Chapter 41
decease of the review—homerhimself—bread and cheese—finger and thumb—impossible to find—somethinggrand—universal mixture—publisher
Time passed away, and with it the Review, which,contrary to the publisher's expectation, did not prove a successfulspeculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as allReviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send theirpublications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have alreadyhinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class,who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages.The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I canattribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriouslycirculated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it wasan infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhereelse. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an authorto be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from theinjury he received by Lord Chesterfield's remark that the speeches of hisheroes were frequently exceedingly low.
So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps nolonger existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations—theeditor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remainingcopies of his Quintilian—the inferior members to working for the publisher,being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, tocollecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials.Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious thanever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for mylabours in the deceased publication.
'Sir,' said the publisher, 'what do you want themoney for?'
'Merely to live on,' I replied; 'it is verydifficult to live in this town without money.'
'How much money did you bring with you to town?'demanded the publisher.
'Some twenty or thirty pounds,' I replied.
'And you have spent it already?'
'No,' said I, 'not entirely; but it is fastdisappearing.'
'Sir,' said the publisher, 'I believe you to beextravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!'
'On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?'
'Sir,' said the publisher, 'you eat meat.'
'Yes,' said I, 'I eat meat sometimes; what shouldI eat?'
'Bread, sir,' said the publisher; 'bread andcheese.'
'So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; butI cannot often afford it—it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese,especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinnercost me fourteenpence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one mustdrink porter, sir.'
'Then, sir, eat bread—bread alone. As good men asyourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If withbread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps,drink water, sir.'
However, I got paid at last for my writings in theReview, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certainbills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteenmonths after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to anyaccount; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent,consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what wasstill more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in airbetween his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action,that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however,for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, ifthe present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no oneelse that would.
But if the treatment which I had experienced fromthe publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear,that which I subsequently underwent was far more so: his great delight seemedto consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, hewas continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, henow was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find;the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently beentried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected andedited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he causedto be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was thelife of 'Gentleman Harry.' 'They are drugs, sir,' said the publisher, 'drugs;that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar—has itnot, Taggart?'
Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch ofsnuff. The reader, has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilstgiving an account of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart'spardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silentman—yet there was much in Taggart—and Taggart had always been civil and kind tome in his peculiar way.
'Well, young gentleman,' said Taggart to me onemorning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling,'how do you like authorship?'
'I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I amengaged in,' said I.
'What do you call authorship?' said Taggart.
'I scarcely know,' said I; 'that is, I canscarcely express what I think it.'
'Shall I help you out?' said Taggart, turninground his chair, and looking at me.
'If you like,' said I.
'To write something grand,' said Taggart, takingsnuff; 'to be stared at—lifted on people's shoulders—'
'Well,' said I, 'that is something like it.'
Taggart took snuff. 'Well,' said he, 'why don'tyou write something grand?'
'I have,' said I.
'What?' said Taggart.
'Why,' said I, 'there are those ballads.'
Taggart took snuff.
'And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.'
Taggart took snuff again.
'You seem to be very fond of snuff,' said I,looking at him angrily.
Taggart tapped his box.
'Have you taken it long?'
'Three-and-twenty years.'
'What snuff do you take?'
'Universal mixture.'
'And you find it of use?'
Taggart tapped his box.
'In what respect?' said I.
'In many—there is nothing like it to get a manthrough; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.'
'Have you been long here?'
'Three-and-twenty years.'
'Dear me,' said I; 'and snuff brought you through?Give me a pinch—pah, I don't like it,' and I sneezed.
'Take another pinch,' said Taggart.
'No,' said I, 'I don't like snuff.'
'Then you will never do for authorship; at leastfor this kind.'
'So I begin to think—what shall I do?'
Taggart took snuff.
'You were talking of a great work—what shall itbe?'
Taggart took snuff.
'Do you think I could write one?'
Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap,he did not, however.
'It would require time,' said I, with a half sigh.
Taggart tapped his box.
'A great deal of time; I really think that myballads—'
Taggart took snuff.
'If published, would do me credit. I'll make aneffort, and offer them to some other publisher.'
Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.
Chapter 42
francis ardry—that won't do,sir—observe my gestures—i think you improve—better than politics—delightfulyoung frenchwoman—a burning shame—paunch—voltaire—lump of sugar
Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This younggentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionablesquare, kept a livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style.Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servantthat his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait afew minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had noobjection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamberto a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I could see FrancisArdry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressivemanner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door; but,ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me,exclaimed, 'Come in—come in by all means'; and then proceeded, as before,speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed hissummons.
