by Unknown
CHAPTER XXVII.
JIMMY’S DREAM.
I see before me (said Jimmy, savagely) a court, where I, James Moggridge, am arraigned on a charge of assaulting the editor of the St. John’s Gazette so as to cause death. Little interest is manifested in the case. On being arrested I had pleaded guilty, and up to to-day it had been anticipated that the matter would be settled out of court. No apology, however, being forthcoming, the law has to take its course. The defence is that the assault was fair comment on a matter of public interest, and was warranted in substance and in fact. On making his appearance in the dock the prisoner is received with slight cheering.
Mr. John Jones is the first witness called for the prosecution. He says: I am assistant editor of the St. John’s Gazette. It is an evening newspaper of pronounced Radical views. I never saw the prisoner until to-day, but I have frequently communicated with him. It was part of my work to send him back his articles. This often kept me late.
In crossexamination the witness denies that he has ever sent the prisoner other people’s articles by mistake. Pressed, he says, he may have done so once. The defendant generally inclosed letters with his articles, in which he called attention to their special features. Sometimes these letters were of a threatening nature, but there was nothing unusual in that.
Crossexamined: The letters were not what he would call alarming. He had not thought of taking any special precautions himself. Of course, in his position, he had to take his chance. So far as he could remember, it was not for his own sake that the prisoner wanted his articles published, but in the interests of the public. He, the prisoner, was vexed, he said, to see the paper full of such inferior matter. Witness had frequently seen letters to the editor from other disinterested contributors couched in similar language. If he was not mistaken, he saw a number of these gentlemen in court. (Applause from the persons referred to.)
Mr. Snodgrass says: I am a poet. I do not compose during the day. The strain would be too great. Every evening I go out into the streets and buy the latest editions of the evening journals. If there is anything in them worthy commemoration in verse, I compose. There is generally something. I cannot say to which paper I send most of my poems, as I send to all. One of the weaknesses of the St. John’s Gazette is its poetry. It is not worthy of the name. It is doggerel. I have sought to improve it, but the editor rejected my contributions. I continued to send them, hoping that they would educate his taste. One night I had sent him a very long poem which did not appear in the paper next day. I was very indignant, and went straight to the office. That was on Jubilee Day. I was told that the editor had left word that he had just gone into the country for two days. (Hisses.) I forced my way up the stairs, however, and when I reached the top I did not know which way to go. There were a number of doors with “No admittance” printed on them. (More hissing.) I heard voices in altercation in a room near me. I thought that was likely to be the editor’s. I opened the door and went in. The prisoner was in the room. He had the editor on the floor and was jumping on him. I said, “Is that the editor?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “Have you killed him?” He said, “Yes,” again. I said, “Oh!” and went away. That is all I remember of the affair.
Crossexamined: It did not occur to me to interfere. I thought very little of the affair at the time. I think I mentioned it to my wife in the evening; but I will not swear to that. I am not the Herr Bablerr who compelled his daughter to marry a man she did not love, so that I might write an ode in celebration of the nuptials. I have no daughter. I am a poet.
The foreman printer deposed to having had his attention called to the murder of the editor about three o’clock. He was very busy at the time. About an hour afterward he saw the body and put a placard over it. He spoke of the matter to the assistant editor, who suggested that they had better call in the police. That was done.
A clerk in the counting-house says: I distinctly remember the afternoon of the murder. I can recall it without difficulty, as it was on the following evening that I went to the theatre — a rare occurrence with me. I was running up the stairs when I met a man coming down. I recognized the prisoner as that man. He said, “I have killed your editor.” I replied, “Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” We had no further conversation.
J. O’Leary is next called. He says: I am an Irishman by birth. I had to fly my country when an iniquitous Coercion Act was put in force. At present I am a journalist, and I write Fenian letters for the St. Johns Gazette. I remember the afternoon of the murder. It was the sub-editor who told me of it. He asked me if I would write a “par” on the subject for the fourth edition. I did so; but as I was in a hurry to catch a train it was only a few lines. We did him fuller justice next day.
