When clever pressmen write this way,
" As Mr. J. A. Froude would say, "
Is it because they think lie would.
And have they read a line of Froude?
Or is it only that they fear
The comment they have made is queer,
And that they either must erase it,
Or say it's Mr. Froude who says it?
Every one abandoned himself to the humor of the evening, and as song followed song, or was wedged between entertainments of other kinds, the room filled with smoke until it resembled London in a fog.
By-and-bye a sallow-faced man mounted a table to show the company how to perform a remarkable trick with three hats. He got his hats from the company, and having looked at them thoughtfully for some minutes, said that he had forgotten the way.
"That," said Simms, mentioning a well-known
journalist, " is K He can never work unless his
pockets are empty, and he would not be looking so
172 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
doleful at present if he was not pretty well off. He goes from room to room in the house he lodges in, ac- cording to the state of his finances, and when you call on him you have to ask at the door which floor he is on to-day. One week you find him in the drawing- room, the next in the garret."
A stouter and brighter man followed the hat enter- tainment with a song, which he said was considered by some of his friends a recitation.
"There was a time," said Simms, who was held a terrible person by those who took him literally, " when that was the saddest man I knew. He was so sad that the doctors feared he would die of it. It all came of his writing for Punch."
" How did they treat him?" Rob asked.
" Oh, they quite gave him up, and he was wasting away visibly, when a second-rate provincial journal appointed him its London correspondent, and saved his life."
"Then he was sad," asked Rob, " because he was out of work?"
"On the contrary," said Simms gravely, "he was always one of the successful men, but he could not laugh."
"And he laughed when he became a London correspondent?"
" Yes ; that restored his sense of humor. But lis- ten to this song; he is a countryman of yours who sings it."
THE WIGWAM. 173
A man, who looked as if he had been cut out of a granite block, and who at the end of each verse thrust his pipe back into his mouth, sang in a broad accent, that made Rob want to go nearer him, some verses about an old university :
"Take off the straoger's hat!" The shout
We raised in fifty-nine Assails my ears, with careless flout,
And now the hat is mine. It seems a day since I was here,
A student slim and hearty, And see, the boys around me cheer,
"The ancient looking party !"
Rough horseplay did not pass for wit
When Rae and Mill were there ; I see a lad from Oxford sit
In Blackie's famous chair. And Rae, of all our men the one
We most admired in quad (I had this years ago) , has gone
Completely to the bad.
In our debates the moral Mill
Had infinite address, Alas ! since then he's robbed a till,
And now he's on the Press. And Tommy Robb, the ploughman's son,
Whom all his fellows slighted, From Rae and Mill the prize has won,
For Tommy's to be knighted.
A lanky loon is in the seat
Filled once by manse-bred Sheen, Who did not care to mix with Peate,
A bleacher who had been. But watch the whirligig of time,
Brave Peate became a preacher, His name is known in every clime,
And Sheen is now the bleacher.
174 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
McMillan, who the medals carried.
Is now a judge, 'tis said, And curly-headed Smith is married,
And Williamson is dead. Old Phil and I, who shared our books,
Now very seldom meet, And when we do, with frowning looks
We passed by in the street.
The college rings with student slang
As in the days of yore, The self -same notice boards still hang
Upon the class-room door : An essay (I expected that)
On Burns this week, or Locke, "A theory of creation" at
Precisely seven o'clock.
There's none here now who knows my name:
My place is far away, And yet the college is the same,
Not older by a day. But curious looks are cast at me,
Ah ! herein lies the change : All else is as it used to be,
And I alone am strange !
"Now, you could never guess," Simms said to Rob, "what profession our singer belongs to."
" He looks more like a writer than an artist," said Rob, who had felt the song more than the singer did.
" Well, he is more an artist than a writer, though, strictly speaking, he is neither. To that man is the honor of having created a profession. He furnishes rooms for interviews."
"I don't quite understand," said Rob.
"It is in this way," Simms explained. "Inter- views in this country are of recent growth, but
THE WIGWAM. 175
it has been already discovered that what the pub- lic want to read is not so much a celebrity's views on any topic as a description of his library, his dress- ing-gown, or his gifts from the king of Kashabahoo. Many of the eminent ones, however, are very un- interesting in private life, and have no curiosities to show their interviewer worth writing about, so your countryman has started a profession of providing curiosities suitable for celebrities at from five pounds upward, each article, of course, having a guaran- teed story attached to it. The editor, you observe, intimates his wish to include the distinguished per- son in his galaxy of 'Men of the Moment,' and then the notability drops a line to our friend saying that he wants a few of his rooms arranged for an interview. Your countryman sends the goods, arranges them effectively, and puts the celebrity up to the rem- iniscences he is to tell about each."
" I suppose," said Rob, with a light in his eye " that the interviewer is as much taken in by this as well, say, as I have been by you?"
