A LETTER TO T. SMITH, ESQ., SCENE-PAINTER AND TRAGEDIAN AT THE
AMPHITHEATRE.
My dear Smith,--Your complaint of my unwarrantable detention of the
manuscript which, some months ago, you were kind enough to forward for
my perusal, is founded upon a total misconception of the nature of my
interim employments. I have not, as you somewhat broadly insinuate, been
prigging bits of your matchless rhetoric in order to give currency and
flavour to my own more maudlin articles. The lemon-peel of Smith has not
entered into the composition of any of my literary puddings; neither
have I bartered a single fragment of your delectable facetiae for gold. I
return you the precious bundle as safe and undivulged as when it was
committed to my custody, and none the worse for the rather extensive
journey which it has materially contributed to cheer.
The fact is, that I have been sojourning this summer utterly beyond the
reach of posts. To you, whose peculiar vocation it is to cater for the
taste of the public, I need hardly remark that novelty is, now-a-days,
in literature as in every thing else, an indispensable requisite for
success. People will not endure the iteration of a story, however well
it may be told. The same locality palls upon their ears, and that style
of wit which, last year, was sufficient to convulse an audience, may, if
continued for another session, be branded with the infamy of slang. Even
our mutual friend Barry, whose jests are the life of the arena, is quite
aware of this unerring physiological rule. He does not depend upon
captivating the galleries for ever by his ingenious conundrum of getting
into an empty quart bottle. His inimitable "be quiet, will ye?" as the
exasperated Master of the Ring flicks off an imaginary fly from his
motley inexpressibles, is now reserved as a great point for rare and
special occasions; and he now lays in a new stock of witticisms at the
commencement of each campaign, as regularly as you contract for
lamp-black and ochre when there is an immediate prospect of a grand new
military spectacle. The want of attention to this rule has, I fear,
operated prejudicially upon the fortunes of our agile acquaintance,
Hervio Nano, whom I last saw devouring raw beef in the character of a
human Nondescript. Harvey depended too much upon his original popularity
as the Gnome Fly, and failed through incessant repetition. The public at
length would not stand the appearance of that eternal blue-bottle. The
sameness of his entomology was wearisome. He should have varied his
representations by occasionally assuming the characters of the Spectre
Spider, or the Black Tarantula of the Tombs.
Now you must know, that for the last three years I have been making my
living exclusively out of the Swedish novels and the Countess Ida von
Hahn-Hahn. To Frederike Bremer I owe a prodigious debt of gratitude; for
she has saved me the trouble--and it is a prodigious bore--of inventing
plots and characters, as I was compelled to do when the Rhine and the
Danube were the chosen seats of fiction. For a time the literary plough
went merrily through the sward of Sweden; nor can I, with any degree of
conscience, complain of the quality of the crop. But, somehow or other,
the thing was beginning to grow stale. People lost their relish for the
perpetual raspberry jam, tart-making, spinning, and the other processes
of domestic kitchen economy which formed our Scandinavian staple;
indeed, I had a shrewd suspicion from the first that the market would
soon be glutted by the introduction of so much linen and flannel. It is
very difficult to keep up a permanent interest in favour of a heroine in
homespun, and the storeroom is but a queer locality for the interchange
of lovers' sighs. I therefore was not surprised, last spring, to find my
publishers somewhat shy of entering into terms for a new translation of
"_Snorra Gorvundstrul; or, The Barmaid of Strundschensvoe_," and, in
the true spirit of British enterprise, I resolved to carry my flag
elsewhere.
On looking over the map of the world, with the view of selecting a novel
field, I was astonished to find that almost every compartment was
already occupied by one of our literary brethren. There is in all Europe
scarce a diocese left unsung, and, like romance, civilisation is making
rapid strides towards both the east and the west. In this dilemma I
bethought me of Iceland as a virgin soil. Victor Hugo, it is true, had
made some advances towards it in one of his earlier productions; but, if
I recollect right, even that daring pioneer of letters did not penetrate
beyond Norway, and laid the scene of his stirring narrative somewhere
about the wilds of Drontheim. The bold dexterity with which he has
transferred the Morgue from Paris to the most artic city of the world,
has always commanded my most entire admiration. It is a stroke of
machinery equal to any which you, my dear Smith, have ever introduced
into a pantomime; and I question whether it was much surpassed by the
transit of the Holy Chapel to Loretto. In like manner I had intended to
transport a good deal of ready-made London ware to Iceland; or
rather--if that will make my meaning clearer--to take my idea both of
the scenery and characters from the Surrey Zoological Gardens, wherein
last year I had the privilege of witnessing a superb eruption of Mount
Hecla. On more mature reflection, however, I thought it might be as well
to take an actual survey of the regions which I intend henceforward to
occupy as my own especial domain; and--having, moreover, certain reasons
which shall be nameless, for a temporary evacuation of the metropolis--I
engaged a passage in a northern whaler, and have only just returned
after an absence of half a year. Yes, Smith! Incredible as it may appear
to you, I have actually been in Iceland, seen Hecla in a state of
conflagration; and it was by that lurid light, while my mutton was
boiling in the Geyser, that I first unfolded your manuscript, and read
the introductory chapters of "SILAS SPAVINHITCH; _or, Rides around the
Circus with Widdicomb and Co._"
I trust, therefore, that after this explanation, you will discontinue
the epithet of "beast," and the corresponding expletives which you have
used rather liberally in your last two epistles. When you consider the
matter calmly, I think you will admit that you have suffered no very
material loss in consequence of the unavoidable delay; and, as to the
public, I am quite sure that they will devour Silas more greedily about
Christmas, than if he had made his appearance, all booted and spurred,
in the very height of the dog-days. You will also have the opportunity,
as your serial is not yet completed, of reflecting upon the justice of
the hints which I now venture to offer for your future guidance--hints,
derived not only from my observation of the works of others, but from
some little personal experience in that kind of popular composition;
and, should you agree with me in any of the views hereinafter expressed,
you may perhaps be tempted to act upon them in the revision and
completion of your extremely interesting work. First, then, let me say a
few words regarding the purpose and the nature of that sort of
_feuilleton_ which we now denominate the serial.
Do not be alarmed, Smith. I am not going to conglomerate your faculties
by any Aristotelian exposition. You are a man of by far too much
practical sense to be humbugged by such outworn pedantry, and your own
particular purpose in penning Silas is of course most distinctly
apparent. You want to sack as many of the public shillings as possible.
That is the great motive which lies at the foundation of all literary or
general exertion, and the man who does not confess it broadly and openly
is an ass. If your study of Fitzball has not been too exclusive, you may
perhaps recollect the lines of Byron:--
"No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame;
Low may they sink to merited contempt,
And scorn remunerate the mean attempt!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard!"
Now these, although they have passed current in the world for some
thirty years, are in reality poor lines, and the sentiment they intend
to inculcate is contemptible. Byron lived long enough to know the value
of money, as his correspondence with the late Mr Murray most abundantly
testifies--indeed, I question whether any author ever beat him at the
art of chaffering. If it be a legitimate matter of reproach against an
author that he writes for money, then heaven help the integrity of every
profession and trade in this great and enlightened kingdom! What else,
in the name of common sense, should he write for? Fame? Thank you! Fame
may be all very well in its way, but it butters no parsnips; and, if I
am to be famous, I would much rather case my renown in fine linen than
in filthy dowlas. Let people say what they please, the best criterion of
every article is its marketable value, and no man on the face of this
earth will work without a reasonable wage.