On entering the room I perceived anotherindividual, to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this otherwas a short spare man of about sixty; his hair was of badger grey, and his facewas covered with wrinkles—without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, whichwas black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepestattention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp,cracked voice, 'That won't do, sir; that won't do—more vehemence—your argumentis at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence—you must confusethem, stun them, stultify them, sir'; and, at each of these injunctions, hestruck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. 'Good,sir—good!' he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as thevoice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. 'Infinitely good!' he exclaimed,as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; 'and now, sir, abate;let the tempest of vehemence decline—gradually, sir; not too fast. Good,sir—very good!' as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence.'And now a little pathos, sir—try them with a little pathos. That won't do,sir—that won't do,'—as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,—'thatwill never pass for pathos—with tones and gesture of that description you willnever redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, andpay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.'
Thereupon, making use of nearly the same termswhich Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered severalsentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express aconsiderable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people wouldhave thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause,Francis Ardry recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitorin the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burstinto a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided itwere ever my wont to laugh. 'Ha, ha!' said the other, good-humouredly, 'you arelaughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you sawvery well what I meant; upon the whole I think you improve. But I must now go,having two other pupils to visit before four.'
Then taking from the table a kind ofthree-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by thehand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended witha strange grimace, and departed.
'Who is that gentleman?' said I to Francis Ardry,as soon as we were alone.
'Oh, that is ——' said Frank, smiling, 'thegentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.'
'And what need have you of elocution?'
'Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,'said Francis, 'who insist that I should, with the assistance of ——, qualifymyself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I havesome natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, Ihave particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them.'
'But,' said I, 'you are a Roman Catholic; and Ithought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?'
'Why, upon that very thing the whole matterhinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded fromParliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that Icare anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; mythoughts are fixed on something better than politics.'
'I understand you,' said I; 'dog-fighting—well, Ican easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting—'
'I was not thinking of dog-fighting,' said FrancisArdry, interrupting me.
'Not thinking of dog-fighting!' I ejacul*ted.
'No,' said Francis Ardry, 'something higher andmuch more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.'
'Dear me,' said I, 'I thought I had heard you saythat there was nothing like it!'
'Like what?' said Francis Ardry.
'Dog-fighting, to be sure,' said I.
'Pooh,' said Francis Ardry; 'who but the gross andunrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages mywaking and sleeping thoughts is love—divine love—there is nothing like that.Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you.'
And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me hisconfidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make theacquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette LaNoire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intentionof obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a positionwhich, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified tofill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention forthe present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England,her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from theoccupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover—for itappeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in theworld—succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsomefirst floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderablepresents in money and jewellery. 'I am looking out for a handsome gig andhorse,' said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration: 'it were aburning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place likeLondon on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.'
'But,' said I, 'will not the pursuit of politicsprevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?'
'It will prevent me devoting all my time,' saidFrancis Ardry, 'as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me toqualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal.If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible—unless I have recourse toJews and money-lenders—to support Annette; present her with articles of dressand jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying herangelic person through the streets of London.'
After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appearedlost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette,I broke silence by observing, 'So your fellow-religionists are really going tomake a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?'
'Yes,' said Francis Ardry, starting from hisreverie; 'everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at leastfor us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for theoccasion—a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificentimpudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of Ireland inhis mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, draggingmyself and others behind him—he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut afigure; I have heard —— himself, who has heard him speak, say that he will cuta figure.'
'And is —— competent to judge?' I demanded.
'Who but he?' said Francis Ardry; 'no onequestions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on thatpoint is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdainoccasionally to consult him; C—— himself, as I have been told, when anxious toproduce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in ——for a consultation.'
'As to matter, or manner?' said I.
'Chiefly the latter,' said Francis Ardry, 'thoughhe is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in hisday, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was notexactly qualified to play the latter part—"I want paunch," said he.'
'It is not always indispensable,' said I; 'thereis an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not onlyleads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch:but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which ——wants?'
'No more deficient in it than in brass,' saidFrancis Ardry.
'Well,' said I, 'whatever his qualifications maybe, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up—I love religiousliberty.'
'We shall succeed,' said Francis Ardry; 'John Bullupon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to bebacked by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, wouldjoin with Satan himself.'
'There is one thing,' said I, 'connected with thismatter which surprises me—your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowancefor your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamouredstate of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to meunaccountable.'
'You would not have cause to complain of myindifference,' said Frank, 'provided I thought my country would be benefited bythis movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are theoriginators, 'and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed itsorigin to them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By thepresent move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certaindesigns which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I donot speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow—a half-Italian, half-Englishpriest,—who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual,partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of aglass of gin and water—and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump ofsugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogetherprudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics, and religiousmovements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do soquickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appearbefore her.'
