said:
"Pardon me, sir, we take no interest in politics here; we leave that to
our valets."
I met that man the day of this dinner four years later. He was
positively ill with excitement; he could talk of nothing but politics.
Party emblems decorated his coat; every pocket was full of pamphlets--he
had been working night and day to defeat Bryan. His valet, no doubt, was
sleeping soundly the sleep of indifference--nothing to lose or nothing
to gain should Bryan succeed. The silver scare of Bryan's touched the
pockets, not the politics, of the prosperous; and that touch is the one
touch that makes the whole American world kin.
[Illustration]
It happened that I was dining at the house of the chairman of this
unique dinner ten days before the election, and he was telling us of the
coming election-night dinner as the most extraordinary in the history of
their politics. To my surprise, days afterwards, I received an
invitation. They all had to be consulted, and agreed that I was the only
outsider they would allow to be present.
The dinner was held in an hotel in the centre of New York, and special
permission had been given to have the room next to the one in which we
dined turned into a telegraph office, where all the messages going to
the central office were tapped, and we knew the result in the room as
soon as it was known at the central office. Perhaps I was the only one
present thoroughly indifferent, and certainly the only one who enjoyed
his dinner. Speeches were indulged in even earlier than usual, and one
of them had the portentous title of "England" coupled with my name! I
rose and said that I felt exactly like a man who had been invited to a
country house, and on his arrival was met by his friend on the doorstep
with a long face and a cold, nervous hand. He was glad to see you, but
had sad news: his wife was lying between life and death, and the doctors
were round her bedside. Now, under such circumstances, one does not
exactly feel one can make one's self at home. I assured my listeners
that at the moment the Republic was lying in a critical condition,
doctors were at her bedside, and it would be settled before midnight
whether she was to live or die. If they would allow me I would rise
later, and I trusted then my friends would be in a more genial and less
excited mood. I had the pleasure of continuing my speech late that
night, and congratulating them on the Republic having survived the Bryan
crisis.
To describe the scenes after dinner when the results were announced, if
I had a pen capable of so doing, would simply dub me in the minds of
many readers as a second de Rougemont.
Late that night I reached the waterside. The North River was ablaze with
red and blue lights, and rockets shot into the darkness from either
shore. Every ferry-boat, tug-boat, scow, or barge in the harbour passed
in an endless procession. The air quivered with the bellowings of
fog-horns, steam whistles, and sirens. It was indescribable; language
fails me. I can only quote the words of the New York paper with "the
largest circulation in the world": "The wind-whipped waters of river and
harbour glowed last night with the reflection of a myriad lights set
aflame for the glory of the new sound and golden dollar. East and west,
north and south, dazzling streams of fire played in fantastic curves
across the heavens, and beneath this canopy of streaming flame moved a
mammoth fleet of steam craft, great and small."
As I laid my aching head on my pillow I murmured: "Had I been an
American citizen, much as I believe in sound currency and an honest
dollar, one more rocket, a few more fog-horns, and I should have cast my
vote for Bryan and Free Silver!"
[Illustration: A SKETCH OF BOULANGER.]
At this dinner I contrasted the look of anxiety with the callous
indifference of a face I had watched under similar but still more unique
circumstances a few years before: the face of the chief of French
_poseurs_--General Boulanger--whom I was asked to meet at dinner in
London. It happened to be the night the result of his defeat at the
polls was made known. He sat, the one man out of the score-and-five
concerned; but as telegrams were handed to him, of defeat, not success,
he never showed any signs of interest.
A few years afterwards, when on tour with my lecture-entertainments, I
"put in" a week in the Channel Islands, under the management of a
gentleman who had been intimately acquainted with Boulanger when he was
a political recluse in Jersey; and one afternoon he drove me to the
charming villa the General had occupied, situated in an ideal spot on
the coast. The villa was most solidly built, and of picturesque
architecture--the freak of a rich Parisian merchant, who had spared no
pains or money over it. The work both inside and out was that of the
best artists Paris could supply. It was magnificently furnished--a
museum of beautiful objects, and curious ones, too. One bedroom was a
model of an officer's apartments on board a man-of-war, even to the
water (painted) splashing through a porthole. Another bedroom was a
replica of an officer's tent. These were designed and furnished for the
sons of the Parisian merchant, who for some domestic reason never went
near his _petite_ palace. He lent it to Boulanger, and there he lived
the life of an exiled monarch. The place has never been touched since he
walked out of it. In the stateroom, in which he received political
deputations of his supporters from France, the chairs were arranged in a
semi-circle round the table at which he sat when he received the last
one. On the blotter was his speech, and a sheet of paper on which was
written the address of the retreat. This was given to me, and here I
reproduce it:--
[Illustration]
We had coffee on the balcony, served out of china which had on it his
monogram, and silver spoons with his crest. I did not pocket the
spoons, nor the powder-puff of Madame, and other relics lying about; the
rooms remained as they were left, even to gowns in the wardrobe. The
delightful garden, cut out of the rocks, had run wild. The grapes hung
in clusters, the flowers were one mass of colour, the paths were covered
with grass. Below stood the summer-house where Madame drank her tea. In
one corner on a wall was a small target with revolver bullet marks all
over it, the result of the General's practice, when possibly he used the
same revolver which he turned upon himself at the tomb of Madame de
Bonnemain, in the cemetery at Ixelles, Brussels.
[Illustration: A NOTE ON MY MENU.]
It would be impossible for me in a short chapter to deal with all the
interesting dinners and other entertainments I have attended; but I must
confess that I was immensely flattered by a lunch given to me in
Washington by the Rev. Dr. Wesley R. Davis, the well-known Albany
preacher, who had retired from the pulpit and become an official of the
Postal Department in Washington.
