No. II.—THE LITERARY "GHOST."
We will assume, simply for the purposes of this argument, that you, reader, are an innocent-minded elderly lady, and a regular subscriber to the Local Circulating Library. You are sitting by your comfortable fireside, knitting a "cross-over" for a Bazaar, when your little maid announces a gentleman, who says he has not a card-case with him, but requests that you will see him.
"You are sure he is a gentleman, MARY ANN?" you will inquire, with a slight uneasiness as to the umbrellas in the hall.
"Oh, a puffict gentleman, Mam," says MARY ANN—"with a respirator."
Upon this testimony to his social standing, you direct that the perfect gentleman shall be shown in.
MARY ANN has not deceived you—he has a respirator, also blue spectacles, and a red nose. He apologises with fluent humility for intruding upon you without the honour of a previous acquaintance, and takes a chair, after which he shifts his respirator to his chin, sheds a pair of immense woollen gloves into his hat, and produces a bundle of papers, over which he intreats you to cast an eye. On perusing them, they prove to be letters from various eminent authors, whose names are, more or less, familiar to you. These documents are more interesting as autographs than from any intrinsic literary merit, for they all refer to remittances for various amounts, and regret politely that the writer is not in a position to obtain permanent employment for his correspondent. While you are reading them, your visitor pays assiduous court to your cat—which impresses you favourably.
"Possibly, Madam," he suggests, "you may be personally acquainted with some of those gentlemen?" When you confess that you have not that honour, he seems more at his ease.
"I asked," he says, "because I have long heard of you as a Lady of great taste and judgment in literary matters—which, after seeing you, I can the more readily understand."
It is a fact that several of your nieces and female neighbours are in the habit of declaring that they would rather take your opinion on a novel than that of all the critics; still, you had not expected your fame to have spread so wide.
"I had another motive," he confesses, "because, if you were intimate with any of these authors, I should naturally 'esitate to say anything which might have the effect of altering your opinion of them. As it is, I can speak with perfect freedom—though in the strictest confidence. You see before you, Madam, an unfortunate bean, whom circumstances have 'itherto debarred from ever reaping the fruit of his own brine! Well may you remark, 'Your Gracious Goodness'"—(your natural astonishment having escaped you in the shape of this invocation)—"for in your goodness and in your graciousness rests my sole remaining 'ope. I was endowed from an early age with a fertile and versatile imagination, and creative powers which, without vanity, I may say, were of a rather superior class. The one thing I lacked was inflooence, and in the world of letters, Madam, as I am sure you do not need to be informed, without inflooence Genius is denied a suitable opening. At several literary Clubs in the West End I made the acquaintance of the authors whose letters you have just had the opportunity of reading—men who have since attained to the topmost pinnacle of Fame. At that time they were comparatively obscure; they 'eard my conversation, they realised that I 'ad ideers, of which they knew the value better, perhaps, than I did myself. I used to see them taking down notes on their shirt-cuffs, and that, but I took no notice of it at the time. Probably you have read the celebrated work of fiction by Mr. GASHLEIGH WALKER, entitled, King Cole's Cellars? I thought so. I gave him the plot, scenery and characters complete, for that story. I did, indeed."
"And do you mean to say he has taken all the credit himself!" you exclaim, very properly shocked.
"If he has," he replies, meekly, "I am far from complaining—a shilling or two was an object to me at that time. And it got me more work of the sort. There's Booty Bay, now, the book that made ROBERTSON—that was took down, word for word, from my dictation, in a back parlour of one of LOCKHART's Cocoa-Rooms. I got fifteen shillings for that. He got, I daresay, 'undreds of pounds. Well, I don't grudge it to him. As he said, I ought to remember he had all the manual labour of it. Then there's that other book which has sold its thousands, Four Men in a Funny—that was mine—all but the last chapter; he would put in that, and, in my opinion, spoilt it, from an artistic point. But what could I do? It was out of my 'ands! I must say I never anticipated myself that it would be so popular. 'I should be robbing you,' I said, 'if I took more than ten shillings for it.' All the same, it turned out a good bargain for him. Then there's the Drama, you would hardly credit it that I could name three leading theatres at this present moment where pieces are running which came originally out of my 'ed! But it's no use my saying so—no one would believe it. And now I've 'elped all these men up the ladder, they can do without me—they can go alone—or think they can. See the way they write—not a word about owing anything to my 'umble services, a postal order for three-and-six; but that's the world all over!"
"But surely," you will sympathetically observe, "you will expose them, you will insist on sharing in the reward of your labours—it is a duty you owe to the public, as well as yourself!"
"So I've been told, Madam. But what can I do?—I'm a poor man. 'Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed,' as POPE, or GOLDSMITH—for a similar idea occurs in both—truly observes. To put my case before the public as it ought to be put, I should first have to gain the ear of the Press—and you want a golden key to do that, nowadays. The Press is very reluctant to run down successful writers. 'Hawks won't pick out Awkses heyes,' as BURNS remarks. (By this time you are probably fumbling for your purse, which, as usual, is at the bottom of your work-basket.) No, they will find me out some day—after I'm dead and gone, most likely! In the meantime I envy nobody. I have the consciousness of Genius, and—I'm sure your generosity is overwhelming, Madam—I really never ventured to—Pardon these tears; it is the first time my poor talents have ever obtained such recognition as this! Could you crown your favours by giving me the names and addresses of any charitable friends and neighbours whom you think at all likely to follow your noble example?... I thank you from my heart, Madam, and, when I succeed in recovering my literary in'eritance, and am called upon to issue a collected edition of my works, I shall take the liberty of inscribing on the title-page a dedication to the generous benefactress who first 'elped to restore my fallen fortunes!"
With this he seals his lips again with the respirator, pockets his documents and your donation, and bows himself gratefully out, leaving you to meditate on the unscrupulousness of popular Authors, and the ease with which a confiding public is hoodwinked.