Hear you have been seen about again with GENIALITY. Poor GENIALITY, it
may be admitted, is often something of a fool when he is by himself,
but when you and he begin to hunt in couples, you are a deadly
pair. I once knew a St. Bernard dog--you will perceive the analogy
by-and-by--who lived on terms of friendship with a Skye terrier.
By himself _Rufus_ was a mild and inoffensive giant. He adored the
house-cat, and used to help her, in a ponderous way, with the care
of her numerous family. Many a time have I seen him placidly extended
before a fire, while puss used his shaggy body as a sleeping box, and
once he was observed to help that anxious tabby-mother with the toilet
of her kittens by licking them carefully all over. At every lick of
_Rufus's_ huge prehensile tongue a kitten was lifted bodily into the
air, only, however, to descend washed and unharmed to the ground. But
out of doors, in the society of _Flick, Rufus's_ whole nature seemed
to change. He became a demon-exterminator of cats. Led on by his
yelping little friend, he chased them fiercely to their last retreats,
and, if he caught them, masticated them without mercy. Once too, on
a morning that had been appointed for a big covert-shoot, I noticed
this strangely assorted pair come into the breakfast-room panting and
dirty. They were not usually afoot before breakfast. What could their
condition mean? A flustered keeper arrived shortly afterwards and
explained everything. "Them two dogs o' yourn, Sir," he said, "the big
'un and the little 'un, 'ave run all the coverts through. There's not
a pheasant left in 'em. They're sailin' all over the country."
[Illustration]
The truth was that _Flick_ had organised the expedition with
extraordinary secrecy and cunning. He had persuaded _Rufus_ to join
him, and the result was that we shot forty pheasants instead of the
three hundred on which we had counted.
Now, my dear PLAU, I merely record this little story, and leave you
to apply it. But I may remind you of incidents that touch you more
nearly. Do you remember GORTON? Many years ago GORTON went to Oxford
with a brilliant reputation. Every triumph that the University could
confer was held to be within his grasp. His contemporaries looked
upon him as a marvellous being, who was destined to rise to the top
of whatever tree he felt disposed to climb. He was really a delightful
fellow, fresh, smiling, expansive, amusing, and his friends all
worshipped him. Of course he went in for the Hertford. His success was
certain; it was merely a question as to who should be second. On the
evening before the examination began, there was a strange commotion in
GORTON's College. GORTON, who was supposed to have been reading hard,
was found at about twelve o'clock in the quad in his nightgown. He was
on all fours, and was engaged in eating grass and roaring out ribald
snatches of Latin songs in a shrill voice. When the porter approached
him he said he was a hippogriff, and that in another ten minutes he
intended to fly to Iffley and back in half a second. He was carried
up to bed raving horribly. On the following day he grew calmer, and
in a week he was himself again. But by that time, of course, the
examination was over, and DUBBIN was soon afterwards announced as the
successful competitor.
Judging the past by what I know now, I cannot doubt that the madness
of GORTON was what patrons of the prize-ring call a put-up job, for
he never afterwards showed the smallest symptom of lunacy. He had not
worked sufficiently, and knew he must fail. So he became temporarily
insane, to avoid defeat and maintain his reputation for scholarship.
He left Oxford without taking a degree, and owing money right and
left--to tradesmen, to his friends, to his tutor. Then he disappeared
for some years.
Next he suddenly cropped up again in Ireland. A small borough
constituency had been suddenly declared vacant. GORTON happened to be
staying in the hotel. He promptly offered himself as a candidate, and
plunged with extraordinary vigour into the contest. The way that man
fooled a simple-hearted Irish electorate was marvellous. They came to
believe him to be a millionnaire, a king of finance, a personage at
whose nod Statesmen trembled, a being who mingled with all that was
highest and best in the land. He cajoled them, he flattered them, he
talked them round his little finger, he rollicked with them, opened
golden vistas of promise to everyone of them, smiled at their wives,
defied the Lord Lieutenant, and was elected by a crushing majority
over a native pork-merchant who had nothing but his straightforward
honesty to commend him. Of course there was a petition, and equally
of course GORTON was unseated. Then came the reckoning. GORTON had
apparently intimated that two of the great London political Clubs were
so warmly interested in his candidature as to have undertaken to pay
all his expenses. But when application was made to these institutions,
their secretaries professed a complete and chilling ignorance of
GORTON, and the deputation from Ballywhacket, which had gone to London
in search of gold, had to return empty-handed to their native place,
after wasting a varied stock of full-flavoured Irish denunciation on
the London pavements. But GORTON was undaunted. He actually published
an address in which he lashed the hateful ingratitude of men
who betrayed their friends with golden words, and abandoned them
shamefully in the hour of defeat. But never, so he said, would he
abandon the betrayed electors of Ballywhacket. Others might shuffle,
and cheat and cozen, but he might be counted upon to remain firm,
faithful, and incorruptible amidst the seething waves of political
turpitude.
Having issued this, he vanished again, and was heard of no more for
six or seven years. Then he gradually began to emerge again. He was
engaged in the completion of an immense work of genealogical research,
which was intended to cast an entirely new light on many obscure
incidents of English history. For this he solicited encouragement--and
subscriptions. He enclosed with his appeals some specimen pages, which
appeared to promise marvels of industry and research. His preface
was a wonderful essay, of which a HAYWARD would scarcely have
been ashamed. In this way he gathered a large amount of money from
historical enthusiasts with more ardour than knowledge, and from old
friends who, knowing his real ability, believed that he had at last
determined to justify the opinions of him which they had always held
and expressed. It is unnecessary to add that not another line was
written. For several years ill health was supposed to hinder him. We
read piteous stories of his struggles against the agonies of neuralgia
and rheumatics, some of us threw good money after bad in the effort to
relieve the imaginary sufferer; but to this day the proofs of PERKIN
WARBECK's absolute claim to the throne, and of JACK CADE's indubitable
royal descent remain in the scheming brain of GORTON. Eventually the
poor wretch did die in penury, but over that part of his story I need
not linger. The irony of fate ordained that when he was actually in
want he should wish to be thought in possession of a large income.
I knew a Clergyman once--at least I had every reason to believe him
to be a lawfully ordained Minister of the Church of England. He was
taken on as temporary Curate in a remote district. His life, while he
remained there, was exemplary. He was untiring in good works; the poor
adored him, the well-to-do honoured him. We all thought him a pattern
of unselfish and almost primitive saintliness, and when he departed
from us he went with a silver inkstand, a dining-room clock and a
purse of sovereigns, subscribed for by the parish. The odour of his
sanctity had scarcely evaporated before we discovered, with horror,
that the man had never been ordained at all! He was an impostor,
masquerading under an assumed name, but while he was with us he did
good and lived a flawless life. These matters puzzle me. Perhaps you,
my dear PLAU, can explain.
Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
A RATHER LARGE ORDER.--Amongst the many suggested plans for housing
the collection of pictures once offered by Mr. TATE to the Nation, is
a scheme for turning the Banqueting-hall at Whitehall to a useful and
good account. As a thoughtful Artist has observed in this connection,
"At this moment the spacious building is tied round the necks of the
Members of the United Service Institution like a white elephant."
* * * * *
A MONEY-LENDER said he had never been inside a Church since the day
he looked in at hymn-time, and heard them singing, "With one per cent.
let all the earth," and he didn't want to hear anymore.
* * * * *
TRYING TO THE TEMPER.--Mrs. R. says nothing can induce her to eat
cross buns, as they are sure to disagree with her.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS AT THE LAW COURTS.