“Come, Fred, what must he done had best not be delayed”—and I pointed, as I spoke, to a huge pile of manuscripts modestly offered for my “careful perusal,” and patiently awaiting their doom—a place in the accepted or rejected list. My companion, my confidential reader and critic, groaned, both audibly and in spirit, and drew up his chair opposite to mine.
Names, did you say, reader?
Come, now, that’s modest. After being invited into “our sanctum sanctorum,” you turn round and want a special introduction to the inmates. Well, well, “what’s in a name?” We will invent some for you, especially, and in utter defiance of baptismal appellations call ourselves (not editorially plural, but actually) Harry Smith and Fred Jones, at your service.
It was fearfully hot. All the world, excepting the editors, was at the sea-side. Chestnut Street was deserted, ice-creams at a premium; and in the utter stagnation of social intercourse and business duties, we were to amuse (?) ourselves with looking over manuscripts, which the hurry of the previous months had made it impossible for us to examine. Windows being opened, coats removed, we went to work. For a few moments nothing was heard but the rustling of paper, muttered anathemas upon the heat, or the stupidity of the articles, with an occasional grunt of approbation. Then, a luminous idea struck Fred.
“I say!” he cried, tossing aside an “Ode to Araminta Jane Scraggs.” “This is fearfully stupid.”
“Bright remark of yours,” I growled.
“Now,” continued Fred, unheeding my interruption, “just to vary the matter a little, suppose one of us reads while the other listens, smoking or fanning himself as the spirit moves him ; then we can enjoy the brilliant effusions together.”
“Good!” said I; “you read while I smoke.”
“How kind you are! No, we will take it hour and hour alternately.”
So, by right of seniority in years and editorship, I took the first hour as listener, and Fred read.
Mark the result!
The first article chosen was written in a faint ink, a small delicate hand, on blue tinted paper; the most trying kind of paper and chirography to read. The title was—
The fair daughter of Don Jose Sanguera stepped lightly from the steps of her father’s stately mansion on her way to morning mass. Close beside her walked the stern old duenna, whose place it was to guard the lovely Isabelle from the gaze of the handsome young Dons who thronged the streets of Cadiz. Isabelle was fair, in the style of Castile’s daughters; her jetty tresses curled in profuse masses on a neck fair as driven snow (very Spanish that), and her large, languishing black eyes gleamed from beneath the folds of her veil with dazzling brilliancy. Following closely behind the fair Isabelle and her old protector, with a careless air, as if merely bent on his own pleasure schemes, Don Ruy Garamalda, the mould of fashion and glass of form in all Spain (quotation marks scarce), strode forward, his eyes fixed on the maiden’s face. Yes, the maiden was the fair Isabelle and the black avenger. Where was he? Read on, you will see anon!
“That’s sufficient, Fred; decline, with thanks. What comes next?”
“Poetry!”
On Lucknow when the sun was low,
(“That sounds rather familiar.”)
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
(“Snow in India!”)
And dark as winter was the flow
(“That man never read ‘Hohenlinden,’ of course.”)
Of the Bosphorus rolling rapidly!
(“Geography nowhere!”)
“Go on, Fred,” I said, rather impatiently.
But Lucknow saw another sight
When they woke up at dead of night,
(“Who?”)
And women screamed with all their might,
And Jessie Brown began to fight
The fierce advancing chivalry!
“Read the next verse, Fred!”
Then shook the hills with muskets riven.
Then rushed Zouaves to battle driven.
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Rose Jessie’s red artillery.
But redder yet the fires did glow
On Lucknow’s field of blood-stained snow;
The Russians found it was no go,
And Jessie cried, “Hark! listen! lo!
The Campbells are comin’, heyho! heyho!”
“Well,” cried Fred, “that’s about the tallest specimen of poetry I’ve seen lately! I feel faint, Harry; you must read the next.”
I extended my hand lazily towards the pile, and took up a large yellow envelop. As I broke the seal, a note directed to me fell from it, and I read, within the little envelop, the following epistle:—
Dear Sir I know I can write a story just as well as Jenny G—— who sets up for smart just because she sends articles to the magazines I am as good as she is any day and I want you to print the story sent with this so I can crow over her the next time she begins to talk about her literary career I can be just as good a literary careerer as she is I know
Yours respectfully Mary Ann L——
There was not a punctuation mark from the address to the signature, and the letter bore neither a date nor the writer’s address.