Your first and great purpose, therefore, is to make money, and to make
as much as you can. But then there is another kind of purpose, which, if
I was sure you could comprehend me, I should call the intrinsic one, and
which must be considered very seriously before you obtrude yourself upon
the public. In other words, what is to be the general tendency of your
work? "Fun," I think I hear you reply, "and all manner of sky-larking."
Very good. But then, my dear friend, you must consider that there is a
sort of method even in grimacing. There is a gentleman connected with
your establishment, who is popularly reported to possess the inestimable
talent of turning his head inside out. I never saw him perform that
cephalic operation, but I have heard it highly spoken of by others who
have enjoyed the privilege. But this it is obvious, though a very
admirable and effective incident, could hardly be taken as the
groundwork of a five-act play, or even a three-act melodrama; and, in
like manner, your fun and sky-larking must have something of a positive
tendency. I don't mean to insinuate that there is no story in Silas
Spavinhitch. He is, if I recollect aright, the younger son of a
nobleman, who falls in love--at Astley's, of course--with Signora
Estrella di Canterini, the peerless Amazon of the ring. He forsakes his
ancestral halls, abjures Parliament, and enlists in the cavalry of the
Hippodrome. In that gallant and distinguished corps he rises to an
unusual rank, utterly eclipses Herr Pferdenshuf, more commonly known by
the title of the Suabian acrobat--wins the heart of the Signora by
taming Centaur, the fierce Arabian stallion; and gains the notice and
favour of royalty itself, by leaping the Mammoth horse over nineteen
consecutive bars. Your manuscript ends at the point where Spavinhitch,
having accidentally discovered that the beautiful Canterini is the
daughter of Abd-el-Kader by a Sicilian princess, resolves to embark for
Africa with the whole chivalry of the Surrey side, and, by driving the
French from Algiers, to substantiate his claim upon the Emir for his
daughter's hand. There is plenty incident here; but, to say the truth, I
don't quite see my way out of it. Are you going to take history into
your own hands, and write in the spirit of prophecy? The experiment is,
to say the least of it, dangerous; and, had I been you, I should have
preferred an earlier period for my tale, as there obviously could have
been no difficulty in making Spavinhitch and his cavaliers take a
leading part in the decisive charge at Waterloo.
Your serial, therefore, so far as I can discover, belongs to the
military-romantic school, and is intended to command admiration by what
we may call a series of scenic effects. I an not much surprised at this.
Your experience has lain so much in the line of gorgeous spectacle, and,
indeed, you have borne a part in so many of those magnificent tableaux
in which blue fire, real cannon, charging squadrons, and the
transparency of Britannia are predominant, that it was hardly to be
expected that the current of your ideas would have flowed in a humbler
channel. At the same time, you must forgive me for saying, that I think
the line is a dangerous one. Putting tendency altogether aside, you
cannot but recollect that a great many writers have already
distinguished themselves by narratives of military adventure. Of these,
by far the best and most spirited is Charles Lever. I don't know whether
he ever was in the army, or bore the banner of the Enniskillens; but I
say deliberately, that he has taken the shine out of all military
writers from the days of Julius Caesar downwards. There is a rollocking
buoyancy about his battles which to me is perfectly irresistible. In one
chapter you have the lads of the fighting Fifty-fifth bivouacking under
the cork-trees of Spain, with no end of spatchcocks and sherry--telling
numerous anecdotes of their early loves, none the worse because the
gentleman is invariably disappointed in his pursuit of the
well-jointured widow--or arranging for a speedy duel with that ogre of
the army, the saturnine and heavy dragoon. In the next, you have them
raging like lions in the very thick of the fight, pouring withering
volleys into the shattered columns of the Frenchmen--engaged in
single-handed combats with the most famous marshals of the empire, and
not unfrequently leaving marks of their prowess upon the persons of
Massena or Murat. Lever, in fact, sticks at nothing. His heroes
indiscriminately hob-a-nob with Wellington, or perform somersets at
leap-frog over the shoulders of the astounded Bonaparte; and, though
somewhat given to miscellaneous flirtation, they all, in the twentieth
number, are married to remarkably nice girls, with lots of money and
accommodating papas, who die as soon as they are desired. It may be
objected to this delightful writer--and a better never mixed a
tumbler--that he is, if any thing, too helter-skelter in his narratives;
that the officers of the British army do not, as an invariable rule, go
into action in a state of _delirium tremens_; and that O'Shaughnessy, in
particular, is rather too fond of furbishing up, for the entertainment
of the mess, certain stories which have been current for the last fifty
years in Tipperary. These, however, are very minor points of criticism,
and such as need not interfere with our admiration of this light lancer
of literature, who always writes like a true and a high-minded
gentleman.
Now, my dear Smith, I must own that I have some fear of your success
when opposed to such a competitor. You have not been in the army--that
is, the regulars--and I should say that you were more conversant in
theory and in practice with firing from platforms than firing in
platoons. I have indeed seen you, in the character of Soult, lead
several desperate charges across the stage, with consummate dramatic
effect. Your single combat with Gomersal as Picton, was no doubt a
masterpiece of its kind; for in the course of it you brought out as many
sparks from the blades of your basket-hilts, as might have served in the
aggregate for a very tolerable illumination. Still I question whether
the style of dialogue you indulged in on that occasion, is quite the
same as that which is current on a modern battle-field. "Ha! English
slave! Yield, or thou diest!" is an apostrophe more appropriate to the
middle ages than the present century; and although the patriotism of the
following answer by your excellent opponent is undeniable, its propriety
may be liable to censure. Crossing the stage at four tremendous strides,
the glorious Gomersal replied, "Yield, saidst thou? Never! I tell thee,
Frenchman, that whilst the broad banner of Britain floats over the
regions on which the day-star never sets--while peace and plenty brood
like guardian angels over the shores of my own dear native isle--whilst
her sons are brave, and her daughters virtuous--whilst the British lion
reposes on his shadow in perfect stillness--whilst with thunders from
our native oak we quell the floods below--I tell thee, base satellite of
a tyrant, that an Englishman never will surrender!" In the applause
which followed this declaration, your remark, that several centuries
beheld you from the top of a canvass pyramid, was partially lost upon
the audience; but to it you went tooth and nail for at least a quarter
of an hour; and I must confess that the manner in which you traversed
the stage on your left knee, parrying all the while the strokes of your
infuriated adversary, was highly creditable to your proficiency in the
broadsword and gymnastic exercises.
But all this, Smith, will not enable you to write a military serial. I
therefore hope, that on consideration you will abandon the Algiers
expedition, and keep Silas in his native island, where, if you will
follow my advice, you will find quite enough for him to do in the way of
incident and occupation.
