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Page 6
* * * * *
"KEEPING-UP THE CHRISTOPHER."--(_A Note from an Old
Friend_).--"CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS" indeed! As years ago I told _Sairey
Gamp_ about her bothering _Mrs. Harris_, "I don't believe there's no
sich a person." That's what I says, says I, about COLUMBUS, wich ain't
like any other sort of "bus" as I see before my blessed eyes every
day.
Yours, ELIZABETH PRIG.
P.S.--Mr. EDWIN JOHNSON, him as wrote to the _Times_ last Saturday, is
of my opinion. Good Old JOHNSON!
* * * * *
"HONORIS CAUS�."--To Mr. GRANVILLE MONEY, son of the Rector of
Weybridge, whose gallant rescue of a lady from drowning has recently
been recorded, _Mr. Punch_ grants the style and title of "Ready
MONEY."
* * * * *
QUESTION AND ANSWER.--"Why don't I write Plays?" Why should I?
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XV.--TO SWAGGER.
[Illustration]
Not long ago I reminded you of CHEPSTOWE, the incomparable poet who
was at one time supposed to have revolutionised the art of verse.
Now he is forgotten, the rushlight which he never attempted to
hide under the semblance of a bushel, has long since nickered its
last, his boasts, his swelling literary port, his quarrels, his
affectations--over all of them the dark waves of oblivion have passed
and blotted them from the sand on which he had traced them. But in his
day, as you remember, while yet he held his head high and strutted
in his panoply, he was a man of no small consequence. Quite an army
of satellites moved with him, and did his bidding. To one of them
he would say, "Praise me this author," and straightway the fire of
eulogy would begin. To another he would declare--and this was his more
frequent course--"So-and-so has dared to hint a fault in one of us;
he has hesitated an offensive dislike. Let him be scarified," and
forthwith the painted and feathered young braves drew forth their axes
and scalping-knives, and the work of slaughter went merrily forward.
Youth, modesty, honest effort, genuine merit, a manifest desire to
range apart from the loud storms of literary controversy, these were
no protection to the selected victim. And of course the operations of
the Chepstowe-ites, like the "plucking" imagined by _Major Pendennis_,
were done in public. For they had their organ. Week by week in _The
Metropolitan Messenger_ they disburdened themselves, each one of his
little load of spite and insolence and vanity, and with much loud
shouting and blare of adulatory trumpets called the attention of the
public to their heap of purchasable rubbish. There lived at this time
a great writer, whose name and fame are still revered by all who love
strong, nervous English, vivid description, and consummate literary
art. He stood too high for attack. Only in one way could the herd
of passionate prigs who waited on CHEPSTOWE do him an injury. They
could attempt, and did, to imitate his style in their own weekly
scribblings. _Corruptio optimi pessima_. There is no other phrase
that describes so well the result of these imitative efforts. All the
little tricks of the great man's humour were reproduced and defaced,
the clear stream of his sentences was diverted into muddy channels,
the airy creatures of his imagination were weighted with lead and made
to perform hideous antics. Never had there been so riotous a jargon
of distorted affectation and ponderous balderdash. Smartness--of a
sort--these gentlemen, no doubt, possessed. It is easy to be accounted
smart in a certain circle, if only you succeed in being insolent.
Merit of this order the band could boast of plenteously.
One peculiarity, too, must be noted in _The Metropolitan Messenger_.
It had a magnetic attraction for all the sour and sorry failures whose
reputation and income, however greatly in excess of their deserts,
had not equalled their expectation. The Cave of Adullam could not have
been more abundantly stocked with discontent. It is the custom of the
_rat�s_ everywhere to attempt to prevent, or, if that be impossible,
to decry success in others, in order to exalt themselves. The
"Metropolitans" followed the example of many unillustrious
predecessors, though it must, in justice, be added, that they would
have been shocked to hear anyone impute to them a want of originality
in their curious methods. In the counsels of these literary bravos,
WILLIAM GRUBLET held a high place. At the University, where he had
pursued a dull and dingy career of modified respectability, not much
was thought or spoken of GRUBLET. If he was asked what profession he
proposed to adopt, he would wink knowingly, and reply, "Journalism."
It sounded well--it gave an impression of influence, and future power,
and, moreover, it committed him to nothing. It is just as easy to say
"Journalism," in answer to the stock question, as it is to deliver
yourself over, by anticipation, to the Bar, the Church, or the Stock
Exchange. Hundreds of young men at both our ancient Universities
look upon Journalism as the easiest and most attractive of all the
professions. In the first place there are no Examinations to bar
the way, and your ordinary Undergraduate loathes an Examination as
a rat may be supposed to loathe a terrier. What can be easier--in
imagination--than to dash off a leading article, a biting society
sketch, a scathing review, to overturn ancient idols, to inaugurate
movements, to plan out policies? All this GRUBLET was confident
of being able to do, and he determined, on the strength of a few
successful College Essays, and a reputation for smartness, acquired
at the expense of his dwindling circle of intimates, to do it. He
took his degree, and plunged into London. There, for a time, he was
lost to public sight. But I know that he went through the usual
contest. Rejected manuscripts poured back into his room. Polite,
but unaccommodating Editors, found that they had no use for vapid
imitations of ADDISON, or feeble parodies of CHARLES LAMB. Literary
appreciations, that were to have sent the ball of fame spinning up the
hill of criticism, grew frowsy and dog's-eared with many postages to
and fro.
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