Something must be done. “Perhaps,” said I, turning to the lady, “Mrs. St. Quinten will begin by giving us her ideas as to our first number. She will tell us what she intends to do for us herself.” She was still embarrassed by the tea-things. And I acknowledge that I was led to appeal to her at that moment because it was so. If I could succeed in extracting ideas they would be of infinitely more use to us than the reading of manuscript. To get the thing “licked into shape” must be our first object. As I had on this evening walked up to the sombre street leading into the new road in which Mrs. St. Quinten lived I had declared to myself a dozen times that to get the thing “licked into shape” was the great desideratum. In my own imaginings I had licked it into some shape. I had suggested to myself my own little introductory poem as a commencement, and Pat Regan’s Latin ballad as a pretty finish to the first number. Then there should be some thirty pages of dialogue,—or trialogue,—or hexalogue if necessary, between the different members of our Board, each giving, under an assumed name, his view of what a perfect magazine should be. This I intended to be the beginning of a conversational element which should be maintained in all subsequent numbers, and which would enable us in that light and airy fashion which becomes a magazine to discuss all subjects of politics, philosophy, manners, literature, social science, and even religion if necessary, without inflicting on our readers the dulness of a long unbroken essay. I was very strong about these conversations, and saw my way to a great success,—if I could only get my friends to act in concert with me. Very much depended on the names to be chosen, and I had my doubts whether Watt and Churchill Smith would consent to this slightly theatrical arrangement. Mrs. St. Quinten had already given in her adhesion, but was doubting whether she would call herself “Charlotte,”—partly after Charlotte Corday and partly after the lady who cut bread and butter, or “Mrs. Freeman,”—that name having, as she observed, been used before as a nom de plume,—or “Sophronie,” after Madame de Sévigné, who was pleased so to call herself among the learned ladies of Madame de Rambouillet’s bower. I was altogether in favour of Mrs. Freeman, which has the merit of simplicity; but that was a minor point. Jack Hallam had chosen his appellation. Somewhere in the Lowlands he had seen over a small shop-door the name of John Neverapenny; and “John Neverapenny” he would be. I turned it over on my tongue a score of times, and thought that perhaps it might do. Pat wanted to call himself “The O’Blazes,” but was at last persuaded to adopt the quieter name of “Tipperary,” in which county his family had been established since Ireland was,—settled I think he said. For myself I was indifferent. They might give me what title they pleased. I had had my own notion, but that had been rejected. They might call me “Jones” or “Walker,” if they thought proper. But I was very much wedded to the idea, and I still think that had it been stoutly carried out the results would have been happy.
I was the first to acknowledge that the plan was not new. There had been the “Noctes,” and some imitations even of the “Noctes.” But then, what is new? The “Noctes” themselves had been imitations from older works. If Socrates and Hippias had not conversed, neither probably would Mr. North and his friends. “You might as well tell me,” said I, addressing my colleagues, “that we must invent a new language, find new forms of expression, print our ideas in an unknown type, and impress them on some strange paper. Let our thoughts be new,” said I, “and then let us select for their manifestation the most convenient form with which experience provides us.” But they didn’t see it. Mrs. St. Quinten liked the romance of being “Sophronie,” and to Jack and Pat there was some fun in the nicknames; but in the real thing for which I was striving they had no actual faith. “If I could only lick them into shape,” I had said to myself at the last moment, as I was knocking at Mrs. St. Quinten’s door.
Mrs. St. Quinten was nearer, to my way of thinking, in this respect than the others; and therefore I appealed to her while the tea-things were still before her, thinking that I might obtain from her a suggestion in favour of the conversations. The introductory poem and the Latin ballad were gone. For spilt milk what wise man weeps? My verses had not even left my pocket. Not one there knew that they had been written. And I was determined that not one should know. But my conversations might still live. Ah, if I could only blend the elements! “Sophronie,” said I, taking courage, and speaking with a voice from which all sense of shame and fear of failure were intended to be banished; “Sophronie will tell us what she intends to do for us herself.”
I looked into my friend’s face and saw that she liked it. But she turned to her cousin, Churchill Smith, as though for approval,—and met none. “We had better be in earnest,” said Churchill Smith, without moving a muscle in his face or giving the slightest return to the glance which had fallen upon him from his cousin.
“No one can be more thoroughly in earnest than myself,” I replied.
“Let us have no calling of names,” said Churchill Smith. “It is inappropriate, and especially so when a lady is concerned.”
“It has been done scores of times,” I rejoined; “and that too in the very highest phases of civilisation, and among the most discreet of matrons.”
“It seems to me to be twaddle,” said Walter Watt.
“To my taste it’s abominably vulgar,” said Churchill Smith.
“It has answered very well in other magazines,” said I.