Now let us return to the question of tendency. Once upon a time, it was
a trite rule by which all romance writers were guided, that in the
_denoument_ of their plots, virtue was invariably rewarded, and vice as
invariably punished. This gave a kind of moral tone to their writings,
which was not without its effect upon our grandfathers and grandmothers,
many of whom were inclined to consider all works of fiction as direct
emanations from Beelzebub. The next generation became gradually less
nice and scrupulous, demanded more spice in their pottage, and attached
less importance to the prominence of an ethical precept. At last we
became, strictly speaking, a good deal blackguardised in our taste.
Ruffianism in the middle ages bears about it a stamp of feudality which
goes far to disguise its lawlessness, and even to excuse its immorality.
When a German knight of the empire sacks and burns some peaceful and
unoffending village--when a Bohemian marauder of noble birth bears off
some shrieking damsel from her paternal castle, having previously
slitted the weasand of her brother, and then weds her in a subterranean
chapel--or when a roaring red-bearded Highlander drives his dirk into a
gauger, or chucks a score of Sassenachs, tied back to back, with a few
hundredweight of greywacke at their heels, into the loch--we think less
of the enormity of the deeds than of the disagreeable habits of the
times. It does not follow that either German, Bohemian, or Celt, were
otherwise bad company or disagreeable companions over a flagon of
Rhenish, a roasted boar, or a gallon or so of usquebae. But when you come
to the Newgate Callendar for subjects, I must say that we are getting
rather low. I do not know what your feelings upon the subject may be,
but I, for one, would certainly hesitate before accepting an invitation
to the town residence of Mr Fagin; neither should I feel at all
comfortable if required to plant my legs beneath the mahogany in company
with Messrs Dodger, Bates, and the rest of their vivacious associates.
However fond I may be of female society, Miss Nancy is not quite the
sort of person I should fancy to look in upon of an evening about
tea-time; and as for Bill Sykes, that infernal dog of his would be quite
enough to prevent any advances of intimacy between us. In fact, Smith,
although you may think the confession a squeamish one, I am not in the
habit of selecting my acquaintance from the inhabitants of St Giles, and
on every possible occasion I should eschew accepting their
hospitalities.
I have, therefore, little opportunity of judging whether the characters
depicted by some of our later serialists, are exact copies from nature
or the reverse. I have, however, heard several young ladies declare them
to be extremely natural, though I confess to have been somewhat puzzled
as to their means of accurate information. But I may be allowed _en
passant_ to remark, that it seems difficult to imagine what kind of
pleasure can be derived from the description of a scene, which, if
actually contemplated by the reader, would inspire him with loathing and
disgust, or from conversations in which the brutal alternates with the
positive obscene. The fetid den of the Jew, the stinking cellar of the
thief, the squalid attic of the prostitute, are not haunts for honest
men, and the less that we know of them the better. Such places no doubt
exist--the more is the pity; but so do dunghills, and a hundred other
filthy things, which the imagination shudders at whenever they are
forced upon it,--for the man who willingly and deliberately dwells upon
such subjects, is, notwithstanding all pretext, in heart and soul a
nightman! Don't tell me about close painting after nature. Nature is
not always to be painted as she really is. Would you hang up such
paintings in your drawing-room? If not, why suffer them in print to lie
upon your drawing-room tables? What are Eugene Sue and his English
competitors, but coarser and more prurient Ostades?
Oh, but there is a moral in these things! No doubt of it. There is a
moral in all sin and misery, as there is in all virtue and happiness.
There is a moral every where, and the veriest bungler cannot fail to
seize it. But is that a reason why the minds of our sons and daughters
should be polluted by what is notoriously the nearest thing to contact
with absolute vice--namely, vivid and graphic descriptions of it by
writers of undenied ability? Did _Life in London_, or the exploits of
Tom, Jerry, and Logic, make the youth of the metropolis more staid, or
inspire them with a wholesome horror of dissipation? Did the memoirs of
Casanova ever reclaim a rake--the autobiography of David Haggart convert
an aspiring pickpocket--or the daring feats of Jack Sheppard arrest one
candidate for the gallows? These are the major cases; but look at the
minor ones. What are the favourite haunts of the heroes in even the most
blameless of our serials? Pot-houses--cigariums--green-rooms of
theatres--hells--spunging-houses--garrets--and the scullery! Nice and
improving all this--isn't it, Smith?--for the young and rising
generation! No need now for surreptitious works, entitled, "A Guide to
the Larks of London," or so forth, which used formerly to issue from the
virgin press of Holywell Street. Almost any serial will give hints
enough to an acute boy, if he wishes to gain an initiative knowledge of
subjects more especially beneath the cognisance of the police. They will
at least guide him to the door with the red lamp burning over it, and
only one plank betwixt its iniquity and the open street. And all this is
for a moral! Heaven knows, Smith, I am no Puritan; but when I think upon
the men who now call themselves the lights of the age, and look back
upon the past, I am absolutely sick at heart, and could almost wish for
a return of the days of Mrs Radcliffe and the Castle of Otranto.
Now, my dear fellow, as I know you to be a thoroughly good-hearted
man--not overgiven to liquor, although your estimate of beer is a just
one--a constant husband, and, moreover, the father of five or six
promising olive-branches, I do not for a moment suppose that you are
likely to inweave any such tendencies in your tale. You would consider
it low to make a prominent character of a scavenger; and although some
dozen idiots who call themselves philanthropists would brand you as an
aristocrat for entertaining any such opinion, I think you are decidedly
in the right. But there is another tendency towards which I suspect you
are more likely to incline. You are a bit of a Radical, and, like all
men of genius, you pique yourself on elbowing upwards. So far well. The
great ladder, or rather staircase of ambition, is open to all of us, and
it is fortunately broader than it is high. It is not the least too
narrow to prevent any one from approaching it, and after you have taken
the first step, there is nothing more than stamina and perseverance
required. But then I do not see that it is necessary to be perpetually
plucking at the coat-tails, or seizing hold of the ankles of those who
are before. Such conduct is quite as indecorous, and indeed ungenerous,
as it would be to kick back, and systematically to smite with your heel
the unprotected foreheads of your followers. Nor would I be perpetually
pitching brickbats upwards, in order to show my own independence; or
raising a howl of injustice, because another fellow was considerably
elevated above me. In the social system, Smith, as it stands at present,
has always stood, and will continue to stand long after Astley's is
forgotten, it is not necessary that every one should commence at the
lowest round of the staircase. Their respective fathers and progenitors
have secured an advantageous start for many. They have achieved, as the
case may be, either rank or fame, or honour, or wealth, or credit--and
these possessions they are surely entitled to leave as an inheritance of
their offspring. If we want to rise higher in the social scale than
they did, we must make exertions for ourselves; if we are indolent, we
must be contented to remain where we are, though at imminent risk of
descending. But you, I take it for granted, and indeed the most of us
who owe little to ancestral enterprise and are in fact men of the
masses, are struggling forward towards one or other of the good things
specified above, and no doubt we shall in time attain them. In the
meanwhile, however, is it just--nay, is it wise--that we should mar our
own expectancies, and depreciate the value of the prizes which we covet,
by abusing not only the persons but the position of those above us? How
are they to blame? Are they any the worse that they stand, whether
adventitiously or not, at a point which we are endeavouring to reach? Am
I necessarily a miscreant because I am born rich, and you a martyr
because you are poor? I do not quite follow the argument. If there is
any one to blame, you will find their names written on the leaves of
your own family-tree; but I don't see that on that account you have any
right to execrate me or my ancestors.
