Some few years since we received the following letter:--
“DEAR SIR,
“I write to you for literary employment, and I implore you to
provide me with it if it be within your power to do so. My capacity
for such work is not small, and my acquirements are considerable.
My need is very great, and my views in regard to remuneration are
modest. I was educated at ----, and was afterwards a scholar of
---- College, Cambridge. I left the university without a degree, in
consequence of a quarrel with the college tutor. I was rusticated,
and not allowed to return. After that I became for awhile a student
for the Chancery Bar. I then lived for some years in Paris, and I
understand and speak French as though it were my own language. For
all purposes of literature I am equally conversant with German. I
read Italian. I am, of course, familiar with Latin. In regard to
Greek I will only say that I am less ignorant of it than
nineteen-twentieths of our national scholars. I am well read in
modern and ancient history. I have especially studied political
economy. I have not neglected other matters necessary to the
education of an enlightened man,--unless it be natural philosophy.
I can write English, and can write it with rapidity. I am a
poet;--at least, I so esteem myself. I am not a believer. My
character will not bear investigation;--in saying which, I mean you
to understand, not that I steal or cheat, but that I live in a
dirty lodging, spend many of my hours in a public-house, and cannot
pay tradesmen’s bills where tradesmen have been found to trust me.
I have a wife and four children,--which burden forbids me to free
myself from all care by a bare bodkin. I am just past forty, and
since I quarrelled with my family because I could not understand
The Trinity, I have never been the owner of a ten-pound note. My
wife was not a lady. I married her because I was determined to take
refuge from the conventional thraldom of so-called ‘gentlemen’
amidst the liberty of the lower orders. My life, of course, has
been a mistake. Indeed, to live at all,--is it not a folly?
“I am at present employed on the staff of two or three of the
‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ Your august highness in literature has perhaps
never heard of a ‘Penny Dreadful.’ I write for them matter, which
we among ourselves call ‘blood and nastiness,’--and which is copied
from one to another. For this I am paid forty-five shillings a
week. For thirty shillings a week I will do any work that you may
impose upon me for the term of six months. I write this letter as a
last effort to rescue myself from the filth of my present position,
but I entertain no hope of any success. If you ask it I will come
and see you; but do not send for me unless you mean to employ me,
as I am ashamed of myself. I live at No. 3, Cucumber Court, Gray’s
Inn Lane;--but if you write, address to the care of Mr. Grimes, the
Spotted Dog, Liquorpond Street. Now I have told you my whole life,
and you may help me if you will. I do not expect an answer.
“Yours truly,
“JULIUS MACKENZIE.”
Indeed he had told us his whole life, and what a picture of a life he
had drawn! There was something in the letter which compelled attention.
It was impossible to throw it, half read, into the waste-paper basket,
and to think of it not at all. We did read it, probably twice, and then
put ourselves to work to consider how much of it might be true and how
much false. Had the man been a boy at ----, and then a scholar of his
college? We concluded that, so far, the narrative was true. Had he
abandoned his dependence on wealthy friends from conscientious scruples,
as he pretended; or had other and less creditable reasons caused the
severance? On that point we did not quite believe him. And then, as to
those assertions made by himself in regard to his own capabilities,--how
far did they gain credence with us? We think that we believed them all,
making some small discount,--with the exception of that one in which he
proclaimed himself to be a poet. A man may know whether he understands
French, and be quite ignorant whether the rhymed lines which he produces
are or are not poetry. When he told us that he was an infidel, and that
his character would not bear investigation, we went with him altogether.
His allusion to suicide we regarded as a foolish boast. We gave him
credit for the four children, but were not certain about the wife. We
quite believed the general assertion of his impecuniosity. That stuff
about “conventional thraldom” we hope we took at its worth. When he told
us that his life had been a mistake he spoke to us Gospel truth.
Of the “Penny Dreadfuls,” and of “blood and nastiness,” so called, we
had never before heard, but we did not think it remarkable that a man so
gifted as our correspondent should earn forty-five shillings a week by
writing for the cheaper periodicals. It did not, however, appear to us
probable that any one so remunerated would be willing to leave that
engagement for another which should give him only thirty shillings. When
he spoke of the “filth of his present position,” our heart began to
bleed for him. We know what it is so well, and can fathom so accurately
the degradation of the educated man who, having been ambitious in the
career of literature, falls into that slough of despond by which the
profession of literature is almost surrounded. There we were with him,
as brothers together. When we came to Mr. Grimes and the Spotted Dog, in
Liquorpond Street, we thought that we had better refrain from answering
the letter,--by which decision on our part he would not, according to
his own statement, be much disappointed. Mr. Julius Mackenzie! Perhaps
at this very time rich uncles and aunts were buttoning up their pockets
against the sinner because of his devotion to the Spotted Dog. There are
well-to-do people among the Mackenzies. It might be the case that that
heterodox want of comprehension in regard to The Trinity was the cause
of it: but we have observed that in most families, grievous as are
doubts upon such sacred subjects, they are not held to be cause of
hostility so invincible as is a thorough-going devotion to a Spotted
Dog. If the Spotted Dog had brought about these troubles, any
interposition from ourselves would be useless.
For twenty-four hours we had given up all idea of answering the letter;
but it then occurred to us that men who have become disreputable as
drunkards do not put forth their own abominations when making appeals
for aid. If this man were really given to drink he would hardly have
told us of his association with the public-house. Probably he was much
at the Spotted Dog, and hated himself for being there. The more we
thought of it the more we fancied that the gist of his letter might be
true. It seemed that the man had desired to tell the truth as he himself
believed it.