The novelty of this lunch was the idea of the chairman to sandwich each
course with a story. We began with some very fine and large Lynhaven
oysters. We English, with one exception, have no appreciation of the
size of these huge American oysters. That one exception was Thackeray.
And I may safely say that I never sat down to a meal in America and
expressed my surprise at the size of the oysters (which I purposely did)
but that someone told me what Thackeray said of them. On this occasion I
was told the story by none other than General Horace Porter, one of the
best if not the greatest of all _raconteurs_ in the United States. Here
it is:
"You know what Thackeray said when he first saw one of our
oysters,--that he felt in eating it he was swallowing a new-born baby."
[Illustration: REMARKABLE AND MUCH TALKED OF LUNCH TO ME AT WASHINGTON.
THE AUTOGRAPHS ON BACK OF MENU.]
After the green turtle Mr. Willard, the well-known actor, was called
upon, and related a brace of capital theatrical stories.
After Carolina shad and _pommes Parisienne_ I was called to my legs. Now
there is nothing so depressing as telling stories or making speeches at
two o'clock in the afternoon. General Porter remarked that he could
never tell a story till after eleven o'clock at night. He managed,
however, to tell several of his best on this occasion. As the gallant
General will tell them again, and I trust many times, I shall not
publish them here. Mine are not worth repeating. As I said, I felt at
the moment something like a well-known literary celebrity distinguished
for his capital Scotch tales and his conversational brevity. He was
invited to meet the late James Payn, who had expressed such a strong
desire to make his acquaintance that he agreed to dine at the Reform
Club (which he had not done for a considerable time), and this was only
arranged by their giving him the same waiter and allowing him to sit at
the same table he was in the habit of having at lunch every day. The
others were Sir Wemyss Reid and Sir John Robinson, of the _Daily News_.
The four enjoyed a capital dinner. Payn, Sir Wemyss and Sir John were at
their best, but the guest never made a remark. However, towards the end
of the dinner, he put his knife and fork down, looked round, and said,
"This is the very first time in my life I have sat down with three
editors." This was all his conversation.
I was referring to the fact that brevity is the soul of wit, and that
the Scotch author's remark about the three editors expressed my fear in
addressing so many members of the Government as were present.
Then came the pheasant, and before we had quite relished the excellence
of the celery salad that favourite American comedian, W. H. Crane, mixed
a salad of stories which were highly relished. I shall pass over his
theatrical stories and select two which followed, and which are so
typical of American humour, that I give them in full.
A poor man on tramp in the country one fine July day staggered in an
exhausted state into the garden of a rich old lady, and falling on his
hands and knees on the grass plot at the feet of the lady, pulled
himself along biting at the grass like a half-starved animal.
"My good man," the lady said, "why do you eat the grass in that way? Are
you really so hungry?"
"Madam," cried the man, looking up, "I am starving!"
"Poor man, poor man!" remarked the lady, with a look of pity. "My eyes
fill with tears--my heart bleeds for you. Go round to the kitchen door,
go round to the kitchen door, the grass is longer there!"
The other referred to the darkie railway hand who had by degrees worked
into a position at the depot (pronounced day-po, de-pot or de-poo),
where he strutted about in a costume embellished with gold lace. An
English tourist (oh, those poor fools--English tourists!) was standing
by the rails as an express train flew past at ninety miles an
hour--s-c-h-w-r-r-r-r! and in a second was lost to sight.
"Ah!" remarked the English tourist to the gentleman of colour. "The--ah,
train--ah, didn't--ah, stop--ah, here--ah!"
"No sir, nebber eben hesitated!"
[Illustration]
On May the 17th, 1888, I gave a dinner at the Garrick Club to my
fellow-workers on _Punch_, and others,--a merry meeting of twenty-four.
Mr. F. C. Burnand was at the other end of the table, and as the _souffle
glace aux fleurs d'oranges_ heralded the near approach of the end of the
dinner I noticed a mischievous look in Burnand's eyes, and it struck me
he intended to make a speech! As there was no "object" in my giving the
dinner except a purely social one,--in fact to reciprocate the
hospitality of some present whom I could not ask to my house in
consequence of my wife's long illness,--I naturally felt extremely
anxious when I saw that Mr. Burnand intended introducing speeches. I had
sent a message to him that I wished for none. My evening would be spoilt
by speeches, and even the witticisms of Burnand could not save it--yet
he was incorrigible. I must pay him back! A happy thought struck me as
he was speaking. I sent for note-paper. I, unobserved, tore it into
strips and slipped the pieces into my breast-pocket. When I rose I acted
being extremely nervous, assured my friends that I had implored the
"Vice" not to introduce speeches, and with (true) feeling implored them
not to credit the "chicken and champagne" the "Vice" had more than
hinted at, and of course said I was unaccustomed to speaking, etc. I
then fumbled about my pockets, and nervously produced my "notes,"
carefully laying them out in a long column in front of me. My guests
looked with pity upon me, and their dismay was evident when I began as
follows: "I was born--I was born--in 1854. I--I----" (break down). Note
No. 2. "I came to London--I came to London----"
"Hear, hear," murmured the sufferers.
Another collapse,--I sought other "notes." "Art--art--Greek art----"
"Hear, hear, ha, ha!" (They were beginning to guy me!)
"_Punch_----" (another painful pause). "Gentlemen, _Punch_----"
"Yes, yes, we know all about that!"