I am the more anxious to caution you against putting any such rubbish
into your pages, because I fear you have contracted some sort of
intimacy with a knot of utilitarian ninnyhammers. The last time I had
the pleasure of meeting you at the Ducrow's Head, there was a
seedy-looking, ill-conditioned fellow seated on your right, who, between
his frequent draughts of porter, (which you paid for,) did nothing but
abuse the upper classes as tyrants, fools, and systematical grinders of
the poor. I took the liberty, as you may remember, of slightly differing
from some of his wholesale positions; whereupon your friend, regarding
me with a cadaverous sneer, was pleased to mutter something about a
sycophant, the tenor of which I did not precisely comprehend. Now,
unless I am shrewdly mistaken, this was one of the earnest men--fellows
who are continually bawling on people to go forward--who set themselves
up for popular teachers, and maunder about "a oneness of purpose,"
"intellectual elevation," "aspirations after reality," and suchlike
drivel, as though they were absolute Solons, not blockheads of the
muddiest water. And I was sorry to observe that you rather seemed to
agree with the rusty patriot in some of his most sweeping strictures,
and evinced an inclination to adopt his theory of the coming Utopia,
which, judging from the odour that pervaded his apostolic person and
raiment, must bear a strong resemblance to a modern gin-shop. Now,
Smith, this will not do. There may be inequalities in this world, and
there may also be injustice; but it is a very great mistake to hold that
one-half of the population of these islands is living in profligate ease
upon the compulsory labour of the other. I am not going to write you a
treatise upon political economy; but I ask you to reflect for a moment,
and you will see how ludicrous is the charge. This style of thinking,
or, what is worse, this style of writing, is positively the most
mischievous production of the present day. Disguised under the specious
aspect of philanthropy, it fosters self-conceit and discontent, robs
honest industry of that satisfaction which is its best reward, and,
instead of removing, absolutely creates invidious class-distinctions.
And I will tell you from what this spirit arises--it is the working of
the meanest envy.
There never was a time when talent, and genius, and ability, had so fair
a field as now. The power of the press is developed to an extent which
almost renders exaggeration impossible, and yet it is still upon the
increase. A thousand minds are now at work, where a few were formerly
employed. We have become a nation of readers and of writers. The
rudiments of education, whatever may be said of its higher branches, are
generally distributed throughout the masses--so much so, indeed, that
without them no man can hope to ascend one step in the social scale.
This is a great, though an imperfect gain, and, like all such, it has
its evils.
Of these not the least is the astounding growth of quackery. It assails
us every where, and on every side; and, with consummate impudence, it
asserts its mission to teach. Look at the shoals of itinerant lecturers
which at this moment are swarming through the land. No department of
science is too deep, no political question too abstruse, for their
capacity. They have their own theories on the subjects of philosophy and
religion--of which theories I shall merely remark, that they differ in
many essentials from the standards both of church and college--and these
they communicate to their audience with the least possible regard to
reservation. Had you ever the pleasure, Smith, of meeting one of these
gentlemen amongst the amenities of private life? I have upon various
occasions enjoyed that luxury; and, so far as I am capable of judging,
the Pericles of the platform appeared to me a coarse-minded, illiterate,
and ignorant Cockney, with the manners and effrontery of a bagman. Such
are the class of men who affect to regenerate the people with the
tongue, and who are listened to even with avidity, because impudence,
like charity, can cover a multitude of defects; and thus they stand,
like so many sons of Telamon, each secure behind the shelter of his
brazen shield. As to the pen-regenerators, they are at least equally
numerous. I do not speak of the established press, the respectability
and talent of which is undeniable; but of the minor crew, who earn their
bread partly by fostering discontent, and partly by pandering to the
worst of human passions. The merest whelp, who can write a decent
paragraph, considers himself, now-a-days, entitled to assume the airs of
an Aristarchus, and will pronounce opinions, _ex cathedra_, upon every
question, no matter of what importance, for he too is a teacher of the
people!
This is the lowest sort of quackery; but there are also higher degrees.
Our literature, of what ought to be the better sort, has by no means
escaped the infection. In former times, men who devoted themselves to
the active pursuit of letters, brought to the task not only high talent,
but deep and measured thought, and an accumulated fund of acquirement.
They studied long before they wrote, and attempted no subject until they
had thoroughly and comprehensively mastered its details. But we live
under a new system. There is no want of talent, though it be of a
rambling and disjointed kind; but we look in vain for marks of the
previous study. Our authors deny the necessity or advantage of an
apprenticeship, and set up for masters before they have learned the
rudiments of their art, and they dispense altogether with reflection.
Few men now think before they write. The consequence is, that a great
proportion of our modern literature is of the very flimsiest
description--vivid, sometimes, and not without sparkles of genuine
humour; but so ill constructed as to preclude the possibility of its
long existence. No one is entitled to reject models, unless he has
studied them, and detected their faults; but this is considered by far
too tedious a process for modern ingenuity. We are thus inundated with a
host of clever writers, each relying upon his peculiar and native
ability, jesting--for that is the humour of the time--against each
other, and all of them forsaking nature, and running deplorably into
caricature.
These are the men who make the loudest outcry against the social system,
and who appear to be imbued with an intense hatred of the aristocracy,
and indeed with every one of our time-honoured institutions. This I know
has been denied; but, in proof of my assertion, I appeal to their
published works. Read any one of them through, and I ask you if you do
not rise from it with a sort of conviction, that you must search for the
cardinal virtues solely in the habitations of the poor--that the rich
are hard, selfish, griping, and tyrannical--and that the nobility are
either fools, spendthrifts, or debauchees? Is it so, as a general rule,
in actual life? Far from it. I do not need to be told of the virtue and
industry which grace the poor man's lot; for we all feel and know it,
and God forbid that it should be otherwise. But we know also that there
is as great, if not greater temptation in the hovel than in the palace,
with fewer counteracting effects from education and principle to
withstand it; and it is an insult to our understanding to be told, that
fortune and station are in effect but other words for tyranny,
callousness, and crime.