I opened the larger paper. The title of the story sent by this literary aspirant was—
“Before I introduce my heroine let me take my readers to the scene in which my story opens a brilliant ball-room gorgeously lighted with Turkey carpets”—
“What!” cried Fred, “lighted with Turkey carpets!”
“There is no stop after lighted,” I said; “but let’s see if the story is good.”
“Turkey carpets and rich furniture made a scene of regal magnificence a large number of guests were already assembled when the Lady Geraldine entered on her head—”
“Entered on her head !” cried Fred.
“Why don’t the woman punctuate her story?” I said. “How can I know what she means?”
“—entered. On her head she wore a superb wreath of natural flowers and a dress of black lace—”
“On her head ?” inquired Fred.
I was determined to read a little more; so, unheeding Fred’s interruptions, I continued—
“—dress of black lace draped her stately form white satin slippers covered her tiny feet and her rounded white arms—”
“Commodious slippers those,” said Fred.
“—arms were covered with diamond bracelets the flounces of her dress were fastened with artificial flowers depending from her ears—”
“Stuff!” said the incorrigible Fred.
“—depending from her ears were diamond drops and white kid gloves—”
“Original idea that!” said Fred.
“—gloves covered her little hands with stately grace. (Oh, stop after hands.) With stately grace she advanced towards her hostess all eyes fixed upon her cotillions— O bother ! I can’t make common sense out of it! What’s that in your hand, Fred?”
“A most modest letter that came this morning; hear, hear, oh, hear!”
G——, July 11, 18—.
Dear Sir: I have lately been left in embarrassed circumstances by the failure of my husband, and I think I will earn my living by my pen. If you will send me a good plot, the leading characters and main incidents you wish introduced, I will for the sum of $25 write you a good story. Yours respectfully,
Jane R——,
277 B—— St., G——.
“That’s an offer that doesn’t come every day, Harry! I’ll answer Mrs. L——.”
“Here is a piece of poetry with the letter written on the top of the same sheet.”
Dear Sir: In writing the inclosed piece of poetry, I was, I own, imitating the greatest of all modern writers, Charles Dickens. It has been to me a matter of regret that the lines on an ‘Expiring Frog’ were not completed; and as the idea was a good one, I have humbly endeavored to carry out a finished poem on the plan he unfortunately left incomplete. If the poem suits your pages, it is at your service for the sum of $25.
Yours respectfully,
G. E. R——.
Can I, unmoved, see thy lot,
Plunged in water boiling hot,
Struggling, bobbing in the pot,
And not feel sad,
Expiring crab!
What has brought this cruel fate?
The fierce and hunger driven hate
Of an epicure’s pate,
Shell-fish mad,
Expiring crab!
Say, have friends, in search of slaughter,
Dragged thee from thy native water?
Art thy mother’s favorite daughter,
Unfortunate
Expiring crab!
Ha! thy coat is turning red!
The blood has mounted to thy head.
And now, alas, thy spirit’s fled!
Thou art dead,
Expired crab!
“Twenty-five dollars!” Fred said no more. The magnitude of the writer’s impudence struck him dumb.
The next article was fairly written on white paper, in a pretty hand, ladylike, clear, and legible. Fred drew a long breath of satisfaction as he surveyed the neat sheets, and read—
The night clouds hung heavy and dark over the face of nature, and the storm king vented his fury on the earth. The wind howled through the dim recesses of the forest of Clolomen, and in its sobbing, wailing sound, and the shrieks with which it swept past the tall trees, seemed adding the voice of lamentation to the heavy tears nature was shedding, and which fell flooding the earth.
It was a night on which to close the shutters, let down the curtains, draw near the fire, and try, by the sound of merriment within doors, to drown the sound of the storm without.
Yet in this fierce storm, when the elements seemed engaged in the most violent warfare, a woman, a delicate woman was out, exposed to all the fury of the wind and rain, wrapped too in the darkness of the deepest recesses of Clolomen forest. Her garments, saturated by the driving rain, clung to her limbs, impeding her movements, and the wind, which had tossed her hair in wild confusion over her face, battled with every step she made, tasking, her strength to its utmost capacity. Undaunted, she pressed forward!
