I've no particular reason to think an account of my life will interest anybody. That being so, I don't know why I write it. But I do. I suppose it's Chance. H-xl-y (who is such fun!) calls my Memoir, because I'm a F.R.S., a case of "Fellow-De-Se."
Talking of Chance, everything that has ever happened to me has been Chance!
For instance, what could have been more a matter of luck than my choosing a house at Down? H-xl-y says something about being "Down on my luck." (What a master of style old H-xl-y is, to be sure!)
Then there was that voyage on the Sea-Mew. If it hadn't been that my Uncle kicked me six times round his garden at Shrewsbury, because I said "I'd be jiggered if I went," I don't believe I should ever have had courage to accept the appointment of Naturalist to the expedition. That voyage gave me an object in life. My nose had made me an object in life before that (vide Portrait), but Natural Selection triumphed over my nose, and so I became in due time famous, and an Ag-nose-tic!
At school I was an exceptionally naughty boy. I cannot conceive what induced me to tell another little boy that I had often produced crab-apples by taking a dead crab and burying it in an orchard, but I did. My little friend, I recollect, didn't believe me, and indeed pulled my nose (always a sore point with me, but he made its point much sorer) for telling what he called "beastly crams." We had a fight, I also remember. Perhaps I ought to call it a "struggle for existence." He was much the "fittest," and he survived. I got licked.
My extreme naughtiness continued unabated when I became a young man. Nobody expected I should ever "do" anything—except six months' hard labour! At Cambridge I was so shockingly "rowdy," that my father declared, there was no alternative but to send me into the Church. But as I was hunting with the College drag at the hour when I ought to have been in for my Ordination Examination, the Bishop failed to see matters in the same light. I then decided to be a Doctor. If I had stuck to this profession I fancy that my turn for trying experiments would have landed me in some exalted position—possibly at Newgate. As it was, after attending a lecture on Surgery, I was discovered in the local Hospital trying to cut off a patient's leg on an entirely new principle, with a pair of scissors and an old meat-saw, and I was nearly "run in" for manslaughter. I decided to give up Medicine, and a slight shindy over a supposed error of mine in calculating a score having prevented my becoming a success as a Public-house Billiard-marker, I thought I would make my mark in another way, as a breeder of race-horses. Being, however, forcibly chucked out of Newmarket Heath one day for an alleged irregularity which I never could understand, I began really to wonder what profession I was fitted to adorn.
It was at this time that the Captain of the Sea-Mew offered me that post of which I have before spoken. I accepted it, and began at once to lower the record in sea-sickness, being never once well on board ship for three whole years! It was a new experience, and altered me a good deal. From being rowdy and idle I became quiet and abnormally diligent. If you don't believe this, ask H-xl-y (who is such fun!). On returning to England I at once settled Down, and began to write books.
This work is my title to fame. It only took me thirty-three years and six months to write. I felt quite glad when it was finished. People who have read it tell me they feel the same, The row it caused was frightful! If you want to see "Soapy Sam's" slashing Quarterly Review article pulverised, read H-xl-y's reply. (But, query—isn't this scientific log-rolling?) The remark which was made, after perusing the book, by that eminent Botanist, my friend Professor Hookey, was—"Walker!" But he was soon converted.
This, also, can't interest anybody, yet I give it. I get up at 4 A.M., and take a walk. From 7 to 10 I work. After dinner—with champagne—I take another stroll. I have made most astonishing scientific discoveries at this time. I could, point out the exact spot in the road where I became convinced that the whole country had been elevated sixteen feet since the morning! H-xl-y, who was with me, quite agreed, and said that we must all have been elevated at the same time, without knowing it.
These are, of course, Lyell on Lias, and Hookey on Herbaceous Foraminifera. They are far superior to Shakspeare, who bores me. I like novels, the trashier the better. Only let 'em end well, and I don't care how they begin, or whether they begin at all. In newspapers, the best part, I think, is the Parliamentary Debates. In reading them I have often got valuable hints as to the "Origin of Speeches," and they frequently afford conclusive evidence of the "Descent of Man." I thought of bringing Parliamentary manners in as a chapter in my book on "Earth-worms," but H-xl-y advised me not to, and I didn't.
I think I've mentioned this feature before. It troubles me. It is undoubtedly of a low type, yet it has survived! Why have I not been fitted with a fitter one? It is another instance of the fact that everything—including my fame—has come to me by sheer luck. H-xl-y says "there's a Dar-winning modesty about this last remark." Also says, "I've found the 'Philosopher's Tone.'" (What screaming fun H-xl-y always is!)
