MR. YELLOWPLUSH'S AJEW.
The end of Mr. Deuceace's history is going to be the end of mycorrispondince. I wish the public was as sory to part with me as I amwith the public; becaws I fansy reely that we've become frends, and fealfor my part a becoming greaf at saying ajew.
It's imposbill for me to continyow, however, a-writin, as I havedone--violetting the rules of authography, and trampling upon the fustprincepills of English grammar. When I began, I knew no better: when I'dcarrid on these papers a little further, and grew accustmd to writin, Ibegan to smel out somethink quear in my style. Within the last sex weaksI have been learning to spell: and when all the world was rejoicing atthe festivvaties of our youthful Quean--*when all i's were fixed uponher long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridgeof Marshle the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and diminceof Prince Oystereasy--Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry--HIS eyeswere fixt upon the spelling-book--his heart was bent upon mastring thediffickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, in fact, CONVERTID.
* This was written in 1838.
You shall here how. Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins histhird son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a captingsy in theGuards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at Pekin, with a prospickof being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo--ever sins master's sons havereseaved these attentions, and master himself has had the promis of apearitch, he has been the most reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, inor out of the House of Commins.
Well, being a Whig, it's the fashn, as you know, to reseave litterypipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you thinkI had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick ago? Afterseveral dukes and markises had been enounced, a very gentell fly drivesup to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen. One was pail, and worspektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth. The other was slim with ahook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, atight coat, and a catarack of black satting tumbling out of his busm,and falling into a gilt velvet weskit. The little genlmn settled hiswigg, and pulled out his ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust ofhis shoes, looked at his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled hiscrevatt; and they both mounted upstairs.
"What name, sir?" says I, to the old genlmn.
"Name!--a! now, you thief o' the wurrld," says he, "do you pretindnat to know ME? Say it's the Cabinet Cyclopa--no, I mane the LitheraryChran--psha!--bluthanowns!--say it's DOCTHOR DIOCLESIAN LARNER--I thinkhe'll know me now--ay, Nid?" But the genlmn called Nid was at the botmof the stare, and pretended to be very busy with his shoo-string. So thelittle genlmn went upstares alone.
"DOCTOR DIOLESIUS LARNER!" says I.
"DOCTOR ATHANASIUS LARDNER!" says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman,on the fust landing-place.
"DOCTOR IGNATIUS LOYOLA!" says the groom of the chambers, who pretendsto be a scholar; and in the little genlmn went. When safely housed,the other chap came; and when I asked him his name, said, in a thick,gobbling kind of voice:
"Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig."
"Sir what?" says I, quite agast at the name.
"Sawedwad--no, I mean MISTAWedwad Lyttn Bulwig."
My neas trembled under me, my i's fild with tiers, my voice shook, asI past up the venrabble name to the other footman, and saw this fust ofEnglish writers go up to the drawing-room!
It's needless to mention the names of the rest of the compny, or todixcribe the suckmstansies of the dinner. Suffiz to say that the twolittery genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have good appytights;igspecially the little Irishman in the whig, who et, drunk, and talkedas much as a duzn. He told how he'd been presented at cort by hisfriend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean had received 'em both, with adignity undigscribable; and how her blessid Majisty asked what was thebony fidy sale of the Cabinit Cyclopaedy, and how be (Doctor Larner)told her that, on his honner, it was under ten thowsnd.
You may guess that the Doctor, when he made this speach, was pretty fargone. The fact is, that whether it was the coronation, or the goodnessof the wine (cappitle it is in our house, I can tell you), or the natralpropensaties of the gests assembled, which made them so igspeciallyjolly, I don't know; but they had kep up the meating pretty late, andour poar butler was quite tired with the perpechual baskits of clarritwhich he'd been called upon to bring up. So that about 11 o'clock, if Iwere to say they were merry, I should use a mild term; if I wer to saythey were intawsicated, I should use a nigspresshn more near to thetruth, but less rispeckful in one of my situashn.
The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with mute extonishment.
"Pray, Doctor Larnder," says a spiteful genlmn, willing to keep up thelittery conversation, "what is the Cabinet Cyclopaedia?"
"It's the littherary wontherr of the wurrld," says he; "and sure yourlordship must have seen it; the latther numbers ispicially--cheap asdurrt, bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a vollum. The illusthriousneems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther Southey, Sir JamesMackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to be found in the list ofconthributors. It's the Phaynix of Cyclopajies--a litherary Bacon."
"A what?" says the genlmn nex to him.
"A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure endlambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations ofdivine litherature--a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pinkcalico, six shillings a vollum."
"This wigmawole," said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that hisfriend should take up so much of the convassation), "this wigmawoleis all vewy well; but it's cuwious that you don't wemember, inchawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles,weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview andlitewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance isdated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is,nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, notin the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy--not in Fwance merely,but in the west of Euwope--whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, itstwetches its peaceful sceptre--pewused in Amewica, fwom New York toNingawa--wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto--and, as I amgwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle,wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingolanguage by the missionawies and the bushwangers. I need not say,gentlemen--sir--that is, Mr. Speaker--I mean, Sir John--that I alludeto the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipalcontwibutor."
"Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig," says my master: "you and I beingWhigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree,without a moment's hesitation, that the Literary what-d'ye-call'em isthe prince of periodicals."
"The pwince of pewiodicals?" says Bullwig; "my dear Sir John, it's theempewow of the pwess."
"Soit,--let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it:but, between ourselves, confess it,--Do not the Tory writers beat yourWhigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at--"
"Look at hwat?" shouts out Larder. "There's none, Sir Jan, compared toourrs."
"Pardon me, I think that--"
"It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?" says Ignatius, as sharp as aniddle.
