from “the wallypug’s own”
The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this:
“Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in Latin, ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ which means, ‘I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle’, which has been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who lived here then, didn’t understand Latin, and so they went for Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen’s helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus, to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in Latin, ‘Et tu, Brute,’ which means ‘Oh, you brute,’ and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of Julius Caesar landing in Britain—that’s him waving things, and calling to the others to come on.”
The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this:
“You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can’t you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn’t.”
The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows:
“You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken.”
The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate.