University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XX.

We were hardly seated on our arrival at a magnificently-furnished,
though retired room, in a large building which I
mistook at the time for the celebrated Crockford club-house,
when preparations were made for play, and I was invited by
Sir George, to join a party; but before I could reply,
Edwards interfered with a look which prevented a repetition
of the request, and assured him that I was invited there as a
friend. I was very grateful, for I did not much like to refuse
before I knew the stake; and I had an idea that as they
were pretended authors, they would not play high, and that
by appearing to have no suspicion of their true character, I
should have a better opportunity of studying it, an idea which
but for his interference might have led me into play, before I
knew where I was.

While they were getting ready, he left the room and I took
that opportunity of reading the paper, which his wife had put
into my hands with a remark which prepared me—shall I
own the truth? shall I own the besetting sin of authorship?
shall I own that I was prepared, not for censure but for high
praise, much higher praise than I got, even by the fear she
expressed of offending me? No—I will not. An author
should never so betray himself. But, as I never had the
truth spoken so plainly to me before, although it was mixed
up with what would have made even truth palatable to any
body on earth, and as I do believe that I shall profit more
by it, one day or other, than by all the praise and all the
censure I ever received, I mean to do what I told her
husband I should do with it—I mean to publish it; and what

is more, I mean to publish it as a part of her own story.
Here it is.

Well Sir—no bad news, I hope?

I looked up. Edwards was standing directly before me
and eyeing me with a look which I thought proper to put an
end to at once. Read it, said I, handing him the paper.

No.

Yes, take it, take it, it will do you good.

He laughed and took the paper as if it were a drug to
swallow. Well, said he, after running his eye rapidly over
it, I hope you are not offended.

Offended! no, faith. I never was more gratified in my
life; I am delighted with her good sense and her courage.

Upon my word, I believe you.

Believe me! that you may. I would quarrel with her if
I could, but she has me on the hip; so bitter, so careless,
and yet so provokingly true—give me the paper.

Certainly, if you wish it.

I do wish it—I would not part with that critique for any
thing.

Why—how your eyes shine! I do believe you are pleased
with it.

You will see one day or other; I mean to publish it.

To publish it!

Yes—to weave it into a book.

The devil you do!

Yes.

Without my leave?

Yes—if I cannot with your leave.

But consider how hastily it was written—it is full of repetitions,
and failures—and a sort of a —

So much the better; if I publish it as it is, every body
will see that it is no invention of the trade. I hate authorship.

So do I—give us your hand.

But we are all authors, are we not? said I, glancing at
Sir George, who stood a little way off watching a hazard
party, and grasping a handful of bank notes, which he drew
out loose from his breeches' pocket.

Authors—why—a—a—yes, in our own way. You are
an author, Barry, addressing himself to a young man who
sat near, and you too, major, are you not?

An author? said Mr. Barry, and then after a minute's hesitation
adding, Ah, yes, to be sure, and the major passed on
with a bow.

I was rather nettled at the tone of Mr. Barry, and after a
short pause, I asked him if he had written much.

Much my dear sir—yes, a good deal.

And about what, said I, angry at the impudent self-possession
of the fellow, who spoke, it appeared to me, with a sort
of sneer.

Oh, about several things, histories, and tragedies, and
novels, and poems, and criticism, and the deuse knows what;
a heap of things altogether.

Indeed.

Quite a heap, I assure you—on the word of an author.

Perhaps you would mention their titles.

Titles—pho pho—as if I cared a fig for a title.

Or as if a title had any thing to do with a book now; said
Sir George.

You may call to mind one, perhaps? you that have written
so much.

One—ay—forty.

Well—

Well—upon my word sir—the fact is—you 'll excuse me.

A general laugh here, but whether at me or at him, I could
not tell; but I was determined to know, before I gave up the
point.

No no, said I, no no, give us the title of something—no
matter what, a history or a novel.

Ever read the History of Jack-the-giant-killer?—playing
with a cribbage-peg as he spoke.

I bowed with what I meant to be a look of surprise and
admiration. Really, said I, I could not have supposed it
possible.

By George, Barry, cried one of the party, he is up to you.

Or Little King Pippin? said Mr. Barry, irritated by a
laugh which followed this remark.

Edwards thought proper to interfere now, and he showed
by his manner that he thought his friend Barry was going a
little too far, as he added—What other histories are read now?
What other books? Nothing but story-books, little and big,
and picture-books, and blue-beards, and black-beards, of a
larger growth.

But said I, addressing myself to Mr. Barry with a determintion
to know whether he had been quizzing me or not, before
I proceeded a step further, You have written a history you
say; tell me the name, if you wish me to believe you.

Have you ever read the History of Connecticut? said
Sir George, with a good-natured laugh.

Nay nay, Sir George—you 'd better not interfere; Brother
Jonathan will take care of himself, I 'll warrant you, said
somebody near me, Edwards I thought—then adding in a
whisper which I overheard—Barry will have his hands full.

There was a sort of a history of Connecticut, said I—addressing
myself to Mr. Barry, and speaking with a very subdued
voice, but in such a way that every body in the room
could hear me—a small anonymous book, which I dare say
Mr. Barry might have been capable of. The author speaks
among other matters of a stream of water which runs so swiftly
between two walls of rock and is so compressed by the
straightness of the passage, that you cannot stick a crow-bar
into it—

Bravo Barry, bravo! that is like you! cried Sir George,
clapping him on the back.

I remember the place, though I do not acknowledge the
history—you may boil an egg in the steam that rises over
it—in cold weather—added Barry without appearing at all
disturbed.

No doubt—caloric disengaged by the pressure, Barry.

Precisely, Sir George—

You have read a book which goes by the name of Hutchinson's
Massachusetts, I hope? said Sir George, turning to
me, evidently with a view to prevent a squabble.

No said I.

Nor Sullivan's District of Maine?

A great while ago, I did—

Our friend Barry, with a wink, always writes under a fictitious
name, or as he calls it—anonymously, added Sir
George; and we all burst out a laughing together. His look
was inimitable.

Your friend Barry is to be regarded as the author, I suppose?

As you like—I say nothing.

Under a fictitious name—or anonymously—you said Sir
George?

At this remark, a sudden strange alteration took place in the
expression of the faces about me. Edwards bit his lip, and
Mr. Barry turned very pale, and a look passed from one to
another, round the whole company, a look which any where,
at any time, would have put me upon my guard.

A sort of tautology I confess, my dear Barry—said Sir
George—recovering himself with an effort—for the only way
of writing anonymously now—to advantage my dear Barry—
is to scribble under a fictitious name.

Sir George!

—Or under another man's name—it stops inquiry—

By God sir! if you—if I—if I thought you had a —

Barry—recollect where you are—

No no Mr. Edwards, no no; a joke's a joke, but no such
twitting, if you please.

Are you mad, Barry!

No other way, my dear Barry—no other way, continued
Sir George, rapping the lid of his snuff-box, and offering a

pinch to his neighbour, as if nothing on earth could ruffle or
disturb him. But I observed his eye as he spoke—it was
riveted on a heap of gold that had been gathered up for play
on the opposite side of the room, and was abiding the issue
of a deal.

You never met with a little story of Barry's, published about
a twelvemonth ago major, did you?

Not knowin' can't say; what 's the name o' the story?

Tom Jones—

Never—

Nor Sir Charles Grandison, hey?

No.

Nor Clarissa Harlow—ah, look o' that, major; five to
four on the dealer—

Done for fifty—

Done—done—

A bite, Sir George.

A bite, how so?

You didn't see the play.

Ah it 's loo, is it; I took it for vignt-un—

Ha ha ha!

But continued Sir George, you have read Clarissa Harlow—haven't
ye major?

Never; these names are all new to me. I should like to
read one o' the lot, if you say it 's worth reading—

Ask Barry.

Not I, faith; I would not take the word of an author for
sixpence—I beg your pardon sir—are they long, Sir George?

Long! no indeed; mere flea-bites my dear major; half
a dozen volumes or so; just the thing—waiter—just the
thing for a lounge under the trees in a hot summer-afternoon
—waiter, I say.

Comin' Sir—

But give us an idea of the plot, Sir George.

A plot for a story, my dear major! why you might as
well advertise for a moral. No no, that fashion has gone by;
what say you, Edwards?

Just what you say, Sir George. You see nothing of plots
now except in speeches and songs and ballads; nor any
thing in the shape of moral now-a-days—

Waiter!

Sir—

A table this way; champaign for five, and fresh cards—

—Except in a charity sermon, or a fable by Mr. Gay—

Or Mr. æsop—

Or a mister any body, who makes little Red-Ridin'-hood
stories for children. A plot indeed! no no—our
fashionable authors are above such tricks o' the trade; most
of them avoid a plot as they would a conspiracy—

Here a table prepared with cards and counters, champaign,
loo-boxes, cribbage, pointers, and a large silver plate,
was trundled up to the corner we occupied. But nothing
was said about play, and they seated themselves one after
another, some with their sides to the table and some with
their backs, very much as if they had come together to smoke
a cigar and chat over old stories.

And the hero, Sir George—give us an idea of the hero,
will you?

The hero! that 's a good one, faith—capital!—why do
you think there was only one hero, my dear major!