The fact is, that most of these authors know nothing whatever of the
society which they affect to describe, but which in truth they grossly
libel. Their starting-point is usually not a high one; but by dint of
some talent--in certain cases naturally great--and a vivacity of style,
joined with a good deal of drollery and power of bizarre description,
they at last gain a portion of the public favour, and become in a manner
notables. This is as it should be; and such progress is always
honourable. Having arrived at this point, not without a certain degree
of intoxication consequent upon success, our author begins to look about
him and to consider his own position--and he finds that position to be
both new and anomalous. On the one hand he has become a lion. The
newspapers are full of his praises; his works are dramatized at the
minor theatres; he is pointed at in the streets, and his publisher is
clamorous for copy. At small literary reunions he is the cynosure of all
eyes. And so his organ of self-esteem continues to expand day by day,
until he fancies himself entitled to a statue near the altar in the
Temple of Fame--not very far, perhaps, from those of Shakspeare, of
Spencer, or of Scott. One little drop of gall, however, is mingled in
the nectar of his cup. He does not receive that consideration which he
thinks himself entitled to from the higher classes. Peers do not wait
upon him with pressing invitations to their country-seats; nor does he
receive any direct intimation of the propriety of presenting himself at
Court. This appears to him not only strange but grossly unfair. He is
one of nature's aristocracy--at least so he thinks; and yet he is
regarded with indifference by the body of the class aristocrats! Why is
this? He knows they have heard of his name; he is convinced that they
have read his works, and been mightily tickled thereby; yet how is it
that they show no manner of thirst whatever for his society? In vain he
lays in scores of apple-green satin waistcoats, florid cravats, and a
wilderness of mosaic jewellery--in vain he makes himself conspicuous
wherever he can--he is looked at, to be sure; but the right hand of
fellowship is withheld. Gradually he becomes savage and indignant. No
man is better aware than he is, that not one scion of the existing
aristocracy could write a serial or a novel at all to be compared to
his; and yet Lord John and Lord Frederick--both of them literary men
too--do not insist upon walking with him in the streets, and never once
offer to introduce him to the bosom of their respective families! Our
friend becomes rapidly bilious; is seized with a moral jaundice; and
vows that, in his next work, he will do his uttermost to show up that
confounded aristocracy. And he keeps his vow.
Now, Smith, to say the least of it, this is remarkably silly conduct,
and it argues but little for the intellect and the temper of the man. It
is quite true that the English aristocracy, generally speaking, do not
consider themselves bound to associate with every successful candidate
for the public favour; but they neither despise him nor rob him of one
tittle of his due. The higher classes of society are no more exclusive
than the lower. Each circle is formed upon principles peculiar to
itself, amongst which are undoubtedly similarity of interest, of
position, and of taste; and it is quite right that it should be so. You
will understand this more clearly if I bring the case home to yourself.
I shall suppose that the success of Silas Spavinhitch is something
absolutely triumphant--that it sells by tens and hundreds of thousands,
and that the treasury of your publisher is bursting with the accumulated
silver. You find yourself, in short, the great literary lion of the
day--the intellectual workman who has produced the consummate
masterpiece of the age. What, under such circumstances, would be your
wisest line of conduct? I should decidedly say, to establish an account
at your banker's, enjoy yourself reasonably with your friends, make Mrs
Smith and your children as happy as possible, and tackle to another
serial without deviating from the tenor of your way. I would not, if I
were you, drop old acquaintances, or insist clamorously upon having new
ones. I should look upon myself, not as a very great man, but as a very
fortunate one; and I would not step an inch from my path to exchange
compliments with King or with Kaisar. Don't you think such conduct
would be more rational than quarrelling with society because you are not
worshipped as a sort of demi-god? Is the Duke of Devonshire obliged to
ask you to dinner, because you are the author of Silas Spavinhitch? Take
my word for it, Smith, you would feel excessively uncomfortable if any
such invitation came. I think I see you at a ducal table, with an
immense fellow in livery behind you, utterly bewildered as to how you
should behave yourself, and quite as much astounded as Abon Hassan when
hailed by Mesrour, chief of the eunuchs, as the true Commander of the
Faithful! How gladly would you not exchange these _souffles_ and
_salmis_ for a rump-steak and onions in the back-parlour of the Ducrow's
Head! Far rather would you be imbibing porter with Widdicomb than
drinking hermitage with his Grace--and O!--horror of horrors! you have
capsized something with a French name into the lap of the dowager next
you, and your head swims round with a touch of temporary apoplexy, as
you observe the snigger on the countenance of the opposite lackey, who,
menial as he is, considers himself at bottom quite as much of a
gentleman, and as conspicuous a public character as yourself.
And--mercy on me!--what would you make of yourself at a ball? You are a
good-looking fellow, Smith, and nature has been bountiful to you in
calf; but I would not advise you to sport that plum-coloured coat and
azure waistcoat of an evening. Believe me, that though you may pass
muster in such a garb most creditably on the Surrey side, there are
people in Grosvenor Square who will unhesitatingly pronounce you a
tiger. And pray, whom are you going to dance with? You confess to
yourself, whilst working on those relentless and impracticable kids,
that you do not know a single soul in the saloon except the man who
brought you there, and he has speedily abandoned you. That staid,
haughty-looking lady with the diamonds, is a Countess in her own right,
and those two fair girls with the auburn ringlets are her daughters, the
flower of the English nobility, and the name they bear is conspicuous in
history to the Conquest. Had you not better walk up to the noble matron,
announce yourself as the author of Silas Spavinhitch, and request an
introduction to Lady Edith or Lady Maude? You would just as soon consent
to swing yourself like Fra Diavolo on the slack-rope! And suppose that
you were actually introduced to Lady Maude, how would you contrive to
amuse her? With anecdotes of the back slums, or the green-room, or the
witticisms of medical students? Would you tell her funny stories about
the loves of the bagmen, or recreations with a migratory giantess in the
interior of a provincial caravan? Do you think that, with dulcet prattle
of this sort, you could manage to efface the impression made long ago
upon her virgin heart by that handsome young guardsman, who is now
regarding you with a glance prophetic of a coming flagellation? Surely,
you misguided creature, you are not going to expose yourself by dancing?
Yes, you are! You once danced a polka with little Laura Wilkins on the
boards at Astley's, and ever since that time you have been labouring
under the delusion that you are a consummate Vestris. So you claw your
shrinking partner round the waist, and set off, prancing like the pony
that performs a pas-seul upon its hinder legs; and after bouncing
against several couples in your rash and erratic career, you are
arrested by the spur of a dragoon, which rips up your inexpressibles,
lacerates your ankle, and stretches you on the broad of your back upon
the floor, to the intense and unextinguishable delight of the assembled
British aristocracy.
Or, by way of a change, what would you say to go down with your
acquaintance, Lord Walter, to Melton? You ride well--that is, upon
several horses, with one foot upon the crupper of the first, and the
other upon the shoulder of the fourth. But a hunting-field is another
matter. I think I see you attempting to assume a light and jaunty air in
the saddle; your long towsy hair flowing gracefully over the collar of
your spotless pink; and the nattiest of conical castors secured by a
ribband upon the head which imagined the tale of Spavinhitch. You have
not any very distinct idea of what is going to take place; but you
resolve to demean yourself like a man, and cover your confusion with a
cigar. The hounds are thrown into cover. There is a yelping and the
scouring of many brushes among the furze; a red hairy creature bolts out
close beside you, and, with a bray of insane triumph, you commence to
canter after him, utterly regardless of the cries of your
fellow-sportsmen, entreating you to hold hard. In a couple of minutes
more, you are in the middle of the hounds, knocking out the brains of
one, crushing the spine of another, and fracturing the legs of a third.
A shout of anger rises behind; no matter--on you go. Accidents will
happen in the best regulated hunting-fields--and what business had these
stupid brutes to get under your horse's legs? Otherwise, you are
undeniably a-head of the field; and won't you show those tip-top fellows
how a serialist can go the pace? But your delusion is drawing to an end.