"Yes," I said, "but, gentlemen, before that toast is honoured I beg to
propose to you a toast. The toast, always the _premier_ toast in every
gathering composed of English gentlemen." The joke was then mine. In the
most perfunctory and glib manner I gave the Royal Toast. After it was
duly honoured I gave the second Loyal Toast, "The House of Lords," "The
Houses of Parliament," "The Army, Navy and Reserve Forces,"--each time
calling upon some one or two to respond. The reply for "The Navy," I
recollect, fell to Sir Spencer Wells, who was originally in the Navy.
(The Army had a legitimate representative.) We had Law, Art, Letters,
Music, the Medical Profession, Commerce, the Colonies, America
(responded to by E. A. Abbey)--in fact we had no fewer than twenty-four
toasts; twenty-four or more replies. But this was only the first round!
I was determined to keep the speeches going and not to let Burnand say
another word. So I passed him over, and ignoring his appeals from the
chair, I got through--or very nearly through--another score of speeches,
reinforced by Toole and others coming in after the theatres, until the
closure was moved and the meeting adjourned.
Burnand and I rode to Mill Hill and back the next morning, and he had to
admit I had utterly routed him. The victory was mine!
To keep up the flow of oratory in the second series of speeches I had to
call upon my guests to speak to a different toast from the one they
replied to earlier. This added to the fun. But the best-regulated
humour, such as Burnand's introductory speech, often gives a false
impression. For instance, I actually managed to get Charles Keene on to
his legs,--I think I am right in saying the only occasion on which he
ever spoke. I coupled his name with "Open Spaces" (Sir Robert Hunter,
the champion of "open spaces," had responded the first time). It struck
me that I was paying Keene a compliment when I referred to his
marvellous talent in depicting commons and fields and vast spaces in his
unequalled drawings of landscapes.
"Umph! Furniss, I see, chaffs me about leaving so much white in my
work--not filled up with little figures like his."
And I do not think he ever understood I intended to compliment him.
Towards the end I received a memorandum in pencil on a soiled piece of
paper:
[Illustration]
And he walked in--dear old Toole in an old coat.
I have given many another sociable dinner, but none with greater success
than this at which I turned Burnand's accidentally unhappy speech into a
Happy Thought.
When I was offered the chairmanship of the dinner of the London Thirteen
Club, it was with a light heart that I accepted. I was under the
impression that the dinner was to be a private kind of affair--a small
knot of men endowed with common sense meeting to express their contempt
for ignorant and harmful superstition. I had already had the honour of
being elected an honorary member of the Club, but somehow or other I had
never attended any of its gatherings, nor had I met with one of its
members.
[Illustration: THIRTEEN CLUB BANQUET. THE TABLE DECORATIONS.]
When the time came, it was with a heavy heart that I fulfilled my
promise. This Thirteen Club idea, which hails from America, had in the
meantime been "boomed," as our cousins across the Herring Pond would put
it, into an affair of great magnitude. It was taken up by the Press, and
paragraphs, leaderettes and leaders appeared in nearly every journal all
over the country. This is the style of paragraph I received through a
Press cutting agency from numberless papers:--
"Mr. W. H. Blanch, who has been elected President of the London Thirteen
Club for the year 1894, is the promoter of an organised protest against
the popular superstition which led to the formation of the Thirteen Club
four years ago. In his new position as President, Mr. Blanch has
evidently resolved upon a more vigorous and aggressive campaign than
that which has hitherto characterised the operations of the Club, for
the New Year's dinner which is announced to take place on Saturday, the
13th of January, promises to be something altogether unique as a social
gathering. Mr. Harry Furniss, one of the hon. members of the Club, will
preside at this dinner, which is announced to take place at the Holborn
Restaurant, and in room No. 13. The members and their friends will
occupy 13 tables, with of course 13 at each table, and perhaps needless
to say peacock feathers will abound, whilst the knives and forks will be
crossed, and any quantity of salt will be split. During the evening the
toastmaster on this somewhat memorable occasion, instead of informing
the assembled company that the Chairman will be happy to take wine with
them, will vary this stereotyped declaration by announcing that the
Chairman will be happy to spill salt with them. The Club salt-cellars,
it is stated, are coffin-shaped, whilst the best 'dim religious light'
obtainable from skull-shaped lamps will light up the banqueting-hall,
before entering which the company will pass under the Club ladder. Other
details too gruesome to mention will perhaps only be revealed to the
company who will sit down to this weird feast, which promises to make a
record, nothing of the kind having yet been attempted in London."
[Illustration: MR. W. H. BLANCH.]
These paragraphs rather frightened me. What had I let myself in for?
Where would it all end?
Then other notices, inspired no doubt by the President, made their
appearance from time to time, and heaped upon my devoted head all manner
of responsibilities. Waiters suffering from obliquity of vision were to
be sought out and fastened on to me:
"The Secretary of the London Thirteen Club has requested the manager of
the Holborn Restaurant to provide, if possible, cross-eyed waiters on
the occasion of the New Year's dinner of the Club over which Mr. Harry
Furniss is announced to preside on the 13th inst. Mr. Hamp, the manager,
while undertaking that the Chairman's table shall be waitered as
requested, has grave doubts whether the supply of waiters blessed in the
way described will be equal to the large demand so suddenly sprung upon
him."
[Illustration: THE BROKEN LOOKING-GLASS.]
[Illustration: THE BADGE.]
Other dreadful proposals there were, too, "too gruesome to mention." I
may at once frankly admit that I do not like the introduction of the
"gruesome" graveyard element. The ladder we all had to walk under, the
peacock's feathers, the black cat, the spilling of salt, breaking of
mirrors, presenting of knives, wearing of green ties (not that I wore
one--the colour doesn't suit my complexion) or opal rings, are fair fun,
and I think that in future it would be as well to limit the satire to
these ceremonies, to the exclusion of the funereal part of the business.