To be sure I do—one hero—who ever heard of more at
a time?

One hero—and one catastrophe—said somebody near me
who had not opened his mouth before. It was a stranger—
a tall grave man with a deep scar over his temple and the
steadiest eye you ever saw in your life.

Oh how little you understand these matters! why sir,
the public would never endure a story, if it were not crowded
with heroes and heroines, and if every chapter had not a catastrophe
or two of its own—what say you Mr. Holmes—
addresing himself to me.

Why, to tell you the truth—glancing at Edwards,—I am
no longer of that opinion. I thought so, to be sure, till a
certain critic did me the favor to say that one very extraordinary
man was enough, and that even catastrophes may tire
in a novel—since which—

Enough,—I understand you, said he; and I hope she
may prove to be right in daring to tell you the truth—

Founded upon fact, I hope? continued the major, drawing
up to the table as he spoke, and beginning to play with the
fish in the loo-box.

Ay ay, all founded on fact, all historical; an't they,
Edwards? you know.

Of course—of course—very bitterly—nothing else would be
endured just now. Histories have become novels; novels,
histories.

True true; one of Barry's you know—his favorite and
masterpiece I believe was founded on a—

Sir George!

Nay nay, how sensitive you authors are—it was founded
on the true and faithful history of a young man who fell desperately
in love with his own grandmother—

Ninon de l' Enclos, hey?

Ay. It was very popular too, deny it if you can Barry.
Ah my dear Edwards, you have no idea how fond the public
are now of studying history; for ever at work now—night
and day; and then the catastrophe, that was so affecting—

Indeed—

Yes—very—very—for just when the young dog was going
to be rude to his own grandmother, poor boy! their relationship
was discovered—

By a picture I suppose, or a mole or a scar—

Precisely—

What a pity there was no moral, Sir George.

Why, between ourselves, my dear major, though neither
morals nor manners are regarded now, in your first-rate hero,
by your first-rate novel-reader, there was—to tell to you
the truth my dear major, a sort of a moral invented for it—

Or discovered—

Or discovered for it; just for the sake of appearances, to
help off a third or fourth edition among the third and fourth
class of novel-readers—

But how, pray?

Oh, as usual. The publisher offered a reward, and a reviewer
soon found a moral for it; and a very good moral
it was too. He discovered that the whole work was a
stout and courageous assault upon romping grandmothers and
flirtation; a warning to such as run the risk of grandchildren
without leave, a severe side-wind attack upon the profligacy
of high life, hypocrisy, concealment, paint, patches,
and coquetry with boys—in old age; and best of all, he discovered
a defence of the church in it—

A defence of the church!

Ay, of the levitical marriage-table—how serious you are,
my dear fellow—to Edwards; You are not offended we
hope; have we gone too far—glancing at me.

No no—I was only thinking that if authors would agree
to work together in partnership, how much better it would
be for them—

Don't you believe it!

A company of authors now, like a troop of players, playing
for shares—

My dear fellow! there's nothing new in that idea; if you
look into the best novels of the day, and the best poetry of
our age, you will see that in every case, the author has a
company of his own—a regular troop, ready to undertake a
drama of a thousand pages or so, at a few weeks' notice—

Very true, Sir George, very true; it's only changing
their dresses, and giving them a new name a piece, and crack!
you have a new novel, or poem, or tragedy half tossed up to
your hands. One of these managers will keep four or five heroes
to himself—hard at work all the year round. Others are
satisfied if they can secure two or three for tragedy in a summer-campaign—trusting
to chance among runaways, stragglers,
strollers, for broad farce and pantomine. Others having no
easier way of getting a livelihood, may be seen skulking about
among the supernumeraries, and back-door gentry, who are
always to be met with in the neighbourhood of our chief authors—

Very true—

—Seducing this one away by a promise of better fare,
and that by an appeal to his pride; borrowing a clown from
this company, and a fool from that, an old woman here and
a dwarf there, now snapping up a hero from Bartle'my fair,
and now running off with a star from Lead-an'-all street.—

A walking gentleman or two from God knows where—

—And a bit of the brogue from Convent-garden or DruryLane—

—Or a candle-snuffer from some private theatre of the
west-end, where the actors who are generally more numerous
than the spectators, do whatever they do at all, with a tragedy-step—

Very fair, Edwards, very fair; I see what you are driving
at. However, do you know—addressing himself to me, and
lifting a bottle from which the cork had just been drawn—do
you know—there sir, try that sir—filling a large glass for
me as he spoke—that is what we call champaign sir—no
gooseberry there—do you know my dear sir, that the most
effectual catastrophe of our day, and just now the talk of the
town is—Ah bless me!