"Why, no; but--"
"O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor--a pretty paper,sir, but light--thrashy, milk-and-wathery--not sthrong, like theLitherary Chran--good luck to it."
"Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of theperiodical, it's FRASER'S MAGAZINE."
"FRESER!" says the Doctor. "O thunder and turf!"
"FWASER!" says Bullwig. "O--ah--hum--haw--yes--no--why,--that isweally--no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the nameof the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet thisis; is it Lawose or Laff--?"
Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I'm blest if I could kipit neither,--for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind theskreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw oflaffing as never was igseeded.
"Hullo!" says B
ullwig, turning red. "Have I said anything impwobable,aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard insociety such a twemendous peal of cachinnation--that which the twagicbard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma."
"Why, be the holy piper," says Larder, "I think you are dthrawing alittle on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don't believe him, my lordduke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about that magazinebaste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out, SirJan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all. Bullwig has everysyllable of it be heart--from the pailitix down to the 'YellowplushCorrespondence.'"
"Ha, ha!" says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my earsprickt up when I heard the name of the "Yellowplush Correspondence")."Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which youallude: it's a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with Spwing Wiceand John Wussell about it the other day."
"Well, and what do you think of it?" says Sir John, looking mitywaggish--for he knew it was me who roat it.
"Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about thecweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, andthe orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positivestudy to compwehend it."
"Yes, faith," says Larner; "the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as badfor a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a brrogue.Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my lord, and goodluck to you."
"Yaw wemark," says Bullwig, "is vewy appwopwiate. You will wecollect,Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know more about Iwishthan about Gweek),--you will wecollect, without doubt, a stowy nawwatedby that cwedulous though fascinating chwonicler, of a certain kind ofsheep which is known only in a certain distwict of Awabia, and of whichthe tail is so enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or isbound up by the shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, orcart, which makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus 'the sheepof Awabia have their own chawiots.' I have often thought, sir (thisclawet is weally nectaweous)--I have often, I say, thought that thewace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep--genius is our tail,education our wheelbawwow. Without art and education to pwop it, thisgenius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or injuredby the wocks upon the way: with the wheelbawwow it is stwengthened,incweased, and supported--a pwide to the owner, a blessing to mankind."
"A very appropriate simile," says Sir John; "and I am afraid that thegenius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support."
"Apropos," said Bullwig, "who IS Yellowplush? I was given to understandthat the name was only a fictitious one, and that the papers werewritten by the author of the 'Diary of a Physician;' if so, the man haswonderfully improved in style, and there is some hope of him."
"Bah!" says the Duke of Doublejowl; "everybody knows it's Barnard, thecelebrated author of 'Sam Slick.'"
"Pardon, my dear duke," says Lord Bagwig; "it's the authoress of 'HighLife,' 'Almack's,' and other fashionable novels."
"Fiddlestick's end!" says Doctor Larner; "don't be blushing andpretinding to ask questions; don't we know you, Bullwig? It'syou yourself, you thief of the world: we smoked you from the verybeginning."
Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted them,and said,--"I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush is noother than Mr. Yellowplush: he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your lastglass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and anornament of my kitchen!"
"Gad!" says Doublejowl, "let's have him up."
"Hear, hear!" says Bagwig.
"Ah, now," says Larner, "your grace is not going to call up and talk toa footman, sure? Is it gintale?"
"To say the least of it," says Bullwig, "the pwactice is iwwegular, andindecowous; and I weally don't see how the interview can be in any waypwofitable."
But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, andeverybody excep them was for having up poor me. The bell was wrung;butler came. "Send up Charles," says master; and Charles, who wasstanding behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come in.
"Charles," says master, "I have been telling these gentlemen who is theauthor of the 'Yellowplush Correspondence' in Fraser's Magazine."
"It's the best magazine in Europe," says the duke.
"And no mistake," says my lord.
"Hwhat!" says Larner; "and where's the Litherary Chran?"
I said myself nothink, but made a bough, and blusht likepickle-cabbitch.
"Mr. Yellowplush," says his grace, "will you, in the first place, drinka glass of wine?"
I boughed agin.
"And what wine do you prefer, sir? humble port or imperial burgundy?"
"Why, your grace," says I, "I know my place, and ain't above kitchinwines. I will take a glass of port, and drink it to the health of thishonrabble compny."
When I'd swigged off the bumper, which his grace himself did me thehonor to pour out for me, there was a silints for a minnit; when mymaster said:--
"Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your memoirs in Fraser's Magazinewith so much curiosity, and have so high an opinion of your talents as awriter, that I really cannot keep you as a footman any longer, or allowyou to discharge duties for which you are now quite unfit. With all myadmiration for your talents, Mr. Yellowplush, I still am confident thatmany of your friends in the servants'-hall will clean my boots a greatdeal better than a gentleman of your genius can ever be expected todo--it is for this purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may bewriting articles in magazines. But--you need not look so red, my goodfellow, and had better take another glass of port--I don't wish to throwyou upon the wide world without the means of a livelihood, and have madeinterest for a little place which you will have under government, andwhich will give you an income of eighty pounds per annum; which you candouble, I presume, by your literary labors."
"Sir," says I, clasping my hands, and busting into tears, "do not--forheaven's sake, do not!--think of any such think, or drive me from yoursuvvice, because I have been fool enough to write in magaseens. Glansbut one moment at your honor's plate--every spoon is as bright as amirror; condysend to igsamine your shoes--your honor may see reflectedin them the fases of every one in the company. I blacked them shoes, Icleaned that there plate. If occasionally I've forgot the footman inthe litterary man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashnabblelife, it was from a sincere desire to do good, and promote nollitch: andI appeal to your honor,--I lay my hand on my busm, and in the fase ofthis noble company beg you to say, When you rung your bell, who came toyou fust? When you stopt out at Brooke's till morning, who sat up foryou? When you