Then at length came the meeting at which we were to begin our real work and divide our tasks among us. Hitherto Mr. X. had usually joined us, but a hint had been given to him that on this and a few following meetings we would not trespass on his time. It was quite understood that he, as publisher, was to have nothing to do with the preparation or arrangement of the matter to be published. We were, I think, a little proud of keeping him at a distance when we came to the discussion of that actual essence of our combined intellects which was to be issued to the world under the grotesque name which we had selected. That mind and matter should be kept separated was impressed very strongly upon all of us. Now, we were “mind,” and Mr. X. was “matter.” He was matter at any rate in reference to this special work, and, therefore, when we had arrived at that vital point we told him,—I had been commissioned to do so,—that we did not require his attendance just at present. I am bound to say that Mr. X. behaved well to the end, but I do not think that he ever warmed to the “Panjandrum” after that. I fancy that he owns two or three periodicals now, and hires his editors quite as easily as he does his butlers,—and with less regard to their characters.
I spent a nervous day in anticipation of that meeting. Pat Regan was with me all day, and threatened dissolution. “There isn’t a fellow in the world,” said he, “that I love better than Walter Watt, and I’d go to Jamaica to serve him;”—when the time came, which it did, oh, so soon! he was asked to go no further than Kensal Green;—“but——!” and then Pat paused.
“You’re ready to quarrel with him,” said I, “simply because he won’t laugh at your jokes.”
“There’s a good deal in that,” said Regan; “and when two men are in a boat together each ought to laugh at the other’s jokes. But the question isn’t as to our laughing. If we can’t make the public laugh sometimes we may as well shut up shop. Walter is so intensely serious that nothing less austere than lay sermons will suit his conscience.”
“Let him preach his sermon, and do you crack your jokes. Surely we can’t be dull when we have you and Jack Hallam?”
“Jack’ll never write a line,” said Regan; “he only comes for the muffins. Then think of Churchill Smith, and the sort of stuff he’ll expect to force down our readers’ throats.”
“Smith is sour, but never tedious,” said I. Indeed, I expected great things from Smith, and so I told my friend.
“‘Lydia’ will write,” said Pat. We used to call her Lydia behind her back. “And so will Churchill Smith and Watt. I do not doubt that they have quires written already. But no one will read a word of it. Jack, and you, and I will intend to write, but we shall never do anything.”
This I felt to be most unjust, because, as I have said before, I was already engaged upon the press. My work was not remunerative, but it was regularly done. “I am afraid of nothing,” said I, “but distrust. You can move a mountain if you will only believe that you can move it.”
“Just so;—but in order to avoid the confusion consequent on general motion among the mountains, I and other men have been created without that sort of faith.” It was always so with my poor friend, and, consequently, he is now Attorney-General at a Turtle Island. Had he believed as I did,—he and Jack,—I still think that the “Panjandrum” might have been a great success. “Don’t you look so glum,” he went on to say. “I’ll stick to it, and do my best. I did put Lord Bateman into rhymed Latin verse for you last night.”