Crossexamined: Witness denies that he felt any elation on hearing that a new topic had been supplied for writing on. He was sorry rather.
A policeman gives evidence that about half-past four on Jubilee Day he saw a small crowd gather round the entrance to the offices of the St. John’s Gazette. He thought it his duty to inquire into the matter. He went inside and asked an office-boy what was up. The boy said he thought the editor had been murdered, but advised him to inquire upstairs. He did so, and the boy’s assertion was confirmed. He came down again and told the crowd that it was the editor who had been killed. The crowd then dispersed.
A detective from Scotland Yard explains the method of the prisoner’s capture. Moggridge wrote to the superintendent saying that he would be passing Scotland Yard on the following Wednesday on business. Three detectives, including witness, were told off to arrest him, and they succeeded in doing so. (Loud and prolonged applause.)
The judge interposes here. He fails, he says, to see that this evidence is relevant. So far as he can see, the question is not whether a murder has been committed, but whether, under the circumstances, it is a criminal offence. The prisoner should never have been tried here at all. It was a case for the petty sessions. If the counsel cannot give some weighty reason for proceeding with further evidence, he will now put it to the jury.
After a few remarks from the counsel for the prosecution and the counsel for the defence, who calls attention to the prisoner’s high and unblemished character, the judge sums up. It is for the jury, he says, to decide whether the prisoner has committed a criminal offence. That was the point; and in deciding it the jury should bear in mind the desirability of suppressing merely vexatious cases. People should not go to law over trifles. Still, the jury must remember that, without exception, all human life was sacred. After some further remarks from the judge, the jury (who deliberate for rather more than three-quarters of an hour) return a verdict of guilty. The prisoner is sentenced to a fine of five florins, or three days’ imprisonment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
GILRAY’S DREAM.
Conceive me (said Gilray, with glowing face) invited to write a criticism of the Critics’ Dramatic Society for the Standard. I select the Standard, because that paper has treated me most cruelly. However, I loathe them all. My dream is the following criticism:
What is the Critics’ Dramatic Society? We found out on Wednesday afternoon, and, as we went to Drury Lane in the interests of the public, it is only fair that the public should know too. Besides, in that case we can all bear it together. Be it known, then, that this Dramatic Society is composed of “critics” who gave “The School for Scandal” at a matinée on Wednesday just to show how the piece should be played. Mr. Augustus Harris had “kindly put the theatre at their disposal,” for which he will have to answer when he joins Sheridan in the Elysian Fields. As the performance was by far the worst ever perpetrated, it would be a shame to deprive the twentieth century of the programme. Some of the players, as will be seen, are too well known to escape obloquy. The others may yet be able to sink into oblivion.
Sir Peter Teazle
Mr. John Ruskin.
Joseph Surface
Mr. W. E. Henley.
Charles Surface
Mr. Harry Laboucher
e.
Crabtree
Mr. W. Archer.
Sir Benjamin Backbite
Mr. Clement Scott.
Moses
Mr. Walter Sichel.
Old Rowley
Mr. Joseph Knight.
Sir Oliver
Mr. W. H. Pollock.
Trip
Mr. G. A. Sala.
Snake
Mr. Moy Thomas.
Sir Harry Bumper (with song)
Mr. George Moore.
Servants, Guests, etc.
Messrs. Saville Clarke, Joseph Hatton, Percy Fitzgerald, etc.
Assisted by
Lady Teazle
Miss Rosie Le Dene.
Mrs. Candour
Miss Jenny Montalban.
Lady Sneerwell
Miss Rosalind Labelle
(The Hon. Mrs. Major Turnley).
Maria
Miss Jones.