It so happened that at that time we had been asked to provide an index
to a certain learned manuscript in three volumes. The intended publisher
of the work had already procured an index from a professional compiler
of such matters; but the thing had been so badly done that it could not
be used. Some knowledge of the classics was required, though it was not
much more than a familiarity with the names of Latin and Greek authors,
to which perhaps should be added some acquaintance, with the names also,
of the better-known editors and commentators. The gentleman who had had
the task in hand had failed conspicuously, and I had been told by my
enterprising friend Mr. X----, the publisher, that £25 would be freely
paid on the proper accomplishment of the undertaking. The work,
apparently so trifling in its nature, demanded a scholar’s acquirements,
and could hardly be completed in less than two months. We had snubbed
the offer, saying that we should be ashamed to ask an educated man to
give his time and labour for so small a remuneration;--but to Mr. Julius
Mackenzie £25 for two months’ work would manifestly be a godsend. If Mr.
Julius Mackenzie did in truth possess the knowledge for which he gave
himself credit; if he was, as he said, “familiar with Latin,” and was
“less ignorant of Greek than nineteen-twentieths of our national
scholars,” he might perhaps be able to earn this £25. We certainly knew
no one else who could and who would do the work properly for that money.
We therefore wrote to Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and requested his presence.
Our note was short, cautious, and also courteous. We regretted that a
man so gifted should be driven by stress of circumstances to such need.
We could undertake nothing, but if it would not put him to too much
trouble to call upon us, we might perhaps be able to suggest something
to him. Precisely at the hour named Mr. Julius Mackenzie came to us.
We well remember his appearance, which was one unutterably painful to
behold. He was a tall man, very thin,--thin we might say as a
whipping-post, were it not that one’s idea of a whipping-post conveys
erectness and rigidity, whereas this man, as he stood before us, was
full of bends, and curves, and crookedness. His big head seemed to lean
forward over his miserably narrow chest. His back was bowed, and his
legs were crooked and tottering. He had told us that he was over forty,
but we doubted, and doubt now, whether he had not added something to his
years, in order partially to excuse the wan, worn weariness of his
countenance. He carried an infinity of thick, ragged, wild, dirty hair,
dark in colour, though not black, which age had not yet begun to
grizzle. He wore a miserable attempt at a beard, stubbly, uneven, and
half shorn,--as though it had been cut down within an inch of his chin
with blunt scissors. He had two ugly projecting teeth, and his cheeks
were hollow. His eyes were deep-set, but very bright, illuminating his
whole face; so that it was impossible to look at him and to think him to
be one wholly insignificant. His eyebrows were large and shaggy, but
well formed, not meeting across the brow, with single,
stiffly-projecting hairs,--a pair of eyebrows which added much strength
to his countenance. His nose was long and well shaped,--but red as a
huge carbuncle. The moment we saw him we connected that nose with the
Spotted Dog. It was not a blotched nose, not a nose covered with many
carbuncles, but a brightly red, smooth, well-formed nose, one glowing
carbuncle in itself. He was dressed in a long brown great-coat, which
was buttoned up round his throat, and which came nearly to his feet. The
binding of the coat was frayed, the buttons were half uncovered, the
button-holes were tattered, the velvet collar had become party-coloured
with dirt and usage. It was in the month of December, and a great-coat
was needed; but this great-coat looked as though it were worn because
other garments were not at his command. Not an inch of linen or even of
flannel shirt was visible. Below his coat we could only see his broken
boots and the soiled legs of his trousers, which had reached that age
which in trousers defies description. When we looked at him we could not
but ask ourselves whether this man had been born a gentleman and was
still a scholar. And yet there was that in his face which prompted us to
believe the account he had given of himself. As we looked at him we felt
sure that he possessed keen intellect, and that he was too much of a man
to boast of acquirements which he did not believe himself to possess. We
shook hands with him, asked him to sit down, and murmured something of
our sorrow that he should be in distress.
“I am pretty well used to it,” said he. There was nothing mean in his
voice;--there was indeed a touch of humour in it, and in his manner
there was nothing of the abjectness of supplication. We had his letter
in our hands, and we read a portion of it again as he sat opposite to
us. We then remarked that we did not understand how he, having a wife
and family dependent on him, could offer to give up a third of his
income with the mere object of changing the nature of his work. “You
don’t know what it is,” said he, “to write for the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’
I’m at it seven hours a day, and hate the very words that I write. I
cursed myself afterwards for sending that letter. I know that to hope is
to be an ass. But I did send it, and here I am.”
We looked at his nose and felt that we must be careful before we
suggested to our learned friend Dr. ---- to put his manuscript into the
hands of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. If it had been a printed book the attempt
might have been made without much hazard, but our friend’s work, which
was elaborate, and very learned, had not yet reached the honours of the
printing-house. We had had our own doubts whether it might ever assume
the form of a real book; but our friend, who was a wealthy as well as a
learned man, was, as yet, very determined. He desired, at any rate, that
the thing should be perfected, and his publisher had therefore come to
us offering £25 for the codification and index. Were anything other than
good to befall his manuscript, his lamentations would be loud, not on
his own score,--but on behalf of learning in general. It behoved us
therefore to be cautious. We pretended to read the letter again, in
order that we might gain time for a decision, for we were greatly
frightened by that gleaming nose.
Let the reader understand that the nose was by no means Bardolphian. If
we have read Shakespeare aright Bardolph’s nose was a thing of terror
from its size as well as its hue. It was a mighty vat, into which had
ascended all the divinest particles distilled from the cellars of the
hostelrie in Eastcheap. Such at least is the idea which stage
representations have left upon all our minds. But the nose now before us
was a well-formed nose, would have been a commanding nose,--for the
power of command shows itself much in the nasal organ,--had it not been
for its colour. While we were thinking of this, and doubting much as to
our friend’s manuscript, Mr. Mackenzie interrupted us. “You think I am a
drunkard,” said he. The man’s mother-wit had enabled him to read our
inmost thoughts.
