CHAPTER XIV.—PRESENTS TOM BRACY IN A NEW AND INTERESTING ASPECT.
Three days passed by, and still poor Rose received no answer to her letter, but remained a prey to alternate hopes and fears and all “The gnawing torture of an anxious mind.” On the fourth arrived the following characteristic note:—
“My dear Miss Arundel,—I dare say you’ve been abusing me like a pick-pocket; at least I must have appeared to you deserving of such abuse, for treating your request so cavalierly; but the fact is, I have been down in a Cornish tin mine for the last two days, and only received your packet on my arrival in town, an hour ago. And now to business. I don’t set up for a judge of poetry, though I know what pleases me and what doesn’t (I should be a donkey if I did not, you’ll say); for instance, the present school of ‘suggestive’ poetry doesn’t suit me at all. But then I have an old-fashioned prejudice in favour of understanding what I read, and calling a railway locomotive a ‘resonant steam eagle,’ for instance, does not tend to simplify literature; the only thing such phrases ‘suggest’ to me is that it would be a great deal better if the authors were content to stick to plain English, and when they have such inexpressibly grand ideas, not to trouble themselves to express them at all. Your verses have at least one good point in them—they are so worded that a plain man may understand them; in fact, all that I have yet read I like—the feeling is invariably pure, true, and beautiful (your heart’s in the right place, and no mistake); the language is well chosen, and sometimes eloquent; there are, of course, plenty of places where it becomes weak and young lady-like, but that was only to be expected. We can’t all be men, unfortunately. I could not help laughing when you ‘supposed I knew’ all the booksellers and publishers in London, Heaven forbid! for in that case I should have a very miscellaneous acquaintance. However, I do know several, and I will go the first thing to-morrow morning and consult one of them—a gentleman on whose judgment I can rely as to what will be the most advisable course for us to pursue. I say us, because, as I don’t mean to let the matter rest till I have succeeded, I consider myself a partner in the concern. Lewis parted from me in high health and very tolerable spirits. He left town, with General Grant, the same morning on which I started for Cornwall. You shall hear from me again when I can report progress. Don’t write any more nonsense about giving me trouble: in the first place, the thing is no trouble; in the second, I should not mind it one bit if it were.
“I am yours very truly,
“Richard Frere.”
The first thing next morning Frere called upon his friend the publisher, who, as soon as he understood that nothing beyond advice was required of him, became very communicative and agreeable; glanced his eye over the verses and approved of them, though he added, with a Burleigh-like shake of the head, that he wished they were anything but poetry. Frere wondered why, and asked him. In reply he learned that the public mind had acquired a sadly practical bias, which leading him to suggest that poetry was the very thing of all others to bring it right again, he was further informed that the evil was much too deeply seated to be affected by so weak an application as the poetry of the present day; and the truth of this assertion appearing undeniable, the subject was dropped.
“The best thing for you to do with these MSS., Mr. Frere,” continued his adviser, “would be to get them inserted in some popular periodical.”
“Well, I don’t object,” returned Frere. “Which had I better send them to? There’s ‘Gently’s Miscellany,’ and the ‘New Weekly,’ and ‘Gainsworth’s Magazine,’ and half-a-dozen more of’em.”
“What do you suppose would be the result of adopting such a line of conduct?” inquired his friend.
“Why, as the things are in themselves good, they’d probably put ’em in next month, and send a cheque for the amount, enclosed in a polite note asking for more.”
“I fear not,” was the answer. “A very promising young friend of mine sent a nicely written paper to the least exclusive of the periodicals you have just mentioned; hearing nothing of it, he ventured at the end of six months to write and inquire its fate. In reply he received a note from the editor, which appeared to him more explicit than satisfactory. It was couched in the following laconic terms:—‘Declined with thanks.’”
“Phewl that’s pleasant,” rejoined Frere. “What would you advise, then, under the circumstances? I place myself quite in your hands.”
His friend leaned back in his chair and considered the matter deeply. At length he seemed to have hit upon some expedient, for he muttered with great emphasis, “Yes, that might do. He could if he would. Yes—certainly!” Then turning suddenly to Frere, he exclaimed, “Mind, you’ll never breathe a word of it to any living being!”
“Not for the world,” returned Frere. “And now, what is it?”
“You’ve heard of ‘Blunt’s Magazine’?”
“Yes; I’ve seen it in several places lately.”