For badges each wore in his button-hole a small coffin to which dangled
a skeleton, and peacock's feathers. In my opinion the peacock's feathers
would have been sufficient for the purpose of the Club: the only object
I had in going to the dinner was to help to prove that these stupid
superstitions should be killed by ridicule. I detest Humbug, and
Superstition is but another name for Humbug. I am a believer in
cremation, but that is no reason why I should hold up to ridicule the
clumsier and more unhealthy churchyard burials about which so much
sentiment exists.
It was amusing to note my absent superstitious friends' excuses for
their non-appearance. One declined because he had an important
engagement that he could not possibly put off on any account. Late on
the evening of the dinner I heard this same gentleman grumbling because
no one had turned up at his club to play a game of billiards with him!
Another had fallen asleep and did not wake in time, and a third had been
unlucky with his speculations of late, which he attributed to having
seen the new moon through glass, and therefore he declined to tempt the
fates further. Mr. George R. Sims, the well-known "Dagonet," betrayed
sheer fright, as the following letter will testify:
"MY DEAR SIR,--At the last moment my courage fails me, and I return
the dinner ticket you have so kindly sent me.
"If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly come and defy the
fates, and do all that the members are pleased to do except wear
the green necktie suggested by my friend Mr. Sala (that would not
suit my complexion). But I have others to think of--dogs and cats
and horses--who if anything happened to me would be alone in the
world.
"For their sakes I must not run the risks that a faithful carrying
out of your programme implies.
"Trusting that nothing very terrible will happen to any of you in
after life,
"Believe me,
"Sincerely yours,
"(Signed) GEO. R. SIMS."
I confess my real and only reason was to protest. In England
superstition is harmlessly idiotic, but elsewhere it is cruel and
brutal, and a committee should be formed to try the lunatics--everyday
men of the world--who suffer from it, for there is no doubt that they
and their families are made miserable through superstitious belief.
Nothing kills like ridicule, and it is the Club's object by this means
to kill superstition. Some, like Mr. Andrew Lang, may think it a pity
to interfere with this humbug, but I venture to think it is a charity
when one considers the absurdity of educated men of the present day
making themselves unhappy through the stupid nonsense of the dark ages.
For instance, take two of my most intimate friends. One in particular
suffered in mind and body through having a supposed fatal number. This
number was 56, and as he approached that age he felt that that year
would be his last. Fancy that for a man of the world, who is also a
public man, and a member of the Government at the time of the dinner! He
was also a charming companion and a delightful friend, and no man I knew
had a wider circle of acquaintance. I happened to accompany him in a six
weeks' tour on the Continent during the year he believed fatal to him,
or perhaps it may have been the year previous; anyway, he was suffering
from that horrible complaint, superstition. He first made me aware of it
the night we arrived in Paris by thumping at my door in a terrible state
to implore me to change rooms with him--his number was 56, and it
terrified him! Next day we travelled in a carriage numbered 56, and my
friend was miserable. At the theatre his seat was 56, the ticket for his
coat was 56, 56 was the number of the first shop he entered to buy some
trifle I suggested to him. Indeed, I may at once confess that I took
care that 56 should crop up as often as possible, as I thought that that
would be the best way to cure the patient. Not a bit of it; he got
worse, and was really ill until his 56th birthday was passed.
[Illustration: SQUINT-EYED WAITER.]
To take the chair at this "most unique" banquet, as the papers styled
it, was no easy task, and to be waited upon by cross-eyed menials was
quite enough to make a sensitive, imitative being like myself very
nervous. Some of this band of gentlemen who had neglected to go to the
Ophthalmic Hospital seemed to consider that their being bought up for
the occasion was a great honour, and one youth in particular, with black
hair, a large sharp nose--and oh! such a squint!--whose duty it was to
open the door of the reception-room, at which I stood to receive the
guests as they arrived, was positively proud of his unfortunate
disfigurement, and every time he opened the door he flashed his weirdly
set eyes upon me to such an extent that I felt myself unintentionally
squinting at every guest I shook hands with.
When dinner was served a huge looking-glass was flung at my feet, where
it shattered into a thousand fragments with a tremendous crash, giving
one a shock so far removed from any superstitious feeling as to act on
one as an appetiser before dinner.
Then whilst everybody else is enjoying his dinner without let or
hindrance, the poor Chairman has to hold himself prepared for various
surprises. Telegrams of all sorts and descriptions were handed to me.
But perhaps the most interesting of all the postal and telegraph
deliveries brought me during the dinner was a letter from my old and
valued friend "'Arry" of _Punch_, who had accepted an invitation, and
was to have proposed the health of the Chairman, but unfortunately was
laid up with a sore throat:
"Try and make my kind and would-be hosts understand that as 'Arry
would say, there is 'no kid about this.' I enclose a few doggerel
verses penned painfully on a pad perched on a pillow, which--if you
can read 'em--you are welcome to do so.
"My elbow's sore
And so no more
At present, from yore
Old friend (and bore)
"E. J. MILLIKEN."
Here is the "painfully-penned" doggerel:--
"13 _Jany._, 1894.
"THE LOST (VOCAL) CHORDS.
"Lying to-day on my pillow, I am weary and ill at ease,
And the Gargles fail to soothe me,
And the Inhalations tease. I know not what is the matter;
To swallow is perfect pain,
And my Vocal Chords seem palsied!--
Shall I ever use them again?
"So I _can't_ propose your health, friend,
Or drink to the 'Thirteen's' luck.