As we looked up the man had risen from his chair, and was standing over
us. He loomed upon us very tall, although his legs were crooked, and his
back bent. Those piercing eyes, and that nose which almost assumed an
air of authority as he carried it, were a great way above us. There
seemed to be an infinity of that old brown great-coat. He had divined
our thoughts, and we did not dare to contradict him. We felt that a
weak, vapid, unmanly smile was creeping over our face. We were smiling
as a man smiles who intends to imply some contemptuous assent with the
self-depreciating comment of his companion. Such a mode of expression is
in our estimation most cowardly, and most odious. We had not intended
it, but we knew that the smile had pervaded us. “Of course you do,” said
he. “I was a drunkard, but I am not one now. It doesn’t matter;--only I
wish you hadn’t sent for me. I’ll go away at once.”
So saying, he was about to depart, but we stopped him. We assured him
with much energy that we did not mean to offend him. He protested that
there was no offence. He was too well used to that kind of thing to be
made “more than wretched by it.” Such was his heart-breaking phrase. “As
for anger, I’ve lost all that long ago. Of course you take me for a
drunkard, and I should still be a drunkard, only----”
“Only what?” I asked.
“It don’t matter,” said he. “I need not trouble you more than I have
said already. You haven’t got anything for me to do, I suppose?” Then I
explained to him that I had something he might do, if I could venture
to entrust him with the work. With some trouble I got him to sit down
again, and to listen while I explained to him the circumstances. I had
been grievously afflicted when he alluded to his former habit of
drinking,--a former habit as he himself now stated,--but I entertained
no hesitation in raising questions as to his erudition. I felt almost
assured that his answers would be satisfactory, and that no discomfiture
would arise from such questioning. We were quickly able to perceive that
we at any rate could not examine him in classical literature. As soon as
we mentioned the name and nature of the work he went off at score, and
satisfied us amply that he was familiar at least with the title-pages of
editions. We began, indeed, to fear whether he might not be too caustic
a critic on our own friend’s performance. “Dr. ---- is only an amateur
himself,” said we, deprecating in advance any such exercise of the
red-nosed man’s too severe erudition. “We never get much beyond
dilettanteism here,” said he, “as far as Greek and Latin are concerned.”
What a terrible man he would have been could he have got upon the staff
of the Saturday Review, instead of going to the Spotted Dog!
We endeavoured to bring the interview to an end by telling him that we
would consult the learned doctor from whom the manuscript had emanated;
and we hinted that a reference would be of course acceptable. His
impudence,--or perhaps we should rather call it his straightforward
sincere audacity,--was unbounded. “Mr. Grimes of the Spotted Dog knows
me better than any one else,” said he. We blew the breath out of our
mouth with astonishment. “I’m not asking you to go to him to find out
whether I know Latin and Greek,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “You must find that
out for yourself.” We assured him that we thought we had found that out.
“But he can tell you that I won’t pawn your manuscript.” The man was so
grim and brave that he almost frightened us. We hinted, however, that
literary reference should be given. The gentleman who paid him
forty-five shillings a week,--the manager, in short, of the “Penny
Dreadful,”--might tell us something of him. Then he wrote for us a name
on a scrap of paper, and added to it an address in the close vicinity of
Fleet Street, at which we remembered to have seen the title of a
periodical which we now knew to be a “Penny Dreadful.”
Before he took his leave he made us a speech, again standing up over us,
though we also were on our legs. It was that bend in his neck, combined
with his natural height, which gave him such an air of superiority in
conversation. He seemed to overshadow us, and to have his own way with
us, because he was enabled to look down upon us. There was a footstool
on our hearth-rug, and we remember to have attempted to stand upon that,
in order that we might escape this supervision; but we stumbled and had
to kick it from us, and something was added to our sense of inferiority
by this little failure. “I don’t expect much from this,” he said. “I
never do expect much. And I have misfortunes independent of my poverty
which make it impossible that I should be other than a miserable
wretch.”
“Bad health?” we asked.
“No;--nothing absolutely personal;--but never mind. I must not trouble
you with more of my history. But if you can do this thing for me, it may
be the means of redeeming me from utter degradation.” We then assured
him that we would do our best, and he left us with a promise that he
would call again on that day week.
The first step which we took on his behalf was one the very idea of
which had at first almost moved us to ridicule. We made enquiry
respecting Mr. Julius Mackenzie, of Mr. Grimes, the landlord of the
Spotted Dog. Though Mr. Grimes did keep the Spotted Dog, he might be a
man of sense and, possibly, of conscience. At any rate he would tell us
something, or confirm our doubts by refusing to tell us anything. We
found Mr. Grimes seated in a very neat little back parlour, and were
peculiarly taken by the appearance of a lady in a little cap and black
silk gown, whom we soon found to be Mrs. Grimes. Had we ventured to
employ our intellect in personifying for ourselves an imaginary Mrs.
Grimes as the landlady of a Spotted Dog public-house in Liquorpond
Street, the figure we should have built up for ourselves would have been
the very opposite of that which this lady presented to us. She was slim,
and young, and pretty, and had pleasant little tricks of words, in spite
of occasional slips in her grammar, which made us almost think that it
might be our duty to come very often to the Spotted Dog to enquire about
Mr. Julius Mackenzie. Mr. Grimes was a man about forty,--fully ten years
the senior of his wife,--with a clear gray eye, and a mouth and chin
from which we surmised that he would be competent to clear the Spotted
Dog of unruly visitors after twelve o’clock, whenever it might be his
wish to do so. We soon made known our request. Mr. Mackenzie had come to
us for literary employment. Could they tell us anything about Mr.
Mackenzie?
“He’s as clever an author, in the way of writing and that kind of thing,
as there is in all London,” said Mrs. Grimes with energy. Perhaps her
opinion ought not to have been taken for much, but it had its weight. We
explained, however, that at the present moment we were specially anxious
to know something of the gentleman’s character and mode of life. Mr.
Grimes, whose manner to us was quite courteous, sat silent, thinking how
to answer us. His more impulsive and friendly wife was again ready with
her assurance. “There aint an honester gentleman breathing;--and I say
he is a gentleman, though he’s that poor he hasn’t sometimes a shirt to
his back.”