“No doubt; it’s a most admirably conducted publication, and one which is certain to become a great favourite with the public. Now I happen to be acquainted with one of the gentlemen who edit it, and shall be happy to give you a note of introduction to him. But you must promise me to be most careful never to reveal his name.”
“Certainly,” rejoined Frere, “if you wish it. But may I venture to ask what it would signify if all London knew it?”
His companion turned upon him a look of indignant surprise; but perceiving that he made the inquiry in honest simplicity of heart, his face assumed an expression of contemptuous pity as he replied, in such a tone of voice as one would use to a little child who had inquired why it might not set light to a barrel of gunpowder, “My dear sir, you do not know—you cannot conceive the consequences. Such a thing would be utterly impossible.”
He then wrote a few lines, which he handed to Frere, saying, “You will find him at home till eleven.”
“And this mysterious name,” observed Frere, glancing at the address, “is!—eh! nonsense!—Thomas Bracy, Esq. Why, he is an intimate friend of my own! That’s famous. Oh! I’ll have some fun with him. I’m sure I’m extremely obliged to you; good morning.” So saying Frere seized his hat, shouldered his umbrella, and hurried off, overjoyed at his discovery.
The mendacious tiger, of whom we have already made honourable mention, answered Frere’s inquiry as to whether his master was at home with a most decided and unequivocal negative, adding the gratuitous information that, “he had gone down to dine with his uncle at Hampstead the previous day and was not expected home till four o’clock that afternoon.”
“Well, that’s a nuisance,” returned Frere. “I tell you what, boy, I’ll step in and write your master a note.”
“Yes, sir, certainly, if you please, sir; only we’ve been a having the sweeps hin, and the place is hall in a huproar, so as it’s unpossibul to touch nothink.”
At this moment a bell rung violently, and the boy, begging Frere to wait, bounded up the stairs with a cat-like rapidity, returning almost immediately with the information that “He was wery sorry, but he’d just been to the greengrocer’s, and while he was hout master had comed home quite promiscuous.”
“And how about the soot?” asked Frere, a light breaking in upon him.
“Please, sir, cook’s been and cleaned it hup while I were gone.”
“I thought so,” returned Frere; “you’re a nice boy!” Then catching him by the collar of his jacket, he continued, “Tell me, you young scamp, how often do you speak the truth?”
The urchin, thus detected, glanced at Frere’s face, and reading there that any attempt to keep up appearances must prove a dead failure, replied with the utmost sang froid, “Please, sir, whenever I can’t think of nothink better.”
“There’s an answer,” returned Frere meditatively. “Well, you need never learn swimming—water won’t harm you; but mark my words, and beware of hemp.” So saying he loosened his hold on the boy’s collar and followed him upstairs.
The tiger, not having recognised Frere in his European habiliments, had merely told his master that a gentleman wished to see him on business; and Bracy, who had reason to expect a visit from a certain literary Don, had rushed into his dressing-room to exchange a very decidedly “fast” smoking-jacket for the black frock-coat of editorial propriety; for which reason Frere was left to entertain himself for a few minutes with his own society. After examining sundry clever caricature sketches of Bracy’s, which evinced a decided talent for that branch of art, Frere seated himself in an easy-chair in front of a writing-table on which lay a mysterious document, written in a bold, dashing hand, which involuntarily attracted his attention. Perceiving at a glance that it contained no private matter, he amused himself by perusing it. For the reader’s edification we will transcribe it:—
Blunt’s Magazine, June. Sheets 3 and 4
Questions on Quicksilver...4
The Homeless Heart (Stanzas by L. O. V. E.) . . .1
Hist. Parallels, No. 3 (Cromwell and Cour-de-Lion) . . 7
L’Incomprise (by the Authoress of Inconnue). . .6
Hard Work and Hard Food; or, How would you like it yourself?
A Plea for the Industrial Classes .. . 5
Dog-cart Drives (by the Editor), Chap, 10 The Spicey
Screw;” Chap. II, Doing the Governor” . .. 7
Wanted something light, abt...2
The last item in this singular catalogue was written in pencil. “Now I should like to know what all that means,” soliloquised Frere. “Something light about two? A luncheon would come under that definition exactly—two whats? that’s the question! Two pounds? It would not be particularly light if it weighed as much as that. Perhaps the figures stand for money—the prices they pay for the magazine articles, I dare say; 4—6—7. Now, if they happen to be sovereigns, that will suit my young lady’s case very nicely. Ah! here he comes.”
