“Please sir, you’re wanted,” says Mary, opening the door upon her repeated knocks gaining no attention; and then, after an angry parley, I am caught—regularly limed, trapped, netted by the words “particular business.”
A tall gentlemanly man wanting to see me on particular business. What can it be? Perhaps it is to edit The Times; perhaps to send Dr Russell home, after taking his pencil and note-book out of his war-correspondent hands; or maybe to put out the GAS of the Daily Telegraph. Is it to elevate the Standard, distribute the Daily News, act as astronomer-royal to the Morning and Evening Stars, to roll the Globe, or be its Atlas, take the spots from the face of the Sun, blow the great trumpet of the Morning Herald, literary field-marshal in some review, rebuild some damaged or exploded magazine? What can the business be? Not stage business, certainly, for that is not my branch. Law? perhaps so. A legacy—large, of course, or one of the principals would not have come down instead of writing. It must be so: I am next of kin to somebody, and I shall buy that estate after all.
Enter tall gentlemanly man upon his particular business of a private nature; and then, being a quiet, retiring person, to whom it is painful to speak rudely or without that glaze which is commonly called politeness, I suffer a severe cross-examination as to age, wife’s ditto, number of children, and so on. I am told of the uncertainty of life—the liability of the thread to snap, without the aid of the scissors of Atropos—how strengthening the knowledge of having made provision for my ewe and lambs would be if I were ill; how small the amount would be; how large a bonus would be added if I assured at once; how mine would be sure to be a first-class life—he had not seen the phials and pill-boxes in the bedroom cupboard—how nothing should be put off until to-morrow which could be done to-day, which I already knew; how a friend of his had written twelve reasons why people should assure, which reasons he kindly showed to me; and told me an abundance of things which he said I ought to know. He had answer pat for every possible or impossible objection that I could make, having thoroughly crammed himself for his task; and he knocked me down, bowled me over, got me up in corners, over the ropes, in Chancery, fell upon me heavily; in fact, as the professors of the “noble art” would say—the noble art of self-defence and offence to the world—had it all his own way.
I had no idea what a poor debater I was, or that I could be so severely handled. My ignorance was surprising; and I should have been melancholy afterwards instead of angry, if I had not consoled myself with the idea that I was not in training for a life assurance fight.
I recalled the answer made by a friend to a strong appeal from a class office, and that was, that he was neither a medical nor a general, and therefore not eligible; at the same time holding the door open for his visitor’s exit. But then I did not feel myself equal to such a task, and however importunate and troublesome a visitor might be, I somehow felt constrained to treat him in a gentlemanly manner. I tried all the gentle hints I could, and then used more forcible ones; but the gentlemanly man seemed cased in armour of proof, from which my feeble shafts glanced and went anywhere; while, whenever he saw that I was about to make a fresh attack, he was at me like Mr Branestrong, QC, and beat down my guard in a moment. It took a long time to eradicate the bland, but it went at last, and a faint flush seemed to make its way into my face, while to proceed to extremities, there was a peculiar nervous twitching in one toe, originating in its debility caused by a table once falling upon it, but now the twitches seemed of a growing or expanding nature, and as if they were struggling hard to become kicks. It was pain unutterable, especially when the moral law asserted its rights, and an aspect of suavity was ruled by reason to be the order of the day—if allied with firmness.
“If allied with firmness.” Ah! but there was the rub, for firmness had turned craven and vanished at the first appearance of my visitor.
“No; I would rather not assure then; I would think it over; I would make up my mind shortly; I felt undecided as to the office I should choose,” were my replies, et hoc genus omne; but all was of no avail, and at last I acknowledged to myself that I could not hold my own, and must speak very strongly to get rid of my unwelcome friend, who solved my problem himself by asking whether I admired poetry.
Presuming that this was to change the conversation, preparatory to taking his leave, I replied, “Yes.”
“Then he would read me a short poem on the subject in question,” and drawing from his pocket a piece of paper, he began in a most forced declamatory style to read some doggerel concerning a gentleman who was taken to heaven, but who left a wife and seven—rhyme to heaven—and whose affairs would have been most unsatisfactory if he had not assured his life.
But my friend did not finish, being apparently startled by some look or movement upon my part, which caused him to hurriedly say “Good morning,” and to promise to call again, as I seemed busy.