“I don’t think he’s ever very well off for shirts,” said Mr. Grimes.
“I wouldn’t be slow to give him one of yours, John, only I know he
wouldn’t take it,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Well now, look here, Sir;--we’ve
that feeling for him that our young woman there would draw anything for
him he’d ask--money or no money. She’d never venture to name money to
him if he wanted a glass of anything,--hot or cold, beer or spirits.
Isn’t that so, John?”
“She’s fool enough for anything as far as I know,” said Mr. Grimes.
“She aint no fool at all; and I’d do the same if I was there, and so’d
you, John. There is nothing Mackenzie’d ask as he wouldn’t give him,”
said Mrs. Grimes, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder to her
husband, who was standing on the hearth-rug;--“that is, in the way of
drawing liquor, and refreshments, and such like. But he never raised a
glass to his lips in this house as he didn’t pay for, nor yet took a
biscuit out of that basket. He’s a gentleman all over, is Mackenzie.”
It was strong testimony; but still we had not quite got at the bottom of
the matter. “Doesn’t he raise a great many glasses to his lips?” we
asked.
“No he don’t,” said Mrs. Grimes,--“only in reason.”
“He’s had misfortunes,” said Mr. Grimes.
“Indeed he has,” said the lady,--“what I call the very troublesomest of
troubles. If you was troubled like him, John, where’d you be?”
“I know where you’d be,” said John.
“He’s got a bad wife, Sir; the worst as ever was,” continued Mrs.
Grimes. “Talk of drink;--there is nothing that woman wouldn’t do for it.
She’d pawn the very clothes off her children’s back in mid-winter to get
it. She’d rob the food out of her husband’s mouth for a drop of gin. As
for herself,--she aint no woman’s notions left of keeping herself any
way. She’d as soon be picked out of the gutter as not;--and as for words
out of her mouth or clothes on her back, she hasn’t got, Sir, not an
item of a female’s feelings left about her.”
Mrs. Grimes had been very eloquent, and had painted the “troublesomest
of all troubles” with glowing words. This was what the wretched man had
come to by marrying a woman who was not a lady in order that he might
escape the “conventional thraldom” of gentility! But still the drunken
wife was not all. There was the evidence of his own nose against
himself, and the additional fact that he had acknowledged himself to
have been formerly a drunkard. “I suppose he has drunk, himself?” we
said.
“He has drunk, in course,” said Mrs. Grimes.
“The world has been pretty rough with him, Sir,” said Mr. Grimes.
“But he don’t drink now,” continued the lady. “At least if he do, we
don’t see it. As for her, she wouldn’t show herself inside our door.”
“It aint often that man and wife draws their milk from the same cow,”
said Mr. Grimes.
“But Mackenzie is here every day of his life,” said Mrs. Grimes. “When
he’s got a sixpence to pay for it, he’ll come in here and have a glass
of beer and a bit of something to eat. We does make him a little extra
welcome, and that’s the truth of it. We knows what he is, and we knows
what he was. As for book learning, Sir;--it don’t matter what language
it is, it’s all as one to him. He knows ’em all round just as I know my
catechism.”
“Can’t you say fairer than that for him, Polly?” asked Mr. Grimes.
“Don’t you talk of catechisms, John, nor yet of nothing else as a man
ought to set his mind to;--unless it is keeping the Spotted Dog. But as
for Mackenzie;--he knows off by heart whole books full of learning.
There was some furreners here as come from,--I don’t know where it was
they come from, only it wasn’t France, nor yet Germany, and he talked to
them just as though he hadn’t been born in England at all. I don’t think
there ever was such a man for knowing things. He’ll go on with poetry
out of his own head till you think it comes from him like web from a
spider.” We could not help thinking of the wonderful companionship which
there must have been in that parlour while the reduced man was spinning
his web and Mrs. Grimes, with her needlework lying idle in her lap, was
sitting by, listening with rapt admiration. In passing by the Spotted
Dog one would not imagine such a scene to have its existence within.
But then so many things do have existence of which we imagine nothing!
Mr. Grimes ended the interview. “The fact is, Sir, if you can give him
employment better than what he has now, you’ll be helping a man who has
seen better days, and who only wants help to see ’em again. He’s got it
all there,” and Mr. Grimes put his finger up to his head.
“He’s got it all here too,” said Mrs. Grimes, laying her hand upon her
heart. Hereupon we took our leave, suggesting to these excellent friends
that if it should come to pass that we had further dealings with Mr.
Mackenzie we might perhaps trouble them again. They assured us that we
should always be welcome, and Mr. Grimes himself saw us to the door,
having made profuse offers of such good cheer as the house afforded. We
were upon the whole much taken with the Spotted Dog.
From thence we went to the office of the “Penny Dreadful,” in the
vicinity of Fleet Street. As we walked thither we could not but think of
Mrs. Grimes’s words. The troublesomest of troubles! We acknowledged to
ourselves that they were true words. Can there be any trouble more
troublesome than that of suffering from the shame inflicted by a
degraded wife? We had just parted from Mr. Grimes,--not, indeed, having
seen very much of him in the course of our interview;--but little as we
had seen, we were sure that he was assisted in his position by a buoyant
pride in that he called himself the master, and owner, and husband of
Mrs. Grimes. In the very step with which he passed in and out of his own
door you could see that there was nothing that he was ashamed of about
his household. When abroad he could talk of his “missus” with a
conviction that the picture which the word would convey to all who heard
him would redound to his honour. But what must have been the reflections
of Julius Mackenzie when his mind dwelt upon his wife? We remembered the
words of his letter. “I have a wife and four children, which burden
forbids me to free myself from all care with a bare bodkin.” As we
thought of them, and of the story which had been told to us at the
Spotted Dog, they lost that tone of rhodomontade with which they had
invested themselves when we first read them. A wife who is indifferent
to being picked out of the gutter, and who will pawn her children’s
clothes for gin, must be a trouble than which none can be more
troublesome.