Throwing aside the darkness which enveloped her, let her stand forth while I sketch her portrait for my reader. See! A tall, graceful figure, in every turn of the graceful neck, every movement of the small hands showing clearly the marks of high breeding. The face, beautiful as a poet’s dream, with its expression of pride and high intellect softened by an exquisite air of refinement. The dress, which the wind and rain treated with so little respect, was of the richest silk, and her velvet cloak, blown back by the wind, left uncovered arms and neck of snowy whiteness, upon which glittered rich jewels. Twisted amongst the dark tresses of hair gleamed diamond stars, and the little feet which pressed on the soaked earth were protected only by dainty white satin slippers.
Darkness wraps her again, yet spite of its gloom she hurries forward. Every path of the intricate forest seems familiar, and neither weariness nor irresolution causes her to pause for an instant. Suddenly, gleaming like a star in the darkness, the light from a lantern was thrown upon the path she followed. It came forward steadily, but slowly, and the gleams revealed the figure of a man, dimly seen in that flickering light. The lonely lady shrank back when the light appeared, and clung trembling to a tree, as if neither darkness nor storm was sufficient protection against discovery. The light advanced slowly, till by a sudden turn the full glare fell upon the woman. The bearer stopped, and with a shaking hand lifted the lantern, till that beautiful face, pallid as that of a corpse, was revealed. Then he spoke, in a low, hoarse tone—
“Again ! do I meet you again?”
Drawing her figure to its full height, the woman cried—
“Ay! and you do not now see me for the last time.”
At that instant her eye fell upon a small casket which the man carried. With a low cry of mingled horror and surprise, she staggered forward, saying—
“Ah, what do I see? Lost! lost! save me!” and fell fainting at the feet of the man.
“Well!”
“That’s all. Stay! here’s a letter, in a different handwriting.”
Dear Sir: Cousin Susan and I were going to write a story. She was to write the first chapter, I the second, she the third, and so on. Last week she sent me the accompanying manuscript, but I am going to be married to-morrow, and have not time to finish it. Won’t you please print it, and let some of your folks write the rest? Put it in the next number, like a dear, clever soul, because I am crazy to know who that woman was, how she came to be out in the rain in that odd dress, and what was in the casket, and what the curse of Clolomen was, and who was the man, and why she fainted, and all about it. Do hurry and finish it, and oblige
Yours truly,
Lizzie L——.
Tossing aside Cousin Susan’s composition, Fred handed me a piece of poetry, and I read—
What is hope? A fair illusion,
Sheltered in a trusting
heart;
Lighting up dark, dire confusion.
Soothing every rankling
smart!
Hope is hopeful, ever hoping.
Doubting nothing, fearing
naught;
Looking forward, never moping,
Heaven born, heaven bred, by the bright angels taught.
“Hold! enough!” said Fred; “throw that aside! Here’s another story.”
“Oh, here’s a letter!”
Dear Sir: I send for your perusal a story written at a time of unspoken anguish, when the torn heart (bother!), yet sore from ill-requited passion (stuff!), rested on the calm current of imagination. (There’s five pages of letter, Harry.)
“Then,” I cried, horror-stricken, “hurry on to the story!”
Fred obeyed, and read as follows:—
“It was midnight! Ebon stars in ebon skies—”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt, Harry.”
“—Ebon skies cast pitchy darkness on Nature’s face—”
“What kind of darkness? Nature must have been very much obliged to her. Go on!”
“—Nature’s face. From the window of a vine-encircled cottage, a fair face looked forth upon the murky gloom without, absorbed in contemplation.”
“The face or the gloom?”
“The lark’s clear strains—”
“Lark at midnight? However, that’s easily turned into a nightingale.”
“That’s not so extraordinary,” said Fred; “I’ve seen a famous lark at midnight!”
“—Sorrow had imprinted its indelible traces upon her alabaster cheek and marble brow; her cerulean eyes were fixed with a stony glare, and her golden tresses thrown carelessly over her ivory shoulders—”
“Hold up, Fred! that young lady is too hard a case for our pages. Throw that aside. Here is a letter inclosing some more poetry.”
“Read on! I will endure!” said Fred, with the air of a martyr.
R—— Seminary, June 17, 18—.
Dear Sir: I took the prize at the last examination for the inclosed piece of poetry, and some of the girls want me to have it published. Jenny H——, a real nice girl, my room-mate, says it’s worth $50, and if you would like to buy it, you can.
Respectfully yours,
Pattie R——.