It was a sin of omission on the part of the Critics’ Dramatic Society not to state that the piece played was “a new and original comedy” in many acts. Had they had the courage to do this, and to change the title, no one would even have known. On the other hand, it was a sin of commission to allow that Professor Henry Morley was responsible for the stage management; Mr. Morley being a man of letters whom some worthy people respect. But perhaps sins of omission and commission counterbalance. The audience was put in a bad humor before the performance began, owing to the curtain’s rising fifteen minutes late. However, once the curtain did rise, it was an unconscionable time in falling. What is known as the “business” of the first act, including the caterwauling of Sir Benjamin Backbite and Crabtree in their revolutions round Joseph, was gone through with a deliberation that was cruelty to the audience, and just when the act seemed over at last these indefatigable amateurs began to dance a minuet. A sigh ran round the theatre at this — a sigh as full of suffering as when a minister, having finished his thirdly and lastly, starts off again, with, “I cannot allow this opportunity to pass.” Possibly the Critics’ Dramatic Society are congratulating themselves on the undeniable fact that the sighs and hisses grew beautifully less as the performance proceeded. But that was because the audience diminished too. One man cannot be expected to sigh like twenty; though, indeed, some of the audience of Wednesday sighed like at least half a dozen.
If it be true that all men — even critics — have their redeeming points and failings, then was there no Charles and no Joseph Surface at this unique matinée. For the ungainly gentleman who essayed the part of Charles made, or rather meant to make, him spotless; and Mr. Henley’s Joseph was twin-brother to Mr. Irving’s Mephistopheles. Perhaps the idea of Mr. Labouchere and his friend, Mr. Henley, was that they would make one young man between them. They found it hard work. Mr. Labouchere has yet to learn that buffoonery is not exactly wit, and that Charles Surfaces who dig their uncle Olivers in the ribs, and then turn to the audience for applause, are among the things that the nineteenth century can do without. According to the programme, Mr. George Moore — the Sir Harry Bumper — was to sing the song, “Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen.” Mr. Moore did not sing it, but Mr. Labouchere did. The explanation of this, we understand, was not that Sir Harry’s heart failed him at the eleventh hour, but that Mr. Labouchere threatened to fling up his part unless the song was given to him. However, Mr. Moore heard Mr. Labouchere singing the song, and that was revenge enough for any man. To Mr. Henley the part of Joseph evidently presented no serious difficulties. In his opinion, Joseph is a whining hypocrite who rolls his eyes when he wishes to look natural. Obviously he is a slavish admirer of Mr. Irving. If Joseph had taken his snuff as this one does, Lady Sneerwell would have sent him to the kitchen. If he had made love to Lady Teazle as this one does, she would have suspected him of weak intellect. Sheridan’s Joseph was a man of culture: Mr. Henley’s is a buffoon. It is not, perhaps, so much this gentleman’s fault as his misfortune that his acting is without either art or craft; but then he was not compelled to play Joseph Surface. Indeed, we may go further, and say that if he is a man with friends he must have been dissuaded from it. The Sir Peter Teazle of Mr. Ruskin reminded us of other Sir Peter Teazles — probably because Sir Peter is played nowadays with his courtliness omitted.
Mr. William Archer was the Crabtree, or rather Mr. Archer and the prompter between them. Until we caught sight of the prompter we had credited Mr. Archer with being a ventriloquist given to casting his voice to the wings. Mr. Clement Scott — their Benjamin Backbite — was a ventriloquist too, but not in such a large way as Mr. Archer. His voice, so far as we could make out from an occasional rumble, was in his boots, where his courage kept it company. There was no more ambitious actor in the cast than Mr. Pollock. Mr. Pollock was Sir Oliver, and he gave a highly original reading of that old gentleman. What Mr. Pollock’s private opinion of the character of Sir Oliver may be we cannot say; it would be worth an interviewer’s while to find out. But if he thinks Sir Oliver was a windmill, we can inform him at once that he is mistaken. Of Mr. Sichel’s Moses all that occurs to us to say is that when he let his left arm hang down and raised the other aloft, he looked very like a tea-pot. Mr. Joseph Knight was Old Rowley. In that character all we saw of him was his back; and we are bound to admit that it was unexceptional. Sheridan calls one of his servants Snake, and the other Trip. Mr. Moy Thomas tried to look as like a snake as he could, and with some success. The Trip of Mr. Sala, however, was a little heavy, and when he came between the audience and the other actors there was a temporary eclipse. As for the minor parts, the gentlemen who personated them gave a capital rendering of supers suffering from stage-fever. Wednesday is memorable in the history of the stage, but we would forget it if we could.
