At length we found tea and a rest for the remainder of the day—not before they were necessary.
LXIII.
The rain rained all the remainder of the afternoon, and winds blew, and evening mists eventually hid the dismal prospect. All the available literature of the hotel lay in railway-guides and directories, an old copy of the “Pickwick Papers,” and a copy of a new humorist, whose work I am not going to mention by title. We glanced at Dickens with little satisfaction. His humour has long gone threadbare; Pickwickian feasts do not divert nowadays; the spreads are not appetising; the cakes are stale; the ale flat. As for the new humorist, he gave us, as the Noo ’umor would have it, “the hump.” No man can read the Noo ’umor and yet retain his literary digestion unimpaired. It seems the distinguishing mark of this appalling novelty that its sentences be cut up into short sharp lengths, with an effort at smartness; more often, though, the result, instead of being smart, is merely silly.
But in authorship, even as in M.P.ship, there is, in these days, much queer company, for, mark you, we may have in these latter times our Stevenson, but also our Sullivan, of the dishonoured prize-ring; a Barrie, but, per contra, him whom we may call by analogy Monsieur de Londres, throttling Mr. Berry: these have each his place in the catalogue of the British Museum Library, and, title for title, they bulk the same, although the difference between them is the very considerable one existing between letters and pothooks. As for the Society of the Talking Shop at Westminister, are not ——[12] and ——[12] its admired and honoured members?
We found, too, some crumpled copies of local newspapers. Lord! how can any one on this God’s earth read such chronicles of small beer. But to whom had that stale copy of the Guardian belonged that we discovered behind the horsehair sofa? The Wreck found it with joy, for its bulk promised plenty reading; but he presently slung the thing into the coal-scuttle, with remarks uncomplimentary, to say the least of them, to that flatulent print.
“Divinity,” said he, “I can understand, and ordinary worldly matters I appreciate better still; but hang me if I can make much sense out of that abominable mixture of this and other worldliness that seems to be a printed corroboree by Fleet Street journalists masquerading in alb and crucible.”
“Chasuble, you mean, dear boy,” I remarked.
“No matter,” he replied, with the slanginess which I grieve to report; “they’re all the same price to me. Let’s go out.”
And we went.