_I_ must dine on--Eucalyptus,
And Sulphur, or some such muck.
_I_ have no Salt to be spilling;
_My_ only knife is a spoon;
And I have not the smallest notion
If there is, or isn't, a Moon!
"But I picture you on your legs, there,
And the 'Thirteens' ranged around;
And I feel I _could_ sound your praises,
If these Vocal Chords _would_ sound.
But I know that in guttural gurgling
The point of my jokes you would miss;
If I tried to lead the cheers, friend,
_My_ 'hooray' you'd take for a hiss.
"So 'tis just as well as it is, friend,
And doubtless 'the other chap'
Will do you the fullest justice;
So I'll turn and try for a nap.
But before I resume my gargle,
And my throttle with unguents rub,
I'll drink--in a glass of Thirteen port--
To the health of the 'Thirteen Club.'
"It may be that some bright Thirteenth
They may ask me to Dinner again;
It may be I then shall be able
To speak without perfect pain.
It may be my unstrung larynx
May speak once again _with words_:
For the present, excuse me--along of
My poor Lost (Vocal) Chords!!!"
I was relieved and amused to find one present even a little more
embarrassed than myself. He was a rotund, happy-looking man of the
world, and he had to sit isolated during part of the dinner, as his
guests were afraid to attend the uncanny banquet. However, the
Secretary, being a man of resource, ordered two of the cross-eyed
attendants to fill the vacant places. I shall never forget the face of
the poor man sandwiched between them. During the course of the dinner
the black-edged business card of an "Undertaker and Funeral Furnisher,"
of Theobald's Road, Bloomsbury, was brought to me. Under the impression
that he had supplied the coffin-shaped salt-cellars, and wished to be
paid for them, I sent to enquire his business, whereupon the undertaker
sent me in the following telegram he had just received from Cambridge:
"Call upon Harry Furniss this evening Holborn Restaurant Thirteen
Club Dinner for orders _re_ funeral arrangements."
[Illustration: COFFINS, SIR!]
The receiver of the telegram, I learnt from his card, had been in
business fifty-four years, but evidently this was the first time he had
been the victim of this Theodore Hookish joke. I called the funeral
furnisher in. Unobserved by the green-tied guests and the cross-eyed
waiters, he walked through the banqueting hall, and as soon as he
arrived at the chair, black-gloved, hat in hand, with the ominous foot
rule projecting from the pocket of his funereal overcoat, I stood up and
introduced him to the company, read the telegram, and invited him to go
round the tables and take the orders. Whether it was that the man of
coffins met the gaze of any particularly cross-eyed waiter, or was
overcome by the laughter called forth by my solemn request--an outbreak
foreign to the ears of a gentleman of his calling--I know not, but he
promptly vanished. Later in the evening a request came from him for a
present of one of the coffin-shaped salt-cellars, and no doubt the one I
sent him will adorn his window for another fifty-four years, to the
delight of the Cambridge undergraduates whose little joke was so
successful.
[Illustration: THE CHAIRMAN WILL BE PLEASED TO SPILL SALT WITH YOU.
_From the "St. James's Budget."_]
In place of the old-fashioned formula, "The Chairman will be pleased to
drink wine with the gentlemen on his right," and then on his left, the
Toastmaster had to announce that the Chairman would be pleased to "spill
salt" with those on his right, etc.; but force of habit was too strong,
and "drink wine" came out, and although this was corrected, it was
strange that in some cases the guests held up their glasses and did not
spill salt. Of course, throwing salt over the shoulder was prohibited;
that superstitious operation would have been sufficient to disqualify
any member.
Beside each member was placed a looking-glass, and in the course of the
evening it went forth that "The Chairman will be pleased to shiver
looking-glasses with the members," and smash! smash! went the
mercury-coated glass all over the tables.
It then fell to me to present each of the thirteen chairmen with a
pen-knife, refusing of course the customary coin in return. I was
presented with a ferocious-looking knife, with a multiplicity of blades
and other adjuncts, which I treasure as a memento of the dinner.
[Illustration: A KNIFE I WAS PRESENTED WITH.]
These are a few trifles I had to deal with in addition to the usual
toasts, and I fervently trust it may never again be my lot to be called
upon to take the chair at a "unique banquet" entailing such surprises
and shocks and so many speeches:
I proposed the loyal toast as follows:--
The
Queen
Prince
and
Princess
of
Wales
and
rest
of
the
Royal
Family
13
I had a point to make, but forgot it (oh, those squinting waiters!),
showing that 1894 was a very unlucky year. However, any mathematician
could prove that '94 = 9 + 4 = 13. _Q.E.D._ I might also have really
utilised only thirteen words in giving the toast of the evening, as
follows:
Enemies
of
Superstition
Ignorance
and
Humbug
drink
success
to
The
London
Thirteen
Club
-------
13
-------
-------
On my way to the Thirteen Club Dinner I met a well-known _Punch_ artist,
also a keen man of the world. I invited him. He started with horror.
"Not for worlds! I _am_ superstitious--never more so than at this
moment. Why, do you know that this has been a most unlucky month with
me? Everything has gone wrong, and I'll tell you why. The other night I
woke up and went to my bedroom window to see what kind of a night it
was--rash, stupid fool that I was! What do you think I saw?" "A
burglar?" "Not a bit of it--I wouldn't have cared a pin for a brace of
'em. I saw the new moon through glass! That's why everything's gone
wrong with me. What a fool I was!" "What a fool you _are_!" I
ejaculated, as I jumped into a hansom for room 13, recalling to mind
that my fellow-worker was not the only humorist who has been
superstitious.