Perhaps I may be allowed to say one word as to the Photographs preceding these volumes. They aren't the least little bit like me! In Volume One I appear as the unmistakable "Country Butcher." In Volume Two I am "The Gorilla Asleep," or "Beetle-brow Napping" (after a beetle-hunt, probably). Volume Three represents me as the Typical Brigand of Transpontine Melodrama.
Why, too, has the Photographer insisted on bringing out that unfortunate feature of mine so prominently?
Why? indeed! Who nose?
The roses were blowing, like whales in the sea
Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free,
And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee
In the ether.
The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade,
And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade,
Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd
On her zither.
Ho, larks and roses!
Hey, the bonny weather!
Hey, we rose at morning prime;
Ho, we lark'd together!
'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide
By Inglesham poplars, on Teddington's tide,
Where the water of Thame under Sinodun slide,
And at Marlow,
By Cliveden's green caverns, and Abingdon's walls,
Where wirgles the Windrush, where Eynsham weir falls,
By Sonning, or Sandford (whose lasher recalls
Mr. Barlow).
Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses
On the shining river;
Silver water-lilies, love;
Love will last for ever!
But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch,
And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch,
And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch,
Dead and cold, love;
And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek,
And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek,
And the temper is strong and the logic is weak
Of my old love.
Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses
On the shining river;
Silver water-lilies, love;
Love will last for ever!
But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch,
And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch,
And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch,
Dead and cold, love;
And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek,
And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek,
And the temper is strong and the logic is weak
Of my old love.
No larks and roses
In a winter gloaming;
Ruby-red love's nose is;
Chilblain time a-coming'.
The Watchword of the Sugar-Bounty Conference.—"England expects that every man (and woman) will pay an import duty."
Pastor. "How I do regret, my dear Madam, to see you wearing these sad Habiliments of Woe!"
I found myself a huckster's pleasure-place,
Wherein 'twas horrible to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, the object of our race
Is ever one—to sell."
A huge-walled wilderness of ways it was,
With hoardings of exceeding height,
Which no one without pangs of fear, could pass,
And spasms of affright.
Its purpose, though, was plain; 'twas simply pelf;
Whether a woman wild of glare,
Or a colossal man shaving himself,
All, all meant money there.
"And while the world rolls round and round," I said,
"Advertisement is the one thing
Which need concern the wise and worldly head
Of huckster, histrio, king."
To which my soul made answer readily,—
"In patience I must fain abide
In these vast vistas of vulgarity.
Stretching on every side."
Full of long-reaching bulks of board it was,
Where, glaring forth from ghostly gloom,
Were gibbering monkeys grinning in a glass,
In a dame's dressing-room.
And some were hung with daubs of green and blue,
As gaudy as a cheap Cremorne,
Where actors postured in the public view,
Some frantic, some forlorn.
One seemed all glare and gore—a stabbing hand,
A woman flopping with a groan;
An ill-drawn idiot trying to look grand,
Big-nosed, and high in bone.
One showed an ochre coast and emerald waves;
You seemed to see them rise and fall,
As infant supers—wretched little slaves—
Under the canvass crawl.
And one a full-faced, flashed comedian—low—
Showing his teeth, with nervous strain,
With queer goggle-eyes striking like a blow,
And causing quite a pain.
And one a miser, hoarding fruits of toil,
In front a bony beak, behind,
Wisps of grey hairs all destitute of oil,
Blown hoary on the wind.
And one a foreground with three hideous hags,
Each twice as tall as life, or higher,
Medusa-monsters, clothed in wretched rags,
And crouching round a fire.
And one an English home—lantern-light poured
On a forced safe, skeleton keys,
Whilst gloating o'er the family plate there stored,
Glowered the murderer, Peace.
Nor these alone, but everything to scare,
Fit for each morbid mood of mind;
Murder and misery, want and woe were there
As large as life designed.
There was a fellow in a pretty fix,
"Tied to a corpse," all wild alarm,
Struggling across a sort of sooty Styx,
The "body" on his arm.
Or in a snow-choked city wretchedly,
Dead babe at breast, with bare blown hair,
A ruined woman crawled with quivering knee;
Two bobbies scowled at her.
Or, posing in a footlight paradise,
A group of Houris smirked to see
Young fools with clapping hands and ogling eyes
Which said, "We come for ye!"
Or else a lost and deeply wounded one,
In a wild swamp all bilious greens,
Came on a corpse a bare branch dangling on;
The ghastliest of scenes!
Holloaed a half-choked boy with horrid fear,
A brute the rope about to draw;
A second with a knife and axe was near
To give the first Lynch Law.
Or in a railway-tunnel, iron rail'd,
A man lay bound; his blood ran ice
Who looked thereon, an engine shrieked; he paled,
And fainted in a trice.