CHAPTER XV.—CONTAINS A DISQUISITION ON MODERN POETRY, AND AFFORDS THE READER A PEEP BEHIND THE EDITORIAL CURTAIN.
The position in which Frere had placed himself prevented Bracy from discerning his features as he entered, and he accordingly accosted his visitor as follows:—
“My dear sir, I am really distressed to have kept you waiting, but as you arrived I was just jotting down the result of a little flirtation with the Muse.”
“And that is it, I suppose?” observed Frere, turning his face towards the speaker and pointing to the document before alluded to.
“Why, Frere, is it you, man?” exclaimed Bracy in surprise. “As I’m a sinner, I took you for that learned elder, Dr.———-. My young imp told me you were a gentleman who wished to see me on particular business. If that juvenile devil takes to telling lies to instead of for me, I shall have to give him his due for once, in the shape of a sound caning.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble,” returned Frere, “as by some accident he has only spoken the truth this time; for I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I am anything but a gentleman, and I have most assuredly come to you on business—that is, always supposing Mr. ———— of ———— Street has informed me correctly in regard to your editorial functions.”
“What! has the cacoethes scribendi seized you also, and tempted you into the commission of some little act of light literature?” added Bracy.
“Thank goodness, no,” answered Frere. “I’m happy to say I’m not so far gone as all that comes to yet. No, this is a different case altogether,” and he then proceeded to inform his companion of Rose’s, application, and the necessity which existed to make her talents available for practical purposes.
“Magazine writing affords rather a shady prospect for realising capital in these days,” observed Bracy, shaking his head discouragingly. “Let’s look at the young lady’s interesting efforts. Have you ever seen her? Arundel’s sister ought to be pretty. What’s this? ‘The Preacher’s Address to the Soul.’ Why, it’s a sermon in rhyme. Heaven help the girl! what’s she thinking of?”
“Read it and you’ll see. I like it very much,” returned Frere, slightly nettled at the reception his protégées productions appeared likely to meet with.
“Oh! it’s a sermon clearly,” continued Bracy; “here’s something about vanity and the grave. I heard it all last Sunday at St. Chrysostom’s, only the fellow called it gwave and gwace. He’d picked up some conscientious scruple against the use of the letter R, I suppose. It’s quite wonderful, the new-fangled doctrines they develop nowadays. Hum—ha—‘Making the desert home,’—rather a young idea, eh? ‘Happy birds,’—don’t like that, it puts one too much in mind of ‘jolly dogs’ or ‘odd fish.’ I should have said dicky birds, if it had been me; that’s a very safe expression, and one that people are accustomed to. ‘The joy of flowers,’—what on earth does she mean by that, now? I should say nobody could understand that; for which reason, by the way, it’s the best expression I’ve seen yet. Poetry, to be admired in the present day, must be utterly incomprehensible. We insert very little, but that’s the rule I go by. If I can’t understand one word of a thing, I make a point of accepting it; it’s safe to become popular. ‘Love for time, Heaven for eternity,’—well, that’s all very, nice and pretty, but I’m sorry to say it won’t do; it’s not suited to the tone of the Magazine, you see.”
“I can’t say I do see very clearly at present,” returned Frere; “what kind of poetry is it that you accept?”
“Oh, there are different styles. Now here’s a little thing I’ve got in the June part, ‘The Homeless Heart, by L. O. V. E.’ Her real name is Mary Dobbs, but she couldn’t very well sign herself M.D.; people would think she was a physician. She’s a very respectable young woman (such a girl to laugh), and engaged to an opulent stockbroker. Now listen:
“‘Homeless, forsaken,
Deeply oppress’d,
Raving, yet craving
Agony’s rest;
Bitterly hating,
Fondly relenting,
Sinning, yet winning
Souls to repenting;
When for her sorrow
Comes a to-morrow,
Shall she be bless’d?’”
“That’s a question I can’t take upon myself to answer,” interrupted Frere. “But if those are in the style you consider suited to the tone of your Magazine, it must be a very wonderful publication.”
“I flatter myself it is, rather,” replied Bracy complacently. “But that’s by no means the only style; here’s a thing that will go down with the million sweetly. Listen to this,” and as he spoke he extracted from a drawer a mighty bundle of papers labelled “Accepted Poetry,” and selecting one or two specimens from the mass, read as follows:—