We did not find that we ingratiated ourselves with the people at the
office of the periodical for which Mr. Mackenzie worked; and yet we
endeavoured to do so, assuming in our manner and tone something of the
familiarity of a common pursuit. After much delay we came upon a
gentleman sitting in a dark cupboard, who twisted round his stool to
face us while he spoke to us. We believe that he was the editor of more
than one “Penny Dreadful,” and that as many as a dozen serial novels
were being issued to the world at the same time under his supervision.
“Oh!” said he, “so you’re at that game, are you?” We assured him that we
were at no game at all, but were simply influenced by a desire to assist
a distressed scholar. “That be blowed,” said our brother. “Mackenzie’s
doing as well here as he’ll do anywhere. He’s a drunken blackguard, when
all’s said and done. So you’re going to buy him up, are you? You won’t
keep him long,--and then he’ll have to starve.” We assured the gentleman
that we had no desire to buy up Mr. Mackenzie; we explained our ideas as
to the freedom of the literary profession, in accordance with which Mr.
Mackenzie could not be wrong in applying to us for work; and we
especially deprecated any severity on our brother’s part towards the
man, more especially begging that nothing might be decided, as we were
far from thinking it certain that we could provide Mr. Mackenzie with
any literary employment. “That’s all right,” said our brother, twisting
back his stool. “He can’t work for both of us;--that’s all. He has his
bread here regular, week after week; and I don’t suppose you’ll do as
much as that for him.” Then we went away, shaking the dust off our feet,
and wondering much at the great development of literature which latter
years have produced. We had not even known of the existence of these
papers;--and yet there they were, going forth into the hands of hundreds
of thousands of readers, all of whom were being, more or less,
instructed in their modes of life and manner of thinking by the stories
which were thus brought before them.
But there might be truth in what our brother had said to us. Should Mr.
Mackenzie abandon his present engagement for the sake of the job which
we proposed to put in his hands, might he not thereby injure rather than
improve his prospects? We were acquainted with only one learned doctor
desirous of having his manuscripts codified and indexed at his own
expense. As for writing for the periodical with which we were connected,
we knew enough of the business to be aware that Mr. Mackenzie’s gifts of
erudition would very probably not so much assist him in attempting such
work as would his late training act against him. A man might be able to
read and even talk a dozen languages,--“just as though he hadn’t been
born in England at all,”--and yet not write the language with which we
dealt after the fashion which suited our readers. It might be that he
would fly much above our heads, and do work infinitely too big for us.
We did not regard our own heads as being very high. But, for such
altitude as they held, a certain class of writing was adapted. The
gentleman whom we had just left would require, no doubt, altogether
another style. It was probable that Mr. Mackenzie had already fitted
himself to his present audience. And, even were it not so, we could not
promise him forty-five shillings a week, or even that thirty shillings
for which he asked. There is nothing more dangerous than the attempt to
befriend a man in middle life by transplanting him from one soil to
another.
When Mr. Mackenzie came to us again we endeavoured to explain all this
to him. We had in the meantime seen our friend the Doctor, whose
beneficence of spirit in regard to the unfortunate man of letters was
extreme. He was charmed with our account of the man, and saw with his
mind’s eye the work, for the performance of which he was pining,
perfected in a manner that would be a blessing to the scholars of all
future ages. He was at first anxious to ask Julius Mackenzie down to his
rectory, and, even after we had explained to him that this would not at
present be expedient, was full of a dream of future friendship with a
man who would be able to discuss the digamma with him, who would have
studied Greek metres, and have an opinion of his own as to Porson’s
canon. We were in possession of the manuscript, and had our friend’s
authority for handing it over to Mr. Mackenzie.
He came to us according to appointment, and his nose seemed to be redder
than ever. We thought that we discovered a discouraging flavour of
spirits in his breath. Mrs. Grimes had declared that he drank,--only in
reason; but the ideas of the wife of a publican,--even though that wife
were Mrs. Grimes,--might be very different from our own as to what was
reasonable in that matter. And as we looked at him he seemed to be more
rough, more ragged, almost more wretched than before. It might be that,
in taking his part with my brother of the “Penny Dreadful,” with the
Doctor, and even with myself in thinking over his claims, I had endowed
him with higher qualities than I had been justified in giving to him. As
I considered him and his appearance I certainly could not assure myself
that he looked like a man worthy to be trusted. A policeman, seeing him
at a street corner, would have had an eye upon him in a moment. He
rubbed himself together within his old coat, as men do when they come
out of gin-shops. His eye was as bright as before, but we thought that
his mouth was meaner, and his nose redder. We were almost disenchanted
with him. We said nothing to him at first about the Spotted Dog, but
suggested to him our fears that if he undertook work at our hands he
would lose the much more permanent employment which he got from the
gentleman whom we had seen in the cupboard. We then explained to him
that we could promise to him no continuation of employment.
The violence with which he cursed the gentleman who had sat in the
cupboard appalled us, and had, we think, some effect in bringing back to
us that feeling of respect for him which we had almost lost. It may be
difficult to explain why we respected him because he cursed and swore
horribly. We do not like cursing and swearing, and were any of our
younger contributors to indulge themselves after that fashion in our
presence we should, at the very least,--frown upon them. We did not
frown upon Julius Mackenzie, but stood up, gazing into his face above
us, again feeling that the man was powerful. Perhaps we respected him
because he was not in the least afraid of us. He went on to assert that
he cared not,--not a straw, we will say,--for the gentleman in the
cupboard. He knew the gentleman in the cupboard very well; and the
gentleman in the cupboard knew him. As long as he took his work to the
gentleman in the cupboard, the gentleman in the cupboard would be only
too happy to purchase that work at the rate of sixpence for a page of
manuscript containing two hundred and fifty words. That was his rate of
payment for prose fiction, and at that rate he could earn forty-five
shillings a week. He wasn’t afraid of the gentleman in the cupboard. He
had had some words with the gentleman in the cupboard before now, and
they two understood each other very well. He hinted, moreover, that
there were other gentlemen in other cupboards; but with none of them
could he advance beyond forty-five shillings a week. For this he had to
sit, with his pen in his hand, seven hours seven days a week, and the
very paper, pens, and ink came to fifteenpence out of the money. He had
struck for wages once, and for a halcyon month or two had carried his
point of sevenpence halfpenny a page; but the gentlemen in the cupboards
had told him that it could not be. They, too, must live. His matter was
no doubt attractive; but any price above sixpence a page unfitted it for
their market. All this Mr. Julius Mackenzie explained to us with much
violence of expression. When I named Mrs. Grimes to him the tone of his
voice was altered. “Yes,” said he, “I thought they’d say a word for me.