Here a pack of cards which he had been playing with
slipped from the pressure of his hand with such a spring that
one or two of the cards flew half across the room—

Five to fifty, I name that card sir! cried one of the party
at the other table, jumping up as he spoke and setting his
foot on the card, which lay face down.

I was about to speak, merely to say that the chances were
as one to fifty-two, when Edwards prevented me by a pressure
of the arm, and the bet was taken by Sir George, who proceeded
with what he was going to say, while the other named
the card and acknowledged he had lost—A very capital
idea, I promise you; a catastrophe worthy of our day; a
brother and sister marry each other in the last page of a
fourth volume; she in the dress of a man, he in the dress of
a woman, each believing the other to be what the dress intimated—

Pshaw! how could that be! did the woman disguised as
a man desire to marry a man; or the man disguised as a
woman desire to marry a —

How should I know! I only mention the facts—a laugh—
the work is now under consideration, catastrophe plot and
all; Another—and all eyes were turned upon Barry who appeared
to be getting very uneasy; but you are not aware perhaps
that novels are made now, the characters of which are so
mixed up together, and so doubled and twisted into each

other—sir! to Edwards, what the devil was that for! never
tread on a fellow's toe; but if you have any thing to say,
out with it like a man—

A very hearty laugh, in which I could not join for the life
of me; particularly after he added, that a book had lately
appeared, the characters of which were so mixed up together,
that although he had read it with great pleasure, he had
never been able to say which was which.

You have won—double or quits on the other card sir
George, if you—

Done—

Ah, but you didn't hear me through, Sir George!

Ha ha ha! that reminds me of a bet I heard in your
country, said Sir George, addressing himself to me. A dispute
occurred between two people where I was. After it
had continued a good while, one of the two struck his hands
together and offered a bet in the usual way there—

A beaver-hat, I suppose—

No, a dozen of madeira; but before the words were well
out of his mouth, he was taken up; I'll bet you a—a—very
deliberately—said one of the two, a dozen of Madei—
Done! said another with a snap—Ah, but you did not take
me up quick enough! replied the first.

Admirable! thought I; for his imitation was perfect; and
I was just going to say that he had hit off the manners of my
countrymen as well as ever Mathews did, when we were
interrupted by a remark about a tragedy, actually in rehearsal
at the time, all made up of heroes and heroines, most
of whom appeared on the stage only to give a soliloquy or a
speech and be killed—

Of course—what would you have in tragedy?

Ay, and the characters are all married on the stage—

A catastrophe indeed—

Ah but that is only a part of the catastrophe; for then
sir—then!—they all die, every one of them, in their nuptial
robes, with all their flowering coronets on—

Ah!—

In all their bridal purity—

Do they indeed? that must be very awful, but how—

By the yellow-fever—

Devil take you Sir George! you are laughing at me.

My dear major! how could you imagine me capable of
such a thing—

What is the name of the tragedy you speak of? said I—
with a woful misgiving, though I saw his eye fixed upon poor
Mr. Barry.

I forget—I believe though, if I do not mistake—but by the
by, have you seen the Murderers—

Another tragedy I suppose; and full of murder—

No such thing, my dear sir—not a murder in it, nor a
death, nor a naughty word, nor a drop of blood spilt from
beginning to end. The author is a reformer—you must have
heard of it—he is a countryman of yours. He doesn't like
Mr. Shakspeare—quite shocking he says, people are cut up
so many times, and in such a variety of ways by him, that
his great tragedies are exceedingly improbable. And so, his
tragedy is full of madmen, ghosts, and goblins, which prove
to be neither goblins, ghosts, nor madmen; every character
in it is a hero; and every speech a soliloquy or something
worse, and about one fourth of every page is employed in
particular directions to every body, heroes, scene-shifters
and all, how to stand, how to step, how to look, and how to
use their pocket-handkerchiefs—

Ah, said I, with a very unsteady look—ah but why, Sir
George?

Several reasons were given by the author, after his tragedy
appeared, among which—

Oh it appeared then, did it, cried I, inexpressibly relieved;
for some how or other, I had begun to fear that my turn
had come to be baited.

Yes—it appeared—published, though never played that I
know of—

I had not another word to say.

He chose to write something he said, between a novel
and a play, to compound the properties of the two—narrative
and the drama; to give a connected story, to describe
the looks and behaviour of all parties, as you would in a book,
so that if it did not do for the stage, it might do for the closet—

For the closet—Umph—

—To relieve the actor from the trouble of study, to embody
the whole conception of the author, about which no two
actors ever agree, in such a way, that hereafter it would be
impossible for any two actors of that play ever to disagree.