Albert Smith, the well-known author and entertainer, was very
superstitious, and a curious incident has been related me by a friend
who was present one night when Smith startled his friends by a most
extraordinary instance of his fear of the supernatural. It was in the
smoking-room of the old Fielding Club, on New Year's Eve, 1854. The
bells were just ringing in the New Year when Smith suddenly started up
and cried, "We are thirteen! Ring, ring for a waiter, or some of us will
die before the year is out!" Before the attendant arrived the fatal New
Year came in, and Smith's cup of bitterness was full to overflowing. Out
of curiosity my friend wrote the names of all those present in his
pocket-book. Half of them were ordered to the Crimean War, and fought
throughout the campaign. No doubt Smith eagerly scanned the lists of
killed and wounded in the papers, for as the waiter did not arrive in
time to break the unlucky number, one of them was sure to meet his
death. However, all the officers returned safe and sound, and most of
them are alive now. The first man to depart this life was Albert Smith
himself, and this did not happen until six and a half years afterwards.
Correspondence from the superstitious and anti-superstitious poured in
upon me. But I select a note received by the President some time before
the dinner as the most interesting:
"CHRISTIANIA, NORWAY.
"SIR,--I see you are going to have an anniversary dinner on the
13th of this month, and I take the liberty to send you the
following:
"In 1873, March 20th, I left Liverpool in the steamship _Atlantic_,
then bound for New York. On the 13th day, the 1st of April, we went
on the rocks near Halifax, Nova Scotia. Out of nearly 1,000 human
beings, 580 were frozen to death or drowned.
"The first day out from Liverpool some ladies at my table
discovered that we were thirteen, and in their consternation
requested their gentleman-companion to move to another table. Out
of the entire thirteen, I was the only one that was saved. I was
asked at the time if I did not believe in the unlucky number
thirteen. I told them I did not. In this case the believers were
all lost and the unbeliever saved.
"Out of the first-cabin passengers saved, I was one of the thirteen
saved.
"At the North-Western Hotel, in Liverpool, there can be found
thirteen names in the book of passengers that left in the
_Atlantic_ on the 20th of March, 1873, for New York; amongst them
my own. Every one of those passengers except myself were lost.
"Now, if these memorandums about the number thirteen--by one that
does not believe in it--is of any interest to you, it will please
me very much.
"I am, yours very truly,
"N. BRANDT.
"9, KONGENS GADE."
It is absurd to say that I have been unlucky since presiding at that
dinner. On the contrary, I have been most lucky--I have never presided
at another!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR.
Editors--Publishers--An Offer--Why I Refused it--The _Pall Mall
Budget_--_Lika Joko_--The _New Budget_--The Truth about my
Enterprises--_Au Revoir_!
Only the fortunate--or should we not rather say the unfortunate?--man
who has made up his mind to produce a journal of his own can have the
very faintest conception of the work and worry, the pains and penalties,
the hopes and fears, the anxiety and exasperation, involved in the
process. I have gone through it all, and perhaps something more than all
by comparison with other people in the same peculiar predicament. For
weeks before the promised periodical sees the light the unfortunate
proprietor feels himself to be a very Atlas supporting Heaven knows how
many cosmic schemes.
The first editor of my acquaintance was a little boy in knickerbockers,
with a lavish profusion of auburn locks, an old-fashioned physiognomy, a
wiry if diminutive frame, and a quick, nervous temperament, whose
youthful eyes had beheld the suns of fourteen summers.
My last editor is one whose physique would be commonly qualified by the
adjective _podgy_, of a full face, but with head somewhat depleted of
its capillary adornments, for which deprivation it has to thank the
snows of six-and-forty winters.
Our intimacy has been of long standing, for my first and last editor is
one and the same being--the present writer.
From the day that I, as a little schoolboy, seated on the uncompromising
school-form looked upon as a necessary adjunct to the inception of
knowledge, produced in MS. and for private circulation only my first
journalistic attempt, up to the present moment, I can confidently assert
that during my varied experience I never was brought into contact with
a more interesting set of men than those I have seen stretched upon the
editorial rack.
The primary requirements which tend to make up the composition of an
editor are good health, an impenetrably thick skin, and the best of
humour. Secondly, he must be able to command experience, a thirst for
work, and the power of application; and, thirdly, he must possess tact
and discretion. A universal and comprehensive knowledge of human nature
must also be his, for not only has he to be capable of judging and
humouring the overstrung men and women of talent with whom he
deals--those fragile, sensitive flowers from whom he extracts the honey
wherewith to gratify the palate of a journalistically epicurean
public--but he must also have a thorough knowledge of that public to
enable him to direct those who work for him, for they, shut up in their
studies and studios, may not realise that the man at the look-out has to
weather the storms of public opinion, of which they reck little if it be
that what they work at may be to their own liking, albeit unpalatable to
those whom they seek to feed.
Like poets, editors are born, not made. An editor may make a paper, but
a paper never made an editor. But as to the commercial success or
failure of a periodical, the editor is absolutely a nonentity. There are
two sides to the production of a periodical: one is the business side,
the other the editorial. The success or failure of a periodical depends
almost entirely upon the business manager.
One of the youngest and most successful newspaper proprietors once
called me a fool. I wrote and asked him why. We had an interview. He
said frankly: "You are a fool, in my opinion, for producing too good an
article for the money. The public does not appreciate good work, and you
will never make a commercial success of your paper. Your staff is too
good; your printing is too good; your paper is too good. I am a success
because I know where to buy paper cheap and sell it for a profit. I have
thirty publications, but their names, their contents, writing, or art I
never think about, nor does the public either. We ink something on the
paper, and sell it at so much a pound profit."