They’re the best friends I’ve got now. I don’t know that you ought quite
to believe her, for I think she’d perhaps tell a lie to do me a
service.” We assured him that we did believe every word Mrs. Grimes had
said to us.
After much pausing over the matter we told him that we were empowered to
trust him with our friend’s work, and the manuscript was produced upon
the table. If he would undertake the work and perform it, he should be
paid £8: 6_s._: 8_d._ for each of the three volumes as they were
completed. And we undertook, moreover, on our own responsibility, to
advance him money in small amounts through the hands of Mrs. Grimes, if
he really settled himself to the task. At first he was in ecstasies, and
as we explained to him the way in which the index should be brought out
and the codification performed, he turned over the pages rapidly, and
showed us that he understood at any rate the nature of the work to be
done. But when we came to details he was less happy. In what workshop
was this new work to be performed? There was a moment in which we almost
thought of telling him to do the work in our own room; but we hesitated,
luckily, remembering that his continual presence with us for two or
three months would probably destroy us altogether. It appeared that his
present work was done sometimes at the Spotted Dog, and sometimes at
home in his lodgings. He said not a word to us about his wife, but we
could understand that there would be periods in which to work at home
would be impossible to him. He did not pretend to deny that there might
be danger on that score, nor did he ask permission to take the entire
manuscript at once away to his abode. We knew that if he took part he
must take the whole, as the work could not be done in parts. Counter
references would be needed. “My circumstances are bad;--very bad
indeed,” he said. We expressed the great trouble to which we should be
subjected if any evil should happen to the manuscript. “I will give it
up,” he said, towering over us again, and shaking his head. “I cannot
expect that I should be trusted.” But we were determined that it should
not be given up. Sooner than give the matter up we would make some
arrangement by hiring a place in which he might work. Even though we
were to pay ten shillings a week for a room for him out of the money,
the bargain would be a good one for him. At last we determined that we
would pay a second visit to the Spotted Dog, and consult Mrs. Grimes. We
felt that we should have a pleasure in arranging together with Mrs.
Grimes any scheme of benevolence on behalf of this unfortunate and
remarkable man. So we told him that we would think over the matter, and
send a letter to his address at the Spotted Dog, which he should receive
on the following morning. He then gathered himself up, rubbed himself
together again inside his coat, and took his departure.
As soon as he was gone we sat looking at the learned Doctor’s
manuscript, and thinking of what we had done. There lay the work of
years, by which our dear and venerable old friend expected that he would
take rank among the great commentators of modern times. We, in truth,
did not anticipate for him all the glory to which he looked forward. We
feared that there might be disappointment. Hot discussion on verbal
accuracies or on rules of metre are perhaps not so much in vogue now as
they were a hundred years ago. There might be disappointment and great
sorrow; but we could not with equanimity anticipate the prevention of
this sorrow by the possible loss or destruction of the manuscript which
had been entrusted to us. The Doctor himself had seemed to anticipate no
such danger. When we told him of Mackenzie’s learning and misfortunes,
he was eager at once that the thing should be done, merely stipulating
that he should have an interview with Mr. Mackenzie before he returned
to his rectory.
That same day we went to the Spotted Dog, and found Mrs. Grimes alone.
Mackenzie had been there immediately after leaving our room, and had
told her what had taken place. She was full of the subject and anxious
to give every possible assistance. She confessed at once that the papers
would not be safe in the rooms inhabited by Mackenzie and his wife. “He
pays five shillings a week,” she said, “for a wretched place round in
Cucumber Court. They are all huddled together, any way; and how he
manages to do a thing at all there,--in the way of author-work,--is a
wonder to everybody. Sometimes he can’t, and then he’ll sit for hours
together at the little table in our tap-room.” We went into the tap-room
and saw the little table. It was a wonder indeed that any one should be
able to compose and write tales of imagination in a place so dreary,
dark, and ill-omened. The little table was hardly more than a long slab
or plank, perhaps eighteen inches wide. When we visited the place there
were two brewers’ draymen seated there, and three draggled,
wretched-looking women. The carters were eating enormous hunches of
bread and bacon, which they cut and put into their mouths slowly,
solemnly, and in silence. The three women were seated on a bench, and
when I saw them had no signs of festivity before them. It must be
presumed that they had paid for something, or they would hardly have
been allowed to sit there. “It’s empty now,” said Mrs. Grimes, taking no
immediate notice of the men or of the women; “but sometimes he’ll sit
writing in that corner, when there’s such a jabber of voices as you
wouldn’t hear a cannon go off over at Reid’s, and that thick with smoke
you’d a’most cut it with a knife. Don’t he, Peter?” The man whom she
addressed endeavoured to prepare himself for answer by swallowing at the
moment three square inches of bread and bacon, which he had just put
into his mouth. He made an awful effort, but failed; and, failing,
nodded his head three times. “They all know him here, Sir,” continued
Mrs. Grimes. “He’ll go on writing, writing, writing, for hours together;
and nobody’ll say nothing to him. Will they, Peter?” Peter, who was now
half-way through the work he had laid out for himself, muttered some
inarticulate grunt of assent.