A monkey by her hair a woman clasp'd;
From her poor head it seemed half torn,
One ape-hand dragged it back; the other grasp'd
A steel blade's haft of horn.
A hideous babe in nauseous nudity,
Huge-headed, grinning like a clown,
Advertised Soap. A vile monstrosity,
The terror of the Town!
Nor these alone; but every horror rare,
Which the sensation-poisoned mind.
Imaged to advertise vile trash, was there—
As large as life design'd.
Deep dread and loathing of these horrors crude,
Fell on my Soul, hard to be borne,
She cried, "Why should these incubi intrude
And plague us night and morn?
"What! is not this a civilised town," she said,
"A spacious city, cultured, free?
Why give it up to dismalness and dread,
Murder and misery?"
In every corner of that city stood,
Unholy shapes, and spectral scares,
And fiends, and phantoms, brutal scenes of blood,
And horrible nightmares.
"We are shut up as in a tomb, girt round
With charnel scenes on every wall;
Wherever echoes of town-traffic sound,
Or human footsteps fall.
She cried, "By Jove, it is a pretty game
That Man, the Advertiser's thrall,
Should have these scenes of grimness, gore, and shame,
Shock him from every wall.
"The very cab-horses go wild with fears!
I rather fancy it is time
To stop these poster-terrors, placard-tears,
And advertising crimes.
"Yes, yes, pull down these pictured screens that are
All dedicate to gore and guilt.
Not solely for Soap-vendor or Stage-star
Was our big Babylon built!
Scene—A Promenade Concert. Interval between Parts I. and II. Crowd collecting before Platform.
Highly Respectable Matron (to female Friend). As to being beautiful, it's not for me to say, but they're clean-limbed, healthy children, thank Heaven! and what more do you want? (The Friend makes a complimentary protest.) Well, it may be so; but, to come back to her. I don't like her present home so well as I did her first—not so tasty, to my mind. She's got nice things about her, though, I will say—a nice sideboard, a nice ... (Inventory follows here.)
The Friend (darkly). All the same, it's a constant wonder to me how she can ever bring herself to sleep in that bed!
The H. R. M. I couldn't myself; but (charitably) we've not all the same feelings. (Crush increases; Female Promenader with very yellow hair passes, with apologies.) "Excuse me, Madame" (with attempt at mimicry); ah—and she needs it! The orchestra's coming back now. I didn't notice that young woman among them before—what's she going to play, I wonder?
The Friend. Whatever it is, she might look more pleasant over it!
The H. R. M. So she might—we can't all be good-looking, but we can all be pleasant—but they wouldn't have engaged her here, if she hadn't her gift!
The Friend. Oh, you may depend on it, she's got a gift—but I do call her plain, myself.
A Man with a very red nose (to Companion). And then, you see, I've this special advantage—my immense knowledge of the world. Think there's time for another before they begin again, eh?
[Companion is of that opinion; adjournment to bar of house.
First Promenader. Brayvo! Engcore! What, she won't sing no more—sssh! [Hisses furiously.
The H. R. M. There's the orchestra themselves clapping her—and they'd know what's good.
Her Friend. She was dressed very nice, I thought.
The H. R. M. I never care to see hair done up that style myself.
Ladies of Chorus tripping up from below Stage for the Vocal Valse.
Ladies of Chorus (all together). Am I too black under the eyes, dear? Mind where you're going, Miss, please! Treading on people's toes like that—the great clumsy thing! I'm next to you, aren't I? I do feel so funny, my dear, don't you? For goodness sake, don't go setting me on the giggle now!
[They range themselves modestly in a row at edge of platform.
Rude Person (in upper box with Punch squeak). Rooti-too-ti!
[Roars of laughter.
Ladies of C. (indignantly). Beast! I wish they'd give him something to make him rooti-toot, I do!
Conductor-Composer (from behind). Now, Ladies, ready please—keep the laugh steadier than you did last time, and wait for me at the repeat!
[He taps on desk: each Lady of Chorus stiffens herself perceptibly and makes a little grimace.
One Lady (in whisper), Oh, dear, I wish I was at home with my Ma! [Her companions giggle.
The H. R. M. It's as much as they can do to sing for laughing—they're called "Laughing Beauties," though. I like this one's face up at this end—she's so quiet and lady-like over it, and pretty too; they put all the pretty ones in front, but there's one quite an old woman behind. They're having all the fun down at the other end—how they are going on, to be sure!
[End of Vocal Valse: loud applause. Ladies of Chorus retire after encore with air of graceful dignity.
The Person with the Squeak. Goo'-bye, duckies!
