THE WALLYPUG'S OWN
It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast
fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of
his own.
[Illustration: THE DOCTOR-IN-LAW WAS EDITOR]
After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it _The Wallypug's
Own_, as the name was considered a striking one. The first number was
to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all
of my guests were busily engaged in its production.
"There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at
last," hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted
the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of
new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the
subject of "The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and
Treatment"; while the great attraction of the number was an historical
article by the Wallypug on the subject of "Julius Caesar," illustrated
by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was
presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it
for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were
traced from a picture which appeared in the _Boys' Own Paper_ some
time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that.
[Illustration: FROM "THE WALLYPUG'S OWN"]
The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this:
"_Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to
conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and
when he arrived he said in Latin_, 'Veni, vidi, vici,' _which
means, 'I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle', which has
been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who
lived here then, didn't understand Latin, and so they went for
Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to
drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans
were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore
firemen's helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame
the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of
combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses,
that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went
back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus,
to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was
stabbed, cried out in Latin_, 'Et tu, Brute,' _which means 'Oh, you
brute,' and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of
Julius Caesar landing in Britain--that's him waving things, and
calling to the others to come on._"
The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions,
and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in
stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize,
L1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and
fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of
scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct
answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to
write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a
half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes
but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell
your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to
send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a
letter in reply similar to this:
"You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live
till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and
when you can't you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young
as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You
will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will
probably wish you hadn't."
The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in
his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your
watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was
to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law
would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as
follows:
"You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of
sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you
will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken."
The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the
point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it,
and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that
rate.
This is what he sent:
[Illustration]
THE NEW ROBIN.
The North wind doth blow,
And we ought to have snow,
If 'tis true what my nurse used to sing,
Poor thing.
Yet up in yon tree
Robin Redbreast I see
As happy and gay as a king,
Poor thing.
Look! as true as I live,
There's a boy with a sieve
And a stick and a long piece of string,
Poor thing.
But the bird doesn't care,
For I hear him declare,
"Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring,
Poor thing."
"What ridiculous cheek,"
And he turns up his beak
Ere he tucks his head under his wing,
Poor thing.
[Illustration]
The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish
more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him
to contribute an article on "Fashions for the Month by Our Paris
Model." He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the
proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles.
Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the
stupid blunders which he made:
"_Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be
trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up
with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers
and fruit._
"_Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower
or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a
striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is
considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck
round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear
particularly 'chic.'_
"_Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed,
but for the economically inclined--a last year's clothes basket
trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper
at 1-3/4d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would
form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an
aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be
mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue
to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families._
_"I hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. The
most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material._
_"A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of
shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the
selvedge edge."_
There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all
understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things
made great fun of.
You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I
allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience
of my own.
The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think
that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow,
here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it
HE AND I AND IT.
Oh HE was a Publisher
And I was a Publishee,
And IT was a book
Which the Publisher took
And pub-l-i-s-h-e-d.
The Publisher's smile it was bland,
'Twas a beautiful smile to see,
As again and again
He took pains to explain
How large my "half-profits" _might_ be.
IT had a capital sale,
Well reviewed by the _Times_ and _D.T._,
And a great many more,
So my friends by the score
Came around to congratulate me.
[Illustration: IT HAD A CAPITAL SALE]
And people I scarcely had met,
Just "dropped in" to afternoon tea;
While my aunt, who's a swell,
_Now_ remembered quite well
That I was related to she.
And girls that were rich and plain,
Or pretty and poor, did agree
To let me suppose
That I'd but to propose
To be m-a-r-r-i-e-d.
[Illustration: MY FRIENDS ALL TURNED TAIL]
Yes, HE published IT in the Spring,
That season of frolic and glee;
"In the Autumn," HE said,
Gravely nodding his head,
"'Half-profits' will mean L.S.D."
But Autumn has come and gone,
And I'm so to say, "All at sea,"
For HE sobs and HE sighs
And HE turns up his eyes
When I ask what my "half-profits" be.
There are "charges for this, and for that,"
And for "things that HE couldn't foresee,"
And HE "very much fears,"
So he says twixt his tears,
"That there won't be a penny for me."
Oh! rich is the Publisher
And poor is the Publishee;
Of the profits of IT
I shall touch not a bit,
They are all swallowed up by HE.
The girls now all treat me with scorn--
Aunt turns up her n-o-s-e,
And my friends all turn tail,
While my book they assail
And call rubbish and twad-d-l-e.
Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to
rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story
in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the
Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though,
for it really was too bad for anything.
It was called "The Viscount's Revenge," and in it several characters
who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all
through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and
General Mary Jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be
dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair
and blue eyes, and in another she was described as "darkly, proudly
handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night."
[Illustration: THE LITERARY HOUSEMAID]
At the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in
the magazine, and, as all of the Rhymester's were too long, the
Doctor-in-Law decided to write one himself, which he called
COMMERCIAL PROBLEMS.
Why doth the little busy bee
Not charge so much an hour,
For gathering honey day by day
From every opening flower?
And can you tell me why, good sir,
The birds receive no pay
For singing sweetly in the grove
Throughout the livelong day?
Why flow'rs should bloom about the place
And give their perfume free,
In so unbusinesslike a way,
Seems very odd to me.
I cannot meet a single cow
That charges for her milk,
And though they are not paid a sou,
The silkworms still spin silk.
While ducks and hens, I grieve to find,
Lay eggs for nothing too,
Which is a most ridiculous
And foolish thing to do.
These problems often puzzle me;
I lie awake at night,
And think and think what I can do
To set this matter right.
I've found a way at last, and though
It may at first seem funny,
It cannot fail--'tis this: _You_ pay,
And _I'll_ collect the money.