We then went back to the snug little room inside the bar. It was quite
clear to me that the man could not manipulate the Doctor’s manuscript,
of which he would have to spread a dozen sheets before him at the same
time, in the place I had just visited. Even could he have occupied the
chamber alone, the accommodation would not have been sufficient for the
purpose. It was equally clear that he could not be allowed to use Mrs.
Grimes’s snuggery. “How are we to get a place for him?” said I,
appealing to the lady. “He shall have a place,” she said, “I’ll go bail;
he sha’n’t lose the job for want of a workshop.” Then she sat down and
began to think it over. I was just about to propose the hiring of some
decent room in the neighbourhood, when she made a suggestion, which I
acknowledge startled me. “I’ll have a big table put into my own
bed-room,” said she, “and he shall do it there. There aint another hole
or corner about the place as’d suit; and he can lay the gentleman’s
papers all about on the bed, square and clean and orderly. Can’t he now?
And I can see after ’em, as he don’t lose ’em. Can’t I now?”
By this time there had sprung up an intimacy between ourselves and Mrs.
Grimes which seemed to justify an expression of the doubt which I then
threw on the propriety of such a disarrangement of her most private
domestic affairs. “Mr. Grimes will hardly approve of that,” we said.
“Oh, John won’t mind. What’ll it matter to John as long as Mackenzie is
out in time for him to go to bed? We aint early birds, morning or
night,--that’s true. In our line folks can’t be early. But from ten to
six there’s the room, and he shall have it. Come up and see, Sir.” So we
followed Mrs. Grimes up the narrow staircase to the marital bower. “It
aint large, but there’ll be room for the table, and for him to sit at
it;--won’t there now?”
It was a dark little room, with one small window looking out under the
low roof, and facing the heavy high dead wall of the brewery opposite.
But it was clean and sweet, and the furniture in it was all solid and
good, old-fashioned, and made of mahogany. Two or three of Mrs. Grimes’s
gowns were laid upon the bed, and other portions of her dress were hung
on pegs behind the doors. The only untidy article in the room was a pair
of “John’s” trousers, which he had failed to put out of sight. She was
not a bit abashed, but took them up and folded them and patted them, and
laid them in the capacious wardrobe. “We’ll have all these things away,”
she said, “and then he can have all his papers out upon the bed just as
he pleases.”
We own that there was something in the proposed arrangement which
dismayed us. We also were married, and what would our wife have said had
we proposed that a contributor,--even a contributor not red-nosed and
seething with gin,--that any best-disciplined contributor should be
invited to write an article within the precincts of our sanctum? We
could not bring ourselves to believe that Mr. Grimes would authorise the
proposition. There is something holy about the bed-room of a married
couple; and there would be a special desecration in the continued
presence of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. We thought it better that we should
explain something of all this to her. “Do you know,” we said, “this
seems to be hardly prudent?”
“Why not prudent?” she asked.
“Up in your bed-room, you know! Mr. Grimes will be sure to dislike it.”
“What,--John! Not he. I know what you’re a-thinking of, Mr. ----,” she
said. “But we’re different in our ways than what you are. Things to us
are only just what they are. We haven’t time, nor yet money, nor perhaps
edication, for seemings and thinkings as you have. If you was travelling
out amongst the wild Injeans, you’d ask any one to have a bit in your
bed-room as soon as look at ’em, if you’d got a bit for ’em to eat.
We’re travelling among wild Injeans all our lives, and a bed-room aint
no more to us than any other room. Mackenzie shall come up here, and
I’ll have the table fixed for him, just there by the window.” I hadn’t
another word to say to her, and I could not keep myself from thinking
for many an hour afterwards, whether it may not be a good thing for men,
and for women also, to believe that they are always travelling among
wild Indians.
When we went down Mr. Grimes himself was in the little parlour. He did
not seem at all surprised at seeing his wife enter the room from above
accompanied by a stranger. She at once began her story, and told the
arrangement which she proposed,--which she did, as I observed, without
any actual request for his sanction. Looking at Mr. Grimes’s face, I
thought that he did not quite like it; but he accepted it, almost
without a word, scratching his head and raising his eyebrows. “You
know, John, he could no more do it at home than he could fly,” said Mrs.
Grimes.
“Who said he could do it at home?”
“And he couldn’t do it in the tap-room;--could he? If so, there aint no
other place, and so that’s settled.” John Grimes again scratched his
head, and the matter was settled. Before we left the house Mackenzie
himself came in, and was told in our presence of the accommodation which
was to be prepared for him. “It’s just like you, Mrs. Grimes,” was all
he said in the way of thanks. Then Mrs. Grimes made her bargain with him
somewhat sternly. He should have the room for five hours a day,--ten
till three, or twelve till five; but he must settle which, and then
stick to his hours. “And I won’t have nothing up there in the way of
drink,” said John Grimes.
“Who’s asking to have drink there?” said Mackenzie.
“You’re not asking now, but maybe you will. I won’t have it, that’s
all.”
“That shall be all right, John,” said Mrs. Grimes, nodding her head.
“Women are that soft,--in the way of judgment,--that they’ll go and do
a’most anything, good or bad, when they’ve got their feelings up.” Such
was the only rebuke which in our hearing Mr. Grimes administered to his
pretty wife. Mackenzie whispered something to the publican, but Grimes
only shook his head. We understood it all thoroughly. He did not like
the scheme, but he would not contradict his wife in an act of real
kindness. We then made an appointment with the scholar for meeting our
friend and his future patron at our rooms, and took our leave of the
Spotted Dog. Before we went, however, Mrs. Grimes insisted on producing
some cherry-bounce, as she called it, which, after sundry refusals on
our part, was brought in on a small round shining tray, in a little
bottle covered all over with gold sprigs, with four tiny glasses
similarly ornamented. Mrs. Grimes poured out the liquor, using a very
sparing hand when she came to the glass which was intended for herself.
