(_By St. Anthony Hope Carter._)
The redeeming feature of the morning batch of letters was a short note
from Lady MICKLEHAM. Her ladyship (and ARCHIE) had come back to town,
and the note was to say that I might call, in fact that I _was_ to call,
that afternoon. It so happened that I had two engagements, which seemed
to make that impossible, but I spent a shilling in telegrams, and at
4.30 (the hour DOLLY had named) was duly ringing at the Mickleham town
mansion.
"I'm delighted you were able to come," was DOLLY'S greeting.
"I wasn't able," I said; "but I've no doubt that what I said in the two
telegrams which brought me here will be put down to your account."
"No one expects truth in a telegram. The Post-Office people themselves
wouldn't like it."
DOLLY was certainly looking at her very best. Her dimples (everybody has
heard of DOLLY'S Dimples--or is it DOLLY DIMPLE; but after all it
doesn't matter) were as delightful as ever. I was just hesitating as to
my next move in the Dialogue, which I badly wanted, for I had promised
my editor one by the middle of next week. The choice lay between the
dimples and a remark that life was, after all, only one prolonged
telegram. Just at that moment I noticed for the first time that we were
not alone.
Now that was distinctly exasperating, and an unwarrantable
breach of an implied contract.
"Two's company," I said, in a tone of voice that was meant to
indicate something of what I felt.
"So's three," said DOLLY, laughing, "if the third doesn't count."
"_Quod est demonstrandum._"
"Well, it's like this. I observed that you've already published
twenty or so 'Dolly Dialogues.'" (The dimples at this period were
absolutely bewitching, but I controlled myself.) "So it occurred to
me that it was my turn to earn an honest penny. Allow me to
introduce you. Mr. BROWN, Mr. CARTER--Mr. CARTER, Mr. BROWN."
I murmured that any friend of Lady MICKLEHAM'S was a friend of mine,
whereat Mr. BROWN smiled affably and handed me his card, from which I
gathered that he was a shorthand writer at some address in Chancery
Lane. Then I understood it all. I had exploited DOLLY. DOLLY was now
engaged in the process of exploiting me.
"I hope," I observed rather icily, "that you will choose a respectable
paper."
"You don't mean that."
"Perhaps not. But if we are to have a Dialogue, perhaps we might begin.
I have an engagement at six."
"Telegraph, and put the contents down to my account."
I noticed now that DOLLY had a pile of papers on her table, and that she
was playing with a blue pencil.
"Yes, Lady MICKLEHAM," I said, in the provisional way in which judges
indicate to counsel that they are ready to proceed.
"Well, I've been reading some of the Press Notices of the Dialogues, Mr.
CARTER."
I trembled. I remembered some of the things that had been said about
DOLLY and myself, which hardly lent themselves, it appeared to me, to
this third party procedure.
"I thought," pursued DOLLY, "we might spend the time in discussing the
critics."
"I shall be delighted, if in doing that we shall dismiss the reporter."
"Have you seen this? It's from a Scotch paper--Scottish? you
suggest--well, Scottish. 'The sketches are both lively and elegant, and
their lightness is just what people want in the warm weather.'"
"It's a satisfaction to think that even our little breezes are a source
of cool comfort to our fellow-creatures."
"Here's another criticism. 'It's a book which tempts the reader----'"
"It must have been something you said."
"'----a book which tempts the reader to peruse from end to end when once
he picks it up.'"
"'Read at a Sitting: A Study in Colour.'"
"Please, Mr. BROWN, don't take that down."
"Thank you, Lady MICKLEHAM," said I. "_Litera scripta manet._"
"You are not the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. CARTER, and you must
break yourself of the habit."
"The next cutting?"
"The next says, 'For Mr. CARTER, the hero or reporter----'"
"It's a calumny. I don't know a single shorthand symbol."
"Let me go on. 'Reporter of these polite conversations, we confess we
have no particular liking.'"
"If you assure me you did not write this yourself, Lady MICKLEHAM, I
care not who did."
"That, Mr. BROWN," said DOLLY, in a most becoming frown,
"must _on no account_ go down."
"When you have finished intimidating the Press, perhaps you
will finish the extract."
"'His cynicism,'" she read, "'is too strained to commend him to
ordinary mortals----'"
"No one would ever accuse you of being in that category."
"'----but his wit is undeniable, and his impudence delicious.'
Well, Mr. CARTER?"
"I should like the extract concluded." I knew the next sentence
commenced--"As for DOLLY, Lady MICKLEHAM, she outdoes all the
revolted daughters of feminine fiction."
Then an annoying thing happened. ARCHIE'S voice was heard,
saying, "DOLLY, haven't you finished that Dialogue yet? We
ought to dress for dinner. It'll take us an hour to drive there."
So it had been all arranged, and ARCHIE knew for what I had been
summoned.