There is a clattering of hoofs, and a resonant oath behind you--and
smack over your devoted shoulders comes the avenging whip of the
huntsman, frantic at the loss of his most favourite hounds, and
execrating you for a clumsy tailor. "Serve him right, Jem! Give it him
again!" cries the Master of the hounds--a very different person from
your old friend the Master of the Ring--as the scarlet crowd rushes by;
and again and again, with intensest anguish, you writhe beneath the
thong wielded by the brawny groom--and, after sufficient chastisement,
sneak home to anoint your aching back, and depart, ere the sportsmen
return, for your own Paddingtonian domicile.
Now, Smith, are you not convinced that it would be the height of folly
to expose yourself to any such unpleasant occurrences? To be sure you
are; and yet there are some dozen of men, no better situated than
yourself, who would barter their ears for the chance of being made such
laughingstocks for life. The innate good sense and fine feeling of the
upper classes, prevents these persons from assuming so extremely false
and ridiculous a position, and yet this consideration is rewarded by the
most foul and malignant abuse. It is high time that these gentlemen
should be brought to their senses, and be taught the real value of
themselves and of their writings. Personally they are objectionable and
offensive--relatively they are bores--and, in a literary point of view,
they have done much more to lower than to elevate the artistic standard
of the age. Their affectation of philanthropy and maudlin sentiment is
too shallow to deceive any one who is possessed of the ordinary
intellect of a man; and in point of wit and humour, which is their
stronghold, the best of them is far inferior to Paul de Kock, whose
works are nearly monopolized for perusal by the _flaneurs_ and the
_grisettes_ of Paris.
Take my advice then, and have nothing to say to the earnest and
oneness-of-purpose men. They are not only weak but wicked; and they will
lead you most lamentably astray. Let us now look a little into your
style, which, after all, is a matter of some importance in a serial.
On the whole, I like it. It is nervous, terse, and epigrammatic--a
little too high-flown at times; but I was fully prepared for that. What
I admire most, however, is your fine feeling of humanity--the instinct,
as it were, and dumb life which you manage to extract from inanimate
objects as well as from articulately-speaking men. Your very furniture
has a kind of automatonic life; you can make an old chest of drawers
wink waggishly from the corner, and a boot-jack in your hands becomes a
fellow of infinite fancy. This is all very pleasant and delightful;
though I think, upon the whole, you give us a little too much of it, for
I cannot fancy myself quite comfortable in a room with every article of
the furniture maintaining a sort of espionage upon my doings. Then as to
your antiquarianism you are perfect. Your description of "the old
deserted stable, with the old rusty harness hanging upon the old decayed
nails, so honey-combed, as it were, by the tooth of time, that you
wondered how they possibly could support the weight; while across the
span of an old discoloured stirrup, a great spider had thrown his web,
and now lay waiting in the middle of it, a great hairy bag of venom, for
the approach of some unlucky fly, like a usurer on the watch for a
spendthrift,"--that description, I say, almost brought tears to my eyes.
The catalogue, also, which you give us of the decayed curry-combs all
clogged with grease, the shankless besoms, the worm-eaten corn-chest,
and all the other paraphernalia of the desolate stable, is as finely
graphic as any thing which I ever remember to have read.
But your best scene is the opening one, in which you introduce us to the
aerial dwelling of Estrella di Canterini, in Lambeth. I do not wish to
flatter you, my dear fellow; but I hold it to be a perfect piece of
composition, and I cannot resist the temptation of transcribing a very
few sentences:--
"It was the kitten that began it, and not the cat. It isn't no use
saying it was the cat, because I was there, and I saw it and know it;
and if I don't know it, how should any body else be able to tell about
it, if you please? So I say again it was the kitten that began it, and
the way it all happened was this.
"There was a little bit, a small tiny string of blue worsted--no! I am
wrong, for when I think again the string was pink--which was hanging
down from a little ball that lay on the lap of a tall dark girl with
large lustrous eyes, who was looking into the fire as intently as if she
expected to see a salamander in the middle of it. Huggs, the old cat,
was lying at her feet, coiled up with her tail under her, enjoying, to
all appearance, a comfortable snooze: but she wasn't asleep, for all the
time that she was pretending to shut her eyes, she was watching the
movements of a smart little kitten, just six weeks old, who was pouncing
upon, and then letting go, like an imaginary mouse, a little roll of
paper, which, between ourselves, bore a strong resemblance to two or
three others which occupied a more elevated position, being, in fact,
placed in a festoon or sort of fancy-garland round the head of the dark
girl who was so steadfastly gazing into the fire. But this sort of thing
didn't last long; for the kitten, after making a violent pounce, shook
its head and sneezed, as if it had been pricked by a pin, which was the
case, and then cried mew, as much as to say, 'You nasty thing! if I had
known that you were going to hurt me, I wouldn't have played with you so
long; so go away, you greasy little rag!' And then the kitten put on a
look of importance, as if its feelings had been injured in the nicest
points, and then walked up demurely to Huggs, and began to pat her
whiskers, as if it wanted, which it probably did, to tell her all about
it. But Huggs didn't get up, or open her great green eyes, but lay still
upon the rug, purring gently, as though she were dreaming that she had
got into a dairy, and that there was nobody to interfere at all between
her and the bowls of cream. So the smart little kitten gave another pat,
and a harder one than the last, which might have roused Huggs, had it
not observed at that moment the little pink string of worsted. Now the
end of the little pink string reached down to within a foot of the
floor, so that the smart little kitten could easily reach it; so the
smart little kitten wagged its tail and stood up upon its hind-paws, and
caught hold of the little pink string by the end, and gave it such a
pull, that the worsted ball rolled off the girl's knee and fell upon the
head of Huggs, who made believe to think that it was a rat, and got up
and jumped after it, and the kitten ran too, and gave another mew, as
much as to say, that the worsted was its own finding out, and that Huggs
shouldn't have it at all. All this wasn't done without noise; so the
tall girl looked round, and seeing her worsted ball roll away, and Huggs
and the kitten after it, she said in a slightly foreign accent,
"'Worrit that Huggs!'
"All this while there was sitting at the other side of the fire, a young
girl, a great deal younger than the other; in fact, a little, very
little child, who was sucking a dried damson in her mouth, and looked as
if she would have liked to have swallowed it, but didn't do it, for fear
of the stone. Now Huggs was the particular pet of the little girl, who
wouldn't have her abused on any account, and she said,
"''Twor'n't Huggs, aunt Strelly, 'twore the kitten!'
" 'Eliza Puddifoot!' replied the other, in a somewhat raucous and
melo-dramatic tone--'Eliza Puddifoot! I is perticklarly surprised, I is,
that you comes for to offer to contradick me. I knows better what's what
than you, and all I says is, that there 'ere Huggs goes packing out of
the windor!'
"The child--she was a very little one--burst into a flood of tears."
Now, that is what I call fine writing, and no mistake. There is a
breadth--a depth--a sort of _chiaroscuro_, about the picture which
betrays the hand of a master, and shows how deeply you have studied in a
school which has no equal in modern, and never had a parallel in former
times.