P. S. Send the money to the care of Mrs. G——, R—— Seminary.
My pretty lamb, come to my bower,
And I’ll protect you from the shower;
Your fleece is white, so is your wool,
And you’re the pet of the whole school.
The blue ribbon tied around your throat
Will fade in the rain in which you’re caught;
Come to my arms, my saturated friend.
My sheltering cloak I’ll freely to you lend!
Little lamb, with fleece so white,
Why don’t you run with all your might?
Don’t stand so still and cry Baa! Baa!
But run out of the rain to your anxious ma.
“Good gracious!” said Fred; “of all the bread and butter poetry I ever did read, that is the worst. Here are some lines:”—
“Was the writer or the daisy confined by sickness?”
“I’ll read it and see.”
Wafting a breeze
From forest trees
To my lonely couch—
Pretty thing
From Nature’s spring.
Dear Sir: I can’t find any rhyme for couch; but if you like the rest you can put in that line.
“O bother !” said Fred.
“What’s this?”
It was a fête day in the court of James the First. Royalty, beauty, wealth, all contributed to make the scene one of gorgeous splendor. Assembled near the throne were magnates from all countries; George Washington stood side by side with the lovely but unfortunate Marie Antoinette, and viewed with republican scorn the royal heads around him.
“That’s sufficient! read the next!”
“Poetry again.”
They spoke to me as I passed along:
Some whispered soft and low,
Some seemed to sing a grateful song.
As if very glad they were allowed to grow!
“Poetry has surely run mad! try prose again. This looks interesting.”
Lola Marston was an only child, beautiful, and heiress to a large fortune; so Lola, in her first season, was the fashion! Invitations poured in upon the fascinating little brunette, and her days were passed in resting from the hall of the previous night, or in preparations for new triumphs. Her parents, who consulted only the pleasure of their idol, smiled encouragingly upon the lively child, as she darted from one scene of gayety to another, and every wish was gratified, nay, many anticipated.
Lola was, as I have said, beautiful. Her small figure was moulded with graceful elegance, and her tiny hands and feet might have been modelled from a fairy’s. Her black eyes danced with joyous excitement, and the heavy masses of black curls fell round a face at once piquant and classically beautiful.
Strange, that one so surrounded by the protection of loving parents, with unlimited command of money, young and frank, should have her whole life clouded, her joyous spirit broken, yielding to one temptation; one strong, fierce longing to do wrong. Yet that was Lola Marston’s experience.
There was to be a large ball at Mr. Marston’s, to celebrate Lola’s seventeenth birthday. The guests were invited to come dressed in a fancy costume, and the beautiful hostess chose that of a Spanish lady, as the one best suited to her dark beauty.
The revelry was at its height! Guests in every costume, Turks, sailors, peasants, brigands, were dancing, chatting, walking through the brilliantly lighted rooms. All was gaiety, mirth, and pleasure. But where was Lola?
Turn from the ball-room into the conservatory. Do you see that little form crouched down among the flowers, the hands clenched, the face pallid, the hair streaming over the snowy wrapper—”
“Hold on! where did the wrapper come from? She was a Spanish lady just now!”
“The writer has forgotten common sense in trying to describe an affecting tableau. Read on!”
“—wrapper. Can this be Lola? Can a few hours have so changed her? Alas, it is indeed the belle of the room, but her brilliant intellect has flown! Lola is crazy! The secret of her life has been suddenly revealed to her, and yielding to the temptation to retain her supposed name and heiress-ship, though convinced that she is indeed a gypsy child, placed by her mother in the place of the true Lola Marston, she has lied to her betrothed, and now, the blasting truth fully revealed—”
“Stop! We can’t be tempted to accept that trash. It opened well, though. What comes now?”
Oh, a rare old hall is Marshmallow Hall!
That stands amidst ruins old;
Of right choice stones, mortar, brick, and all.
At once so free and bold.
(“Ain’t that something like the Ivy Green?”)
Upon the steps of this stately pile.
Stood the fair Lady
Clementine;
Who tried to say farewell with a smile
To Lord Conrad, who was going to the wars, I ween.
“There, that will do! What’s this?”
“Here’s a letter!”
Dear Sir: I am awfully hard up. You may have the accompanying sketch for a V, and I will write as many more as you want, on condition that you pony up, instanter. C. O. D.,* old fellow, and no trust. Yours truly, John C. L——.
*Collect on delivery.