[Roars of laughter again: renewed indignation among Chorus. Person with Squeak feels like Sheridan and Theodore Hook rolled into one.
A Young Gentleman (who has set himself to form his fiancée's mind, but finds it necessary to proceed very gradually). Now, Caroline, tell me—isn't this better than if we had gone to the Circus?
Caroline (from the provinces; unmusical; simple in her tastes). Yes, Joseph, only—(timidly)—there's more of what I call variety in a Circus—more going on, I mean.
The Y. G. (with a sense of discouragement). I quite see your meaning, dear, and it's an entirely true observation; still, you do appreciate this magnificent orchestra, don't you now?
Caroline. I should have liked it better with different coloured curtains—maize is so trying.
The Y. G. (mentally). I won't write home to them about it just yet.
Orchestra begins a "Musical Medley" with Overture to "Tannhäuser."
The Y. G. (who has lost his programme). Now, Caroline—this is Wagner—you'll like Wagner, darling, I'm sure.
Caroline (startled). Shall I? Where is he? Will he come in here? Must I speak to him?
The Y. G. No, no—he's dead—I mean, this is from his Opera—you must listen to this.
[He watches her face for the emotion he expects; "Tannhäuser" melts suddenly into "Tommy, Make Room for your Uncle."
Caroline (her face absolutely transfigured). Oh, Joseph, dear—Wagner's perfectly lovely!
The Y. G. (gloomily). I see, I shall have to put you through a course of Bach, Caroline!
Caroline (alarmed). But there's nothing whatever the matter with me, Joseph! I'm not flushed am I?
[Young Gentleman suppresses a groan.
A Lady (not much of an Opera-goer, who has been given a box at the last moment, and has insisted on her husband turning out to escort her). It was silly of you to drop that programme, Robert—I should like to know what this piece is, it seems quite familiar—(Orchestra playing "Soldiers' March" from Faust)—I know—it's Faust, Robert, Gounod's Faust!
[Much pleased with herself for recollecting an Opera she has only heard once.
Robert (sleepily). I know, my dear, all right.
[Faust melts into air from "Pinafore."
His Wife. Do you mean to say you don't remember that, Robert? how exquisite Patti was in the part, to be sure!
Robert. Umph!
["Pinafore" becomes "La ci darem"—which transforms itself without warning into "Two Lovely Black Eyes."
The Lady. There's nobody like Gounod! [Clasps her hands.
Robert (captiously). Gounod's all very well, I daresay, my dear; but it don't seem to me he's altogether original. I've heard something very like this tune before, and I'll swear it wasn't by him!
The Lady. That's very likely; all the best airs get stolen nowadays, and dressed up so as to be quite unrecognisable; but that's not Gounod's fault, is it?
[Fans herself triumphantly, after vindicating her favourite Composer. Robert slumbers.
Erratic Promenader. Beg your pardon, Sir—tha' shtick, not 'tended meet your eye, Sir—'nother gerrilm'n's eye, Sir.
Fair Promenader (to Lady Friend). And I'm sure I don't know how it is, but I'm always crying now for just nothing at all, whenever I'm alone.
The Lady Friend. That's because you give way to it, dear. Come and have something to cheer you up—you'll be a different person after it. [Advice taken; prediction verified.
The Err. Prom. I shay, here'sh lark! see tha' Bobby over there? he thinksh I'm tight! (Waltzes up to him solemnly). Kn'ive pleshure nexsht dansh you, Sir Charlesh?
The Policeman (severely). You keep your 'ands off of me, will you, and take yourself home—that's my advice to you!
Err. Prom. (outraged). You 'pear me to under 'preshionthish is Hy' Par' or Trafa——(with an effort)—Trafa-ralgarar Square. I'm goin' teash you, free Briton not goin' put up with P'lice brurality!
[Hits Policeman in the eye, and is removed, smiling feebly. Scene changes.
Lord Solly, at Paddies presuming to rail,
Must sneer at their "brogue," which the Markis finds stale.
Does he think a poor fellow must fain be a rogue
Because, born in Erin, he speaks with a brogue?
Celtic ears finds the drawl of the Saxon Swell flat,
And a Cockney may chaff at the patois of Pat.
But which is in fault—is it really so clear?—
The Irishman's tongue, or the Englishman's ear?
In a recent case on appeal, Hammond & Co. v. Bussey, Mr. Justice Bowen was understood (by Our Special Reporter) to say that a judgment relating to coals must be decided by the principles of Coke. The Master of the Rolls and Mr. Justice Fry concurred; the latter observing that in winter a coal merchant must always be a Bussey person, though his Lordship admitted that this had nothing to do with the case. The Master of the Rolls and Mr. Justice Bowen at once concurred.
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