But I had nothing whatever to do with the commercial side of the
arrangements connected with ventures associated with my name. Ah! how
little the public know what goes on behind the scenes in the newspaper
world! If you stop a publication with which your name is associated,
everyone at once, very properly, dubs you a failure. As what? An editor,
of course. That is the mistake, the injustice. How many periodicals have
the most talked of publishers started and stopped? Scores of them. Yet
are they therefore failures? No, no more than the manager of a theatre
is who produces a piece which runs a night or two and comes off. He
still has his theatre, and other plays. So is it in the publishing
world.
It is the isolated editor, without the machinery of a big office, or the
head of the man of commerce,--if he stops, from whatever cause, his one
effort is the failure! The "successful publisher" stops a dozen new
ventures in the same time, and he is still considered successful. A
publisher is very much like a conjuror: he must start two or three
tricks, so that if one is likely to go wrong he can draw the attention
of the public off it by another, and the first is quickly dropped or
reintroduced under another name. My one mistake in publishing was that
having started a success, _Lika Joko_, I let it drop to take up another.
But let my confessions on this subject be brief and in order.
Before I had any notion of leaving _Punch_ I had conceived an idea for a
monthly magazine to be called _Lika Joko; Harry Furniss's Monthly_, and
had already had a number of drawings engraved, specimen copies printed,
and had gone to great expense in the preliminary work. Of course, the
_Punch_ men were to be the chief contributors, and Mr. E.J. Milliken was
writing a great deal, and Mr. Bernard Partridge was illustrating for me.
Shortly afterwards I retired from the staff of _Punch_. I was then
approached by the proprietors of an influential daily and weekly paper
to edit a sixpenny high-class weekly, and they offered to put down
L50,000 at once. This I would have willingly accepted, but it so
happened that just at that time Mr. Astor reconstructed the _Pall Mall
Budget_, regardless of expense--an extravagance with which no other
paper could compete. In these circumstances I declined the offer. I soon
found many friends to support me if I would start a paper connected
solely with my name, but wishing to have the largest risk myself I took
the largest share (over L5,000 in cash), and allowed a few to join me.
It was decided to drop the idea of a monthly and make it a humorous
weekly.
LIKA JOKO.
That name was originated some years before by Mr. Burnand and myself
jointly in a chaffing conversation. It was universally connected with
me, but as it has been said that I had no right to use it, I here
reproduce a document that settles any doubt on that point:
"This is to certify that Harry Furniss has the sole right to use
the name of 'Lika Joko.' That he is at liberty to use it in any way
he wishes, and no one else can adopt or utilise the name without
his permission.
"(Signed) F.C. BURNAND, Editor of _Punch_.
"PHILIP LESLIE AGNEW,
"For the Proprietors."
Wishing to be certain that the name "Lika Joko" was a wise one, I was
advised to consult the leading editor of our largest publishing house.
Strange to say, when I called he had on his wall rows of titles of
publications under consideration. He looked at mine, and thought the
matter over, then shook hands and told me there was a fortune in the
title alone.
A few years afterwards I heard to my dismay that the same great man
declared the title I had selected was a fatal mistake!
The first friend I consulted about capital suggested L20,000. He was
very rich, but said that he would only put cash in equal to what I
myself would. I put down L5,000, and he followed suit. I subsequently
added more. The rest of the capital was found by various friends.
My friends subsequently said that as I supplied the editorial brains I
ought not to have supplied the largest share of the capital!
I was requested by my friends to introduce a business man, accustomed to
publishing, and leave all business arrangements to him. My friends
brought in two. Yet I am held responsible for the business arrangements
made!
Few new periodicals have caused more interest. The scene at the railway
stations and book-stalls was unparalleled. We could not print quick
enough to supply the demand. 140,000 copies went off in a few
days--which, for a threepenny humorous journal, is a record.
It is said I wrote the journal myself. I never wrote one line in it from
the first number to the last. I had the best writers money could
procure, and I venture to say it was the best-written paper of its class
ever produced in England.
It is said I illustrated it all myself!
I had in the _first number_ alone George du Maurier, Bernard Partridge,
Fred Barnard, A. C. Corbould, W. Ralston, J. F. Sullivan, G. Ashton, W.
D. Almond, J. B. Yeats, and myself. Ten artists!--eight of whom have
contributed to _Punch_. In subsequent numbers I added work by Sir Frank
Lockwood, Arthur Hopkins, Gordon Browne, W. Maud, W. F. Thomas, C.
Richardson, Louis Wain, G. Montbard, James Greig, "Rab," Max Cowper, J.
H. Roberts, Rene Bull, S. Adamson, J. E. Donnison, W. H. Overend,
Charles Burton Barber, A. T. Elwes, Hal Hurst, F. Miller, E. F. Skinner,
George Morrow, J. Jellicoe, A. Greenbank, and others--in all nearly
forty artists, and this in six months!
I have another inaccuracy to nail to the counter of Dame False Rumour's
shop. That I stopped _Lika Joko_ because it was a failure.
The facts about this incident are brief and instructive.
Mr. Astor stopped his artistic weekly, the _Pall Mall Budget_, suddenly.
It so happened it was printed in the same office as _Lika Joko_. This
very paper, which had prevented me accepting the editorship of the
proposed new sixpenny weekly paper, and had driven me into publishing a
threepenny weekly, was "put to bed" (to use a printer's phrase) week
after week side by side with mine. I was sent for one Saturday morning.
The expensive sixpenny child was to die that day. Could I not adopt it?
There was a chance--splendid circulation, splendid returns for
advertisements.
Why then does Mr. Astor discontinue it?