Almost equal to this is your sketch of the soiree at Mr Grindlejerkin's,
which is written with a close observance of character, and, at the same
time, an ease and playfulness which cannot fail of attracting a large
share of the popular regard. Your hero, Mr Spavinhitch, has
distinguished himself so much by throwing a somerset through a blazing
hoop, that at last he receives the honour of an invitation to the
hospitalities of the Master of the Ring.
"I can tell you, that an uncommonly fine man Mr Grindlejerkin was, with
a stout Roman nose, only a little warty, and black whiskers curling
under his chin, and a smart little imperial that gave quite a cock to
his countenance, and made him altogether look a good deal like a hero.
He was dressed in bright bottle-green, was Mr Grindlejerkin--that is, in
so far as regarded his coat, which was garnished with large silver
buttons and a horse's head upon them: but his trousers were of a
light-blue colour, a little faded or so, and creased, as if they had
been sent out a good deal to the washing, and had come home without
having been pressed carefully through the mangle. He had evidently been
drinking, had Mr Grindlejerkin, for he leaned against the fireplace in a
sort of vibratory manner, as if he were not very sure of his own
equilibrium, and couldn't trust it. However, he did his best to welcome
Silas, which he did with an air of patronising affability, as if he
wished him to understand that he was not to be considered as letting
himself down by inviting a voltigeur to his table.
"'Now, Mr Spavinhitch,' said Mr Grindlejerkin, 'glad to see you, sir, or
any other rising member of the profession. May I perish of the
string-halt, sir, if I do not consider you an eminent addition to the
Ring! Your last vault through the hoops, sir, was extraordinary; upon my
credentials, quite! It reminded me much of my late esteemed friend
Goggletrumkins. Ah, what a man that was! Did you know Goggletrumkins, Mr
Spavinhitch?'
"Silas modestly repudiated that honour.
"'Ah, sir, you should have known him!' replied the stately Master of the
Ring. 'That was indeed a man, sir; the gem of the British arena. His
Life-guardsman Shaw, sir, was one of the finest things in nature: quite
statuesque, sir; it was enough to inspire a nation. You are, perhaps,
not aware, sir, that he used to sit as a model for the Wellington
statues?'
"'Indeed!' said Silas.
"'He did, sir,' continued Mr Grindlejerkin solemnly, 'and the boast of
Astley's now lives in imperishable marble. But I forgot: you do not know
my lady. Mrs Grindlejerkin, my cherub--Mr Spavinhitch, one of our most
distinguished recruits.'
"Mrs Grindlejerkin was a tall lady, with black treacly hair, a good deal
younger than her lord, to whom she had been only recently united. She
was married off the stage, which she had ornamented since she was three
years old, when she used to appear as a little fairy crawling out of
paste-board tulips, and frighten, by the magic of her rod, some older
imps in green, who used to shoulder their legs like muskets, and go
through all sorts of strange diabolical manoeuvres. Miss Clara Tiggs,
such was her virgin name, then rose to the rank of the angels, and might
be seen any evening flying across the stage with little gauze winglets
fastened to her back, by aid of which it is not likely that she could
have flown very far, if it had not been for the cross-wires and the cord
attached to her waist. But she looked very pretty, did Clara Tiggs, as
she fluttered from the side-wings like an exaggerated butterfly, and
rained down white paper flowers upon the heads of imploring lovers. But
she soon got too heavy for that business, and having no natural genius
for tragedy, and being rather too splayfooted for the ballet, and too
stiff-jointed for the hippodrome, she became one of those young ladies
in white, who always walk before the queens in melodramatic spectacles,
and who keep in pairs, and look like the most loving and affectionate
creatures in the world, because they always are holding one another's
hands. And it possibly might be this appearance of sisterly devotion
which induced Mr Grindlejerkin to pay his addresses to Miss Clara Tiggs;
for Miss Clara Tiggs never appeared in public except linked to Miss
Emily Whax, another nice young lady, who was always dressed in white,
and who carried around her neck a locket, which was supposed to contain
the hair of a certain officer who always took a considerable number of
tickets for her benefit. Such was Mrs Grindlejerkin, who now saluted Mr
Spavinhitch with a pleasant smile.
"'Clara, my own dear love,' said Mr Grindlejerkin after a pause, 'can
you tell me what we are to have for supper?'
"'La! Mr Grindlejerkin,' replied the lady, 'how should I know?
Sassengers and pettitoes, I suppose. It's very odd,' continued she,
addressing Silas--'it's very odd, but Mr Grindlejerkin always _does_ ask
me what he is to have for supper!'
"Silas didn't think it was odd at all, for the same idea had just been
floating through his mind; but as he did not think it would be right to
say so, he merely smiled, whereupon Mrs Grindlejerkin, who was a
good-natured body in the main, smiled too, and Mr Grindlejerkin began to
smile, but checked himself, and didn't, because it might have been
thought that he was letting down his dignity. So he contented himself
with ringing the bell, and directed the servant-girl who answered it,
rather ferociously, to bring him a tumbler of rum-and-water.
"'Ha! Bingo, my buck, how are you?' cried the Master of the Ring to the
principal clown, who now entered the apartment, and who, being a
personage of much consideration and importance in the theatrical
circles, might be addressed with any kind of familiarity without a
compromise of official reserve. 'How are ye, Bingo? Well and herty, eh?
Won't you take a drop of summat?'
"'I will,' replied the clown in a melancholy voice, well corresponding
to his features, which, when the paint was washed off, were haggard and
malagugrious in the extreme. 'I will; but I am not well. Spasms in the
heart, kidneys, merry-thought, and liver. A silent sorrow here. Age
brings care. I thank you. Stop. I like it stiff.'
"'That's my rum 'un!' said Mr Grindlejerkin. 'Drown dull care in
Jamaikey. But here is the Signora Estrella. Madame, you are most
welcome!'
"Silas felt the blood rise to his temples. And so at last he could meet
her, the lady of his heart, the bright star of his boyish existence, not
in the feverish whirl of the arena, beneath the glare of gas, surrounded
by clouds of sawdust and the gazing eyes of thousands, but in the calm
sanctuary of private life, where, at least if he could find the courage,
he might pour forth the incense of his soul, and tell her how madly, how
desolatingly he had begun to love her--no, not begun, for it seemed to
him as if he had loved her long before he ever saw her: as if the love
of her were something implanted in his bosom before yet he knew what it
was to undergo the agonies of teething; long before, like a roasting
oyster, he lay in his silken cradle, and squared with tiny and
ineffectual fists at the approaching phantoms of time, existence, and
futurity. It seemed to him as though the doll, with which, when a very
little child, he had played, had just the same dark lustrous eyes, with
something bead-like and mysterious in their expression, which lent such
an inexpressible fascination to the countenance of the beautiful
Canterini. That doll! he had fondled it a thousand times in his baby
arms: had called it his duck, his dolly, his wifikin, and numerous other
terms of childish prattle and endearment: had grown jealous of it,
because, when his little brother kissed it, it did not cry out or show
any symptoms of anger, and so, in a mad moment of rage and remorse, he
had struck the waxen features against a mantelpiece, and shivered them
into innumerable fragments. What would he not have given at that moment
to have recalled the doll! But it could not be. The fragments had been
long, long ago swept into the dust-hole of oblivion, and though they
might afterwards have been carried out and scattered over the fresh
green fields, where there are trees, and cows, and little singing-birds,
and flowers, they could not be--oh no, never--reunited! But the lady,
the Signora! no rude hand had marred the wax of that countenance; for
though very, very pale, there still lingered beneath her eyes a touch of
the enchanting carmine.