"To the same extent," admitted Simms sol- emnly. " Of course he is not aware that before the interview appears the interesting relics have all been packed up and taken back to our Scottish friend's show-rooms."
The distinguished novelist in the chair told Rob (without having been introduced to him) that his books were beggaring his publishers.
176 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
"What I make my living off," he said, "is the penny dreadful, complete in one number. I manu- facture two a week without hindrance to other em- ployment, and could make it three if I did not have a weak wrist."
It was thus that every one talked to Rob, who, be- cause he took a joke without changing countenance, was considered obtuse. He congratulated one man on his article on chaffinches in the Evening Firebrand, and the writer said he had discovered, since the paper appeared, that the birds he described were really lin- nets. Another man was introduced to Rob as the writer of "In Memoriam."
"No," said the gentleman himself, on seeing Rob start, "my name is not Tennyson. It is, indeed, Murphy. Tennyson and the other fellows, who are ambitious of literary fame, pay me so much a page for poems to which they put their names."
At this point the applause became so deafening that Simms and Rob, who had been on their way to another room, turned back. An aged man, with a magnificent head, was on his feet to describe his first meeting with Carlyle.
"Who is it?" asked Rob, and Simms mentioned the name of a celebrity only a little less renowned than Carlyle himself. To Rob it had been one of the glories of London that in the streets he sometimes came suddenly upon world-renowned men, but he now looked upon this eminent scientist for the first time.
THE WIGWAM. 177
The celebrity was there as a visitor, for the Wigwam cannot boast quite such famous members
as he.
The septuagenarian began his story well. He de- scribed the approach to Craigenputtock on a warm summer afternoon, and the emotions that laid hold of him as, from a distance, he observed the sage seated astride a low dyke, flinging stones into the duck-pond. The pedestrian announced his name and the pleasure with which he at last stood face to face with the greatest writer of the day; and then the genial author of " Sartor Resartus," annoyed at being disturbed, jumped off the dyke and chased his visitor round and round the duck-pond. The celebrity had got thus far in his reminiscence when he suddenly stammered, bit his lip as if enraged at something^ and then trembled so much that he had to be led back to his seat.
" He must be ill," whispered Rob to Simms.
" It isn't that, " answered Simms ; " I fancy he must have caught sight of Wingfield."
Rob's companion pointed to a melancholy-looking man in a seedy coat, who was sitting alone, glaring at the celebrity.
"Who is he?" asked Rob.
"He is the great man's literary executor," Simms replied; "come along with me and hearken to his sad tale; he is never loth to tell it."
They crossed over to Wingfield, who received them dejectedly.
178 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
" This is not a matter I care to speak of, Mr. An- gus," said the sorrowful man, who spoke of it, how- ever, as frequently as he could find a listener. " It is now seven years since that gentleman" pointing angrily at the celebrity, who glared in reply " ap- pointed me his literary executor. At the time I thought it a splendid appointment, and by the end of two years I had all his remains carefully edited and his biography ready for the Press. He was an invalid at that time, supposed to be breaking up fast ; yet look at him now."
" He is quite vigorous in appearance now," said Rob.
"Oh, I've given up hope," continued the sad man dolefully.
"Still," remarked Simms," I don't know that you could expect him to die just for your sake. I only venture that as an opinion, of course."
"I don't ask that of him," responded Wingfield. " I'm not blaming him in any way ; all I say is that he has spoiled my life. Here have I been waiting, waiting for five years, and I seem farther from pub- lication than ever."
" It is hard on you," said Simms.
"But why did he break down in his story," asked Rob, "when he saw you?"
" Oh, the man has some sense of decency left, I suppose, and knows that he has ruined my career."
" Is the Carlylean reminiscence taken from the bi- ography?" inquired Simms.
THE WIGWAM. 179
"That is the sore point," answered Wingfield sullenly. " He used to shun society, but now he goes to clubs, banquets, and 'At Homes,' and tells the choice things in the memoir at every one of them. The book will scarcely be worth printing now."
"I dare say he feels sorry for you," said Simms, "and sees that he has placed you in a false position."
"He does in a w.ay," replied the literary executor, " and yet I irritate him. When he was ill last De- cember I called to ask for him every day, but he mis- took my motives ; and now he is frightened to be left alone with me."
"It is a sad business," said Simms, "but we all have our trials."
" I would try to bear up better," said the sad man, "if I got more sympathy."
It was very late when Simms and Rob left the Wigwam, yet they were among the first to go.
" When does the club close?" Rob asked, as they got into the fresh air.
"No one knows," answered Simms wearily, "but I believe the last man to go takes in the morning's milk."
In the weeks that followed Rob worked hard at political articles for the Wire, and at last began to feel that he was making some headway. He had not the fatal facility for scribbling that distinguishes some journalists, but he had felt life before he took to writing. His style was forcible if not superfine,
180 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
and he had the faculty that makes a journalist, of only seeing things from one point of view. The suc- cessful political writer is blind in one eye
Though one in three of Rob's articles was now used, the editor of the Wire did not write to say that he liked them, and Rob never heard any one mention them. Even Simms would not read them, but then Simms never read any paper. He got his news from the placards, and bought the Scalping Knife, not to read his own articles, but to measure them and calculate how much he would get for them. Then he dropped them into the gutter.
Some weeks had passed without Rob's seeing Simms, when one day he got a letter that made him walk round and round his table like a circus horse. It was from the editor of the Wire asking him to be in readiness to come to the office any evening he might be wanted to write. This looked like a step toward an appointment on the staff if he gave satis- faction (a proviso which he took complacently), and Rob's chest expanded, till the room seemed quite small. He pictured Thrums again. He jumped to Mary Abinger, and then he distinctly saw himself in the editorial chair of the Times. He was lying back in it, smoking a cigar, and giving a Cabinet minis- ter five minutes.
Nearly six months had passed since Rob saw Miss Abinger a long time for a young man to remain in love with the same person. Of late Rob had been
THE WIGWAM, 181
less given to dreaming than may be expected of a man who classifies the other sex into one particular lady and others, but Mary was coming to London in the early summer, and when he thought of summer he meant Mary. Rob was oftener in Piccadilly in May than he had been during the previous four months, and he was always looking for somebody. It was the third of June, a day to be remembered in his life, that he heard from the editor of the Wire. At 5 o'clock he looked upon that as what made it a day of days, but he had changed his mind by a quar- ter past.
Rob had a silk hat now, and he thrust it on his head, meaning to run downstairs to tell Simms of his good fortune. He was in the happy frame of mind that makes a man walk round improbabilities, and for the first time since he came to London he felt confident of the future, without becoming despondent imme- diately afterward. The future, like the summer, was. an allegory for Miss Abinger. For the moment Rob's heart filled with compassion for Simms. The one thing our minds will not do is leave our neigh- bors alone, and Rob had some time before reached the conclusion that Simms' nature had been twisted by a disappointment in love. There was nothing else that could account for his fits of silence, his in difference to the future. He was known to have given the coat off his back to some miserable creature in the street, and to have been annoyed when he dis-
182 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
covered that a friend saw him do it. Though Simms' walls were covered with engravings, Rob remembered all at once that there was not a female figure in one of them.
To sympathize with others in a love affair is de- lightful to every one who feels that he is all right himself. Rob went down to Simms' rooms with a joyous step and a light heart. The outer door stood ajar, and as he pushed it open he heard a voice that turned his face white. From where he stood para- lyzed he saw through the dark passage into the sit- ting-room. Mary Abinger was standing before the fireplace, and as Rob's arm fell from the door, Simms bent forward and kissed her.
CHAPTER XI.
ROB IS STRUCK DOWN.
ROB turned from Simms' door and went quietly downstairs, looking to the beadle, who gave him a good-evening at the mouth of the inn, like a man going quietly to his work. He could not keep his thoughts. They fell about him in sparks, raised by a wheel whirling so fast that it seemed motionless.
Sleep-walkers seldom come to damage until they awake, and Rob sped on, taking crossings without a halt; deaf to the shouts of cabmen, blind to their gesticulations. When you have done Oxford Circus you can do anything ; but he was not even brought to himself there, though it is all savage lands in twenty square yards. For a time he saw nothing but that scene in Simms' chambers, which had been photo- graphed on his brain. The light of his life had sud- denly been turned out, leaving him only the last thi
ng he saw to think about.
By-and-bye he was walking more slowly, laugh- ing at himself. Since he met Mary Abinger she had lived so much in his mind that he had not dared to think of losing her. He had only given himself fits
of despondency for the pleasure of dispelling them. 183
184 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
Now all at once he saw without prejudice the Rob Angus who had made up his mind to carry off this prize, and he cut such a poor figure that he smiled grimly at it. He realized as a humorous conception that this uncouth young man who was himself must have fancied that he was, on the whole, less unworthy of Miss Abinger than were most of the young men she was likely to meet. With the exaggerated hu- mility that comes occasionally to men in his condi- tion, without, however, feeling sufficiently at home to remain long, he felt that there was everything in Simms a girl could find lovable, and nothing in him- self. He was so terribly open that any one could understand him, while Simms was such an enigma as a girl would love to read. His own clumsiness contrasted as disastrously with Simms' grace of manner as his blunt talk compared with Simms' wit. Not being able to see himself with the eyes of others, Rob noted only one thing in his favor, his fight forward; which they, knowing, for instance, that he was better to look at than most men, would have considered his chief drawback. Rob in his calmer moments had perhaps as high an opinion of his capacity as the circumstances warranted, but he never knew that a good many ladies felt his presence when he passed them.
Barrie, J M - When A Man's Single Page 13