Because, I was told, Mrs. Astor had just died,--it was so dear to her
that Mr. Astor felt he could not continue it, for purely sentimental
reasons.
This was pathetically explained to me. It was so natural. Yet why should
such a splendid paper cease when I had a large proprietor with capital
waiting to start one? I was the man. So I was told, and so I believed,
and so I proved to be. Not a moment was to be lost. I was with Sir
George Lewis. Has Mr. Astor any objection? He thought certainly not.
I therefore engaged the same staff, the same printers, the same paper
and machines were used. The paper, with the exception that the title was
changed from the _Pall Mall_ to the _New Budget_, came out in four
days--the following Wednesday morning. Sir William Ingram was the first
to purchase a copy. The whole edition was sold out before sunset. I have
been assured that this was the smartest journalistic feat on record.
I then sought the people whom I had advised not to oppose this very
paper, but they were on the Continent. I would bring it out and await
their return. They did return. But it unfortunately happened that in the
meantime they had speculated in one of those American imported "booms"
of illustrated literature and lost!
_Lika Joko_ came out too, and I immediately met all the members of my
company and placed both papers before them, my _New Budget_ and our
joint property _Lika Joko_. The result was the following announcement in
the next week's issue of the latter:
"A FAREWELL FABLE.
"Once upon a time there was a wealthy shipowner who possessed one of the
best vessels on the seas. Her name was the _Pall Mall Budget_. Week
after week she left port, well manned, well rigged, laden with
passengers, and made a prosperous voyage. No vessel in her own line was
better built and appointed, and gradually she drew away those people who
once had travelled by her rivals, and carried them herself.
"And then, one day, without assigning any reason, the shipowner forbade
her ever again to leave port, and nothing could shake his resolve.
"Now, there was at this time also afloat a merry little passenger boat
which made a weekly cruise in waters only occasionally entered by the
larger vessel, and her name was _Lika Joko_. No sooner did the news of
the great shipowner's decision reach the ears of the captain of the
_Lika Joko_ than he made all sail for port, drew up alongside of the
_Pall Mall Budget_, and boarded her.
"Then he asked her captain and crew, who were all regretful at the loss
of their vessel, if they would put to sea again in a vessel built by
himself, as like the _Pall Mall Budget_ as might be, but, if anything,
swifter, more trim, with later improvements to make the passage easier
and more entertaining to all on board. And they agreed.
"Forthwith he set about giving his orders, and so heartily did everyone
work that a week later, in fair weather, and to the surprise of all
spectators, this vessel, which was christened the _New Budget_, crossed
the harbour bar and made one of the best passages on record, leaving the
competing craft far behind, and carrying on board not only the old
passengers of the _Pall Mall Budget_, but those of the _Lika Joko_ as
well, and many new ones. 'Henceforth,' said the captain of the _Lika
Joko_, who had now become the captain of the _New Budget_, 'we will set
our sails every Thursday morning.'"
Little did I think the change was a fable. I had not long to wait to
find I had been utterly deceived. According to Mr. Astor, his reason for
his stopping his expensive paper was not as stated! As soon as I
discovered this I called together my friends, and as they would have to
supply a huge capital to carry on the _Budget_, and as I had been
deceived, it was arranged that they should retire with their unused
capital, and I carried on the _New Budget_ with my own capital of
L6,000. The paper cost me L100 a day--L700 each number. I had the best
artists, the best writers, the best printers--the same as Mr. Astor--but
here comes in my difficulty. As I had amalgamated _Lika Joko_ with the
_New Budget_, I was legally bound to the contract made with the
advertising manager. That contract worked out in nearly every case at 40
per cent. commission for advertisement. That finished me. Was that
editorial or business? I think the latter. Was I to blame? I think not.
As the American millionaire had discovered before me that it was
impossible to give a shillingsworth for sixpence (although I ran it for
a longer period than he did), I ceased its publication. Few papers, it
has been said, were more admired than this artistic and refined _New
Budget_, and I take this opportunity of denying that it was in any way a
failure compared with papers in existence for years still losing money,
and I am sincerely proud of my contribution to the publishing of
periodicals. But had I not been deceived, and dropped _Lika Joko_, that
paper would now have been a splendid property.
I confess that the financial loss, severe to a professional man who has
made it all by his own hand, was not what upset me. I am not a
gambler--I never bet a shilling in my life--but I thought better of my
fellow-men than they deserve. What did trouble me was that I never was
given credit for my pluck. I was, and I am still, grossly misrepresented
by a certain section of journalists. When the _Pall Mall Budget_ was
discontinued, was it written down a failure? No, certainly not. A
pathetic excuse was manufactured. That excuse was as clever as it was
untrue, as I discovered to my cost.
I think the man who stepped in single-handed, saved the _Pall Mall
Budget_ as I did to the benefit of contributors, printers, and
paper-makers, who then strangled his own child-paper and gave all the
money at his disposal to keep the _Budget_ going, who was deserted by
his Company in consequence--they taking with them their remaining
capital--who fought on, and lost thousands and thousands of pounds more
of his own money, who worked night and day for months without any
encouragement, any return, who discovered he had been deceived all
round, and then, finding this, paid everyone every penny and said
nothing, but turned round and went on with his own professional work, is
surely a man at least to be respected; certainly not the man to be
belittled, misrepresented, and maligned by brother workers.
I have other matters to confess regarding my experiences of
publishing--but they will keep. I am anxious, however, that the facts
recorded in this chapter should be known, as a warning to others who
like myself, being a successful editor, imagine that editing can make a
commercial success without a commercial pilot. I paid for my
experience--I do not regret it.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.