(_Fragmentary and Unfinished Extracts from the Arabian Nights, Up to
Date._)
"Sir," said SHEEVERREADY, "how pleasant soever these stories may be that
I have told your Majesty hitherto, they do not come near that of the
Fisherman and the Genius."
* * *
There was an ancient, but hale and opulent Fisherman, who had fished with
much success for many a day in troubled waters. This practice of his
involved him, of course, in extremely arduous labours, but resulted,
generally, in securing him a fair share of hard-earned spoil, to the
great envy of other fishermen of less hardihood and enterprise. He
imposed it upon himself, however, as a law, not to cast his nets save
during a certain season--or session, as he called it--which usually
arrived but once a year.
His fortune, for some fishing seasons past, had been of a variable, and
not too satisfactory sort. It is _not_ encouraging, after casting one's
nets during a prolonged spell of rough weather, and confidently
anticipating a good draught of fish, to perceive that, instead of fish,
there is nothing in one's net save such unsought spoil as the carcase of
an Egyptian ass, a basket-full of gravel and slime of no substantial
utility, or quantities of stones and mud, fit for nothing but for use as
missiles among quarrelsome boys.
"O Fortune," cried he; "be not so persistently perverse, nor persecute an
ancient fisherman who groweth a-weary of tumultuous billows, turbid
floods, broken and filth-obstructed nets, and unprofitable hauls!"
* * *
Now, behold, it was told to this Fisherman by a certain Grand Old Voice,
vague but sonorous, and voluble exceedingly, that if he would only make a
complete change in his nets, and in the fashion of his fishing,
miraculous draughts would become as common as minnows in a brook. This
Voice visited our Fisherman often in his visions. And, behold, the
Fisherman essayed the schemes suggested by the Voice. Not at first, it
must be admitted, with supreme success, or entire satisfaction to the
Fisherman himself. The Voice, however, attributed this qualified fortune
to the Fisherman's lack of perfect trust, and of entire reform in his
fashion of fishing. "Behold," cried the Voice, vibrating vehemently, "you
have allowed yourself to be diverted by the sinister councils of
antiquated obscurantists from implicit faith in my programmes and
prescriptions!"
"And what, in brief and plain language, _are_ these latter?" inquired the
anxious but puzzled Fisherman.
"Nay," answered the Voice, sardonically; "that were to inquire too
nicely. But place your fortunes absolutely in my charge; follow my lead
with unquestioning loyalty, and verily you shall see great results."
* * *
The Fisherman, much impressed with these assurances, cast his nets once
more in the new fashion; and when he thought it was time, he drew them in
as formerly, with great difficulty. But, instead of fish, found nothing
in them but a vessel of brass, which, by the weight, seemed to be full of
something; and he observed that it was shut up with singular tightness,
and sealed up with a thick coating of official-looking wax. And the Seal
was Green, green as the abounding grass, or the scarce four-leaved
shamrock of that amazing Isle of Emeralds, which some deem as much matter
of myth as SINDBAD'S Valley of Diamonds.
* * *
The Fisherman examined the vessel on all sides, and shook it to see if
what was in it made any noise, but heard nothing. This circumstance, with
the impression of the seal upon the cover (which seemed to represent two
Hearts linked in Union by some mystic abracadabra of unknown words) made
him think there was something precious--or at least peculiar--in it. To
try this, he opened it. He presently turned the mouth downward, but
nothing came out, which surprised him extremely. He set it before him,
and while he looked upon it attentively, there arose from it a very thick
smoke, which obliged him to retire two or three paces from it.
The smoke ascended to the clouds, and, extending itself along the sea and
upon the shore, formed a great mist, which we may well imagine did
mightily astonish the Fisherman. When the smoke was all out of the
vessel, it slowly took shape, and became a solid-seeming body, of which
there was formed a Genius twice as high and broad as any giant with which
the Fisherman had been aforetime familiar. At the sight of a monster of
such unsizeable bulk, and from which issued, in as yet unintelligible
accents, a Voice which seemed strangely familiar to his ears, the
Fisherman----Here SHEEVERREADY perceiving day, broke off her story--for
the time.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FISHERMAN AND THE GENIUS.
(_Vide "Arabian Nights."_)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: VERY CONSIDERATE.
_Mr. Phunkie._ "DEAW ME!--NEW RAILS, I DECLARE! NOW IF THERE IS A THING
WHICH IS ANNOYING TO THE AGRICULTURIST, IN THE PRESENT STATE OF
DEPRESSION, IT IS FOR PEOPLE TO GO RECKLESSLY SMASHING THINGS OF THAT
SORT. I SHALL CERTAINLY PUT MYSELF TO THE INCONVENIENCE OF GOING
_ROUND_--AHEM!--AS AN EXAMPLE!"]
* * * * *
"THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN" AT CAMBRIDGE.
[Illustration]
Well done, the A. D. C.! Their performance of TOM TAYLOR'S romantic,
pathetic, melodramatic, crib-cracking, head- (though not always side-)
splitting play, was an admirable one, carefully rehearsed, well
stage-managed, and played with a fine feeling for the capital situations
in which the piece abounds. Especially good was Mr. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT'S
_Jem Dalton_, a finished and truculent presentment of which any young
amateur and many an old professional might be proud. _Hawkshaw_ (Mr.
DICKINSON), too, was excellent, and the _Bob Brierly_ of Mr. THORNTON,
the _Sam Willoughby_ of Mr. THEOBALD, the _Green Jones_ of Mr. NORMAN,
and the _Maltby_ of Mr. MARTINEAU, were all good in their several ways.
As for the ladies--but who does not know the A. D. C. ladies, those
visions of female loveliness, with big hands bass voices, and projecting
knees? Mr. AGAR, whose waist cannot have really measured more than twenty
inches round, was refined and charming as _Emily St. Evremond_, while Mr.
CORNISH, though taller than most of his male associates, played _May
Edwards_ quietly, and sympathetically. _Mrs. Willoughby_, the stage
realisation of ARTHUR SKETCHLEY'S _Mrs. Brown_, had full justice rendered
to her garrulous good-nature by Mr. STONE. But enough. It was a good
performance. Memories came floating back of a notable performance of this
same play by the A. D. C. far back in the remote ages between '70 and
'80. The _Bob Brierly_ of those days has been Under-Secretary of State
for India, _Hawkshaw_, the Detective, occupies a thorny throne as
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, while _Jem Dalton_ has become the Burglar at
the Court Theatre--a very natural transition. Very great was Mr.
BROOKFIELD fifteen years ago as the Cracksman, but great, also, was Mr.
BROMLEY-DAVENPORT last week. _Dixi!_
* * * * *