"'The Signora,' said Mr Bingo. 'Fine woman. Grass though. Decidedly
grass. All flesh is, you know.' And with this remark the mimic resumed
his tumbler.
"The Signora turned her dark lustrous eyes upon Silas, and instantly
encountered his ardent and devoted gaze. She did not shrink from it;
true love never does, for it is always bold if not happy; but she grew a
shade paler as she accepted that involuntary homage, and, with a
graceful wave of her hand, she sunk upon a calico sofa.
"'The sassengers is dished!' said the pudding-faced servant-maid; and
the whole party, now increased by the addition of Mr Jonas Fitzjunk, who
did the nautical heroes, and Whang Gobretsjee Jeehohupsejee, the Brahmin
conjurer, who talked English with a strong Aberdeen accent, besides one
or two other notables, adjourned to the supper-room.
"'Signora, sassenger?' said Mr Grindlejerkin.
"'If you pleases; underdone and graveyless,' replied the beautiful
foreigner.
"'Oh, that I were that sausage, that so I might touch those ripe and
tempting lips!' thought Silas, as he reached across the Brahmin for the
pickles.
"'Can the buddy no tak' a care!' cried Jeehohupsejee; 'fat's he gauen to
dee wi' the wee joug?'
"'Hush, conjurer!' cried Bingo. 'Eat. Swallow. That's your sort. Life is
short. Victuals become cold.'
"'Mr Grindlejerkin!' screamed the helpmate of that gentleman suddenly
from the lower end of the table. 'Mr Grindlejerkin! I wish you would
come here and stop Mr Fitzjunk from winking at me!'
"'Mr Fitzjunk!' thundered the Master of the Ring, 'do you know, sir,
that that lady has the honour to be my wife? What do you mean by this
conduct, sir? How dare you wink?'
"'Avast there, messmate!' said Fitzjunk, who always spoke as if he were
in command of a Battersea steamer. 'Avast there! None of your
fresh-water and loblolly-boy terms, if you please. Shiver my binnacle,
if things haven't come to a pretty pass, when an old British sailor
can't throw out a signal of distress to one of the prettiest craft that
ever showed her sky-scrapers where Neptune's billows roll!'
"'Oh, Mr Fitzjunk! but you _did_ wink at me!' said Mrs Grindlejerkin,
considerably mollified by the compliment.
"'I knows I did,' replied the representative of the British navy. 'The
more by token, as how I ha'n't got nothing here to stow away into my
locker; so I shut up one deadlight twice, and burned a blue fire for a
cargo of pettitoes to heave to.'
"'Was that all, sir?' said Mr Grindlejerkin, still rather sternly.
"'Ay, ay, sir!' replied the tar.
"'Then I shall be happy to drown all unkindness in a pot of porter,
sir.'
"'Good!' said Mr Bingo, 'Right. Harmony preserved. Glad to join you. Cup
of existence. Gall at bottom.'
"'I beg your pardink, sir,' said the Signora looking full at Silas, who
was seated exactly opposite--'I beg your pardink, sir, but vos you
pleased to vish anythink?'
"'No, lady!' replied Silas blushing scarlet. 'No, lady, not I--That
is--'
"'O, very vell!' observed the Signora; 'it don't much sicknify; only I
thought you might vant somethink, 'cos you vos a treadin' on my toes!'"
I shall not, my dear Smith, pursue this delightful scene any further.
It is enough to substantiate your claim--and I am sure the public will
coincide with me in this opinion--to a very high place amongst the
domestic and sentimental writers of the age. You have, and I think most
wisely, undertaken to frame a new code of grammar and of construction
for yourself; and the light and airy effect of this happy innovation is
conspicuous not only in every page, but in almost every sentence of your
work. There is no slipslop here--only a fine, manly disregard of syntax,
which is infinitely attractive; and I cannot doubt that you are destined
to become the founder of a far higher and more enduring school of
composition, than that which was approved of and employed by the fathers
of our English literature.
You work will be translated, Smith, into French and German, and other
European languages. I am sincerely glad of it. It is supposed abroad
that a popular author must depict both broadly and minutely the manners
of his particular nation--that his sketches of character have reference
not only to individuals, but to the idiosyncrasy of the country in which
he dwells. Your works, therefore, will be received in the saloons of
Paris and Vienna--it may be of St Petersburg--as conveying accurate
pictures of our everyday English life; and I need hardly remark how much
that impression must tend to elevate our national character in the eyes
of an intelligent foreigner. Labouring under old and absurd prejudices,
he perhaps at present believes that we are a sober, unmercurial people,
given to domestic habits, to the accumulation of wealth, and to our own
internal improvements. It is reserved for you, Smith, to couch his
visionary eye. You will convince him that a great part of our existence
is spent about the doors of theatres, in tap-rooms, pot-houses, and
other haunts, which I need not stay to particularize. You will prove to
him that the British constitution rests upon no sure foundation, and
that it is based upon injustice and tyranny. Above all, he will learn
from you the true tone which pervades society, and the altered style of
conversation and morals which is universally current among us. In minor
things, he will discover, what few authors have taken pains to show, the
excessive fondness of our nation for a pure Saxon nomenclature. He will
learn that such names as Seymour, and Howard, and Percy--nay, even our
old familiars, Jones and Robinson--are altogether proscribed among us,
and that a new race has sprung up in their stead, rejoicing in the
euphonious appellations of Tox and Wox, Whibble, Toozle, Whopper,
Sniggleshaw, Guzzlerit, Gingerthorpe, Mugswitch, Smungle, Yelkins,
Fizgig, Parksnap, Grubsby, Shoutowker, Hogswash, and Quiltirogus. He
will also learn that our magistrates, unlike the starched official
dignitaries of France, are not ashamed to partake, in the public
streets, of tripe with a common workman--and a hundred other little
particulars, which throw a vast light into the chinks and crevices of
our social system.
I therefore, Smith, have the highest satisfaction in greeting you, not
only as an accomplished author, but as a great national benefactor. Go
on, my dear fellow, steadfastly and cheerfully, as you have begun. The
glories of our country were all very well in their way, but the subject
is a hackneyed one, and it is scarcely worth while to revive it. Be it
yours to chronicle the weaknesses and peculiarities of that society
which you frequent--no man can do it better. Draw on for ever with the
same felicitous pencil. Do not fear to repeat yourself over and over
again; to indulge in the same style of one-sided caricature; and to harp
upon the same string of pathos so long as it will vibrate pleasantly to
the public ear. What we want, after all, is sale, and I am sure that you
will not be disappointed. Use these hints as freely as you please, in
the composition of that part of Silas Spavinhitch which is not yet
completed; and be assured that I have offered them not in an arrogant
spirit, but, as some of our friends would say, with an earnest tendency
and a serious oneness of purpose. Good-by, my dear Smith! It is a
positive pain to me to break off this letter, but I must conclude.
Adieu! and pray, for all our sakes and your own, take care of yourself.