We find it, as a rule, easier to talk with the Grimeses of the world
than to eat with them or to drink with them. When the glass was handed
to us we did not know whether or no we were expected to say something.
We waited, however, till Mr. Grimes and Mackenzie had been provided with
their glasses. “Proud to see you at the Spotted Dog, Mr. ----,” said
Grimes. “That we are,” said Mrs. Grimes, smiling at us over her almost
imperceptible drop of drink. Julius Mackenzie just bobbed his head, and
swallowed the cordial at a gulp,--as a dog does a lump of meat, leaving
the impression on his friends around him that he has not got from it
half the enjoyment which it might have given him had he been a little
more patient in the process. I could not but think that had Mackenzie
allowed the cherry-bounce to trickle a little in his palate, as I did
myself, it would have gratified him more than it did in being chucked
down his throat with all the impetus which his elbow could give to the
glass. “That’s tidy tipple,” said Mr. Grimes, winking his eye. We
acknowledged that it was tidy. “My mother made it, as used to keep the
Pig and Magpie, at Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes. In this way we learned
a good deal of Mrs. Grimes’s history. Her very earliest years had been
passed among wild Indians.
Then came the interview between the Doctor and Mr. Mackenzie. We must
confess that we greatly feared the impression which our younger friend
might make on the elder. We had of course told the Doctor of the red
nose, and he had accepted the information with a smile. But he was a man
who would feel the contamination of contact with a drunkard, and who
would shrink from an unpleasant association. There are vices of which
we habitually take altogether different views in accordance with the
manner in which they are brought under our notice. This vice of
drunkenness is often a joke in the mouths of those to whom the thing
itself is a horror. Even before our boys we talk of it as being rather
funny, though to see one of them funny himself would almost break our
hearts. The learned commentator had accepted our account of the red nose
as though it were simply a part of the undeserved misery of the wretched
man; but should he find the wretched man to be actually redolent of gin
his feelings might be changed. The Doctor was with us first, and the
volumes of the MS. were displayed upon the table. The compiler of them,
as he lifted here a page and there a page, handled them with the
gentleness of a lover. They had been exquisitely arranged, and were very
fair. The pagings, and the margins, and the chapterings, and all the
complementary paraphernalia of authorship, were perfect. “A lifetime, my
friend; just a lifetime!” the Doctor had said to us, speaking of his own
work while we were waiting for the man to whose hands was to be
entrusted the result of so much labour and scholarship. We wished at
that moment that we had never been called on to interfere in the
matter.
Mackenzie came, and the introduction was made. The Doctor was a
gentleman of the old school, very neat in his attire,--dressed in
perfect black, with kneebreeches and black gaiters, with a closely-shorn
chin, and an exquisitely white cravat. Though he was in truth simply the
rector of his parish, his parish was one which entitled him to call
himself a dean, and he wore a clerical rosette on his hat. He was a
well-made, tall, portly gentleman, with whom to take the slightest
liberty would have been impossible. His well-formed full face was
singularly expressive of benevolence, but there was in it too an air of
command which created an involuntary respect. He was a man whose means
were ample, and who could afford to keep two curates, so that the
appanages of a Church dignitary did in some sort belong to him. We doubt
whether he really understood what work meant,--even when he spoke with
so much pathos of the labour of his life; but he was a man not at all
exacting in regard to the work of others, and who was anxious to make
the world as smooth and rosy to those around him as it had been to
himself. He came forward, paused a moment, and then shook hands with
Mackenzie. Our work had been done, and we remained in the background
during the interview. It was now for the Doctor to satisfy himself with
the scholarship,--and, if he chose to take cognizance of the matter,
with the morals of his proposed assistant.
Mackenzie himself was more subdued in his manner than he had been when
talking with ourselves. The Doctor made a little speech, standing at the
table with one hand on one volume and the other on another. He told of
all his work, with a mixture of modesty as to the thing done, and
self-assertion as to his interest in doing it, which was charming. He
acknowledged that the sum proposed for the aid which he required was
inconsiderable;--but it had been fixed by the proposed publisher. Should
Mr. Mackenzie find that the labour was long he would willingly increase
it. Then he commenced a conversation respecting the Greek dramatists,
which had none of the air or tone of an examination, but which still
served the purpose of enabling Mackenzie to show his scholarship. In
that respect there was no doubt that the ragged, red-nosed, disreputable
man, who stood there longing for his job, was the greater proficient of
the two. We never discovered that he had had access to books in later
years; but his memory of the old things seemed to be perfect. When it
was suggested that references would be required, it seemed that he did
know his way into the library of the British Museum. “When I wasn’t
quite so shabby,” he said boldly, “I used to be there.” The Doctor
instantly produced a ten-pound note, and insisted that it should be
taken in advance. Mackenzie hesitated, and we suggested that it was
premature; but the Doctor was firm. “If an old scholar mayn’t assist one
younger than himself,” he said, “I don’t know when one man may aid
another. And this is no alms. It is simply a pledge for work to be
done.” Mackenzie took the money, muttering something of an assurance
that as far as his ability went, the work should be done well. “It
should certainly,” he said, “be done diligently.”
When money had passed, of course the thing was settled; but in truth the
bank-note had been given, not from judgment in settling the matter, but
from the generous impulse of the moment. There was, however, no
receding. The Doctor expressed by no hint a doubt as to the safety of
his manuscript. He was by far too fine a gentleman to give the man whom
he employed pain in that direction. If there were risk, he would now run
the risk. And so the thing was settled.
We did not, however, give the manuscript on that occasion into
Mackenzie’s hands, but took it down afterwards, locked in an old
despatch box of our own, to the Spotted Dog, and left the box with the
key of it in the hands of Mrs. Grimes. Again we went up into that lady’s
bed-room, and saw that the big table had been placed by the window for
Mackenzie’s accommodation. It so nearly filled the room, that as we
observed, John Grimes could not get round at all to his side of the bed.
It was arranged that Mackenzie was to begin on the morrow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]