“Here’s to the widow!” said Harry Campbell, tossing off a brimming glass of champagne.
“Yes, yes, the widow!” cried the others, and the widow’s health was drunk with hearty laughter.
“She’s a stunner!” said Horace Jones.
“A whole team!” said James Lee.
“One of the kind you read about in books without leaves, and the covers torn off,” said Harry.
“Worth a plum, too! High action! Grooms her hair splendidly!”
“Oh, throw that aside! Does the man think wo edit a sporting magazine?”
“Here’s some more poetry.”
She walks in beauty like the night,
Glorianna!
Alone and dewy, coldly proud and pale,
Glorianna!
With all that’s best of dark and bright,
Glorianna!
As weeping beauty’s cheek at sorrow’s tale,
Glorianna!
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty’s heavenly ray,
Glorianna!
“Well, if I ever saw any thing to exceed that for impudence. The woman has gone Byron crazy, and actually wants to try to pass that off for original.”
“Here’s a letter from Mrs. J—.”
My dear Sir: Although I am a married woman with ten children, and a limited income, I had last week the audacity to attempt to write a story. I had a good plot, plenty of interesting incidents, and meant to draw my characters from real life. I have one unfortunate peculiarity; I write down all that is said by those around me, and as I cannot take one hour to shut myself up alone, this peculiarity bothers me considerably. I no sooner take up my pen, than every child has a separate want, and the servants ask forty questions in as many minutes. I send the story as it was written. I have put in parentheses, when reading it over, all the sentences not connected with the story, so you will have no trouble in having a fair copy made. I have not time to do it myself, but I am sure you will like the story. Even if I had time to copy it, the same fault would again disfigure the pages.
Yours respectfully, Mrs. M. A. J——.
The sun was setting; his parting rays (the butcher’s here, mum!) gilding the spires of (Ma, the butcher’s got apples, won’t you get some?) the little church which (Charlie’s pinching me, ma!) stood in the main street of (Mary, dear, there’s no button on this wristband!) the village of (Harrie’s tumbled down stairs, ma!) Rosedale.
It was a scene (Ma, Joe says he won’t go to the post-office!) of calm delight (My dear, the baby’s awake!) and peaceful serenity. (Ma, the baby’s screeching like an Indian!) The little brook (There’s no potatoes, mum!) which wound (Ma, is there any cake?) round the (Gracious, Mary, do stop scribbling, and go to the baby!) little village, murmured (Oh, ma, there’s a spider on your cap!) its grateful song of (Dolly’s upset all the custard for dinner!) praise to the (Oh, ma, see what a big grasshopper I’ve caught!) trees which bend (I’m off, Mary!) so lovingly (Good-by!) over it. (Ma, the baby’s climbing out of the cradle!)
From one of the prettiest (Ma, where’s my boots?) of the cottages, as the sun (If ye plaze, mum, the butcher’s clane forgot the ingens!) slowly sank below the (Oh, ma, Jenny said a bad word!) horizon, there came out a (Ma, Johnny’s chopping wood with pa’s razors!) young man, whose (Oh, ma, Lizzie’s torn a big hole in her frock!) frank, open expression (The man’s come about the pump, mum!) and manly courage (The baby’s upset the cradle!) impressed (Ma, Johnny’s cut himself with the razor!) you favorably at (The baker’s bill, mum!) once.
“What a mess! Put it aside for consideration, Fred. It may be worth separating, but we can’t take time for it to-day. Here’s some more poetry.”
Most stupenduous!
And tremenduous!
And uproarious!
Also glorious!
With your thundering, roaring din!
Tumbling! smashing!
Leaping! crashing!
From that height
With furious might!
What a lather you are in!”
“That poet certainly deserves a leather medal. What does Aktriss spell, Fred?”
“Actress, I suppose.”
“Just read this. No words can do justice to it. You must see the spelling, or you will never believe in it.”
Looking over my shoulder, Fred read—
The curting roas in the B—— theatur. It riz slo as curtings dus gennurilly, and the staige wos disscloased to vu. Frum the sied seens thear cum fourword a luvley bein, in a wite satin gowne, and a croun of golde, who cum to the fut lites. She was sum! a reggullur stunner, and wen she boud, it was the talest kynd. She was calkillatted to maik a man leve his muther! This was Serruphiner, the stare of the seesun!
“Twelve o’clock! Come, Fred, let’s go to luncheon, and finish this afternoon.”