Yet there are compensations. DOLLY sent the Dialogue to the only
paper which I happen to edit. I regretfully declined it. But the
fact that she sent it may possibly explain why I have found it so
easy to give this account of what happened on that afternoon when
I sent the two telegrams.
* * * * *
The Cry of Chaos.
"_Vive l'Anarchie?_"--Fools! Chaos shrieks in that cry!
_Did_ Anarchy live soon would Anarchists die.
One truth lights all history, well understood,--
Disorder--like Saturn--devours its own brood.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNEARNED INCREMENT.
_Experienced Jock (during preliminary canter, to Stable-boy, who has
been put up to make the running for him)._ "NOW, YOUNG 'UN, AS SOON AS
WE'RE OFF, YOU GO TO WORK AND MAKE THE PACE A HOT 'UN!"
_Stable-boy (Irish)._ "BEGORRA THIN OI'M THINKIN' IT'S MESELF _ROIDES_
THE RACE, AND YOU POCKETS ALL THE CREDIT O' WINNIN'!"]
* * * * *
"ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"
["Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE, as First Commissioner of Works, informed
the house that 'no series of historical personages could be complete
without the inclusion of CROMWELL,' and though he had no sum at his
disposal for defraying the cost of a statue this year, Sir WILLIAM
HARCOURT, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had promised to make the
necessary provision in the estimates for next year."--_Spectator._]
Room for the Regicide amongst our Kings?
Horrible thought, to set some bosoms fluttering!
The whirligig of time does bring some things
To set the very Muse of History muttering.
Well may the brewer's son, uncouth and rude,
Murmur--in scorn--"I hope I don't intrude!"
Room, between CHARLES the fair and unveracious,--
Martyr and liar, made comely by VANDYKE,--
And CHARLES the hireling, callous and salacious?
Strange for the sturdy Huntingdonian tyke
To stand between Court spaniel and sleek hound!
Surely that whirligig hath run full round!
Exhumed, cast out!--among our Kings set high!
(Which were the true dishonour NOLL might question.)
The sleek false STUARTS well might shrug and sigh Make room--for
_him_?
A monstrous, mad suggestion! O Right
Divine, most picturesque quaint craze, How art thou fallen upon evil
days!
What will White Rose fanatics say to this?
Stuartomaniacs will ye not come wailing;
Or fill these aisles with one gregarious hiss
Of angry scorn, one howl of bitter railing?
To think that CHARLES the trickster, CHARLES the droll,
Should thus be hob-a-nobbed by red-nosed NOLL!
Methinks I hear the black-a-vised one sneer "Ods bobs,
Sire, this is what I've long expected!
If they had _him_, and not his statue, here
Some other 'baubles' might be soon ejected.
Dark STRAFFORD--I mean SALISBURY--_might_ loose
More than his Veto, did he play the goose.
"He'd find perchance that Huntingdon was stronger
Than Leeds with all its Programmes.
NOLL might vow That Measure-murder should go on no longer;
And that Obstruction he would check and cow.
Which would disturb MACALLUM MORE'S composure;
The Axe is yet more summary than the Closure!
"As for the Commons--both with the Rad 'Rump'
And Tory 'Tail' alike he might deal tartly.
He'd have small mercy upon prig or pump;
I wonder what he'd think of B-WL-S and B-RTL-Y?
Depend upon it, NOLL would purge the place
Of much beside Sir HARRY and the Mace."
Your Majesties make room there--for a Man!
Yes, after several centuries of waiting,
It seems that Smug Officialism's plan
A change from the next Session may be dating.
You tell us, genial HERBERT GLADSTONE, that you
_May_ find the funds, next year, for CROMWELL'S Statue!
Room for a Big One! Well the STUART pair
May gaze on that stout shape as on a spectre.
Subject for England's sculptors it is rare
To find like that of England's Great Protector;
And he with bigot folly is imbued,
Who deems that CROMWELL'S Statute _can_ intrude!
[Illustration: "ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"
_Cromwell._ "NOW THEN, YOUR MAJESTIES, I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"]
* * * * *
"OH, YOU WICKED STORY!"
(_Cry of the Cockney Street Child._)
Speaking of our Neo-Neurotic and "Personal" Novelists, JAMES PAYN says:
"None of the authors of these works are storytellers." No, not in his
own honest, wholesome, stirring sense, certainly. But, like other
naughty--and nasty-minded--children, they "tell stories" in their own
way; "great big stories," too, and "tales out of school" into the
bargain. Having, like the Needy Knife-grinder, no story (in the true
sense) to tell, they tell--well, let us say, tara-diddles! Truth is
stranger than even _their_ fiction, but it is not always so "smart" or
so "risky" as a loose, long-winded, flippant, cynical and personal
literary "lie which is half a truth," in three sloppy, slangy, but
"smart"--oh, yes, decidedly "smart"--volumes!
* * * * *