CHAPTER XXIX.
PETTIGREW’S DREAM.
My dream (said Pettigrew) contrasts sadly with those of my young friends. They dream of revenge, but my dream is tragic. I see my editor writing my obituary notice. This is how it reads:
Mr. Pettigrew, M.A., whose sad death is recorded in another column, was in his forty-second year (not his forty-fourth, as stated in the evening papers), and had done a good deal of Jubilee work before he accepted the commission that led to his death. It is an open secret that he wrote seventy of the Jubilee sketches which have appeared in this paper. The pamphlet now selling in the streets for a penny, entitled “Jubilees of the Past,” was his. He wrote the introductory chapter to “Fifty Years of Progress,” and his “Jubilee Statesmen” is now in a second edition. The idea of a collection of Jubilee odes was not his, but the publisher’s. At the same time, his friends and relatives attach no blame to them. Mr. Pettigrew shivered when the order was given to him, but he accepted it, and the general impression among those who knew him was that a man who had survived “Jubilee Statesmen” could do anything. As it turns out, we had overestimated Mr. Pettigrew’s powers of endurance.
As “The Jubilee Odes” will doubtless yet be collected by another hand, little need be said here of the work. Mr. Pettigrew was to make his collection as complete as the limited space at his disposal (two volumes) would allow; the only original writing in the book being a sketch of the various schemes suggested for the celebration of the Jubilee. It was this sketch that killed him. On the morning of the 27th, when he intended beginning it, he rose at an unusually early hour, and was seen from the windows of the house pacing the garden in an apparently agitated state of mind. He ate no breakfast. One of his daughters states that she noticed a wild look in his eyes during the morning meal; but, as she did not remark on it at the time, much stress need not be laid on this. The others say that he was unusually quiet and silent. All, however, noticed one thing. Generally, when he had literary work to do, he was anxious to begin upon his labors, and spent little time at the breakfast-table. On this occasion he sat on. Even after the breakfast things were removed he seemed reluctant to adjourn to the study. His wife asked him several times if he meant to begin “The Jubilee Odes” that day, and he always replied in the a
ffirmative. But he talked nervously of other things; and, to her surprise — though she thought comparatively little of it at the time — drew her on to a discussion on summer bonnets. As a rule, this was a subject which he shunned. At last he rose, and, going slowly to the window, looked out for a quarter of an hour. His wife asked him again about “The Jubilee Odes,” and he replied that he meant to begin directly. Then he went round the morning-room, looking at the pictures on the walls as if for the first time. After that he leaned for a little while against the mantelpiece, and then, as if an idea had struck him, began to wind up the clock. He went through the house winding up the clocks, though this duty was usually left to a servant; and when that was over he came back to the breakfast-room and talked about Waterbury watches. His wife had to go to the kitchen, and he followed her. On their way back they passed the nursery, and he said he thought he would go in and talk to the nurse. This was very unlike him.
At last his wife said that it would soon be luncheon-time, and then he went to the study. Some ten minutes afterward he wandered into the dining-room, where she was arranging some flowers. He seemed taken aback at seeing her, but said, after a moment’s thought, that the study door was locked and he could not find the key. This astonished her, as she had dusted the room herself that morning. She went to see, and found the study door standing open. When she returned to the dining-room he had disappeared. They searched for him everywhere, and eventually discovered him in the drawingroom, turning over a photograph album. He then went back to the study. His wife accompanied him, and, as was her custom, filled his pipe for him. He smoked a mixture to which he was passionately attached. He lighted his pipe several times, but it always went out. His wife put a new nib into his pen, placed some writing material on the table, and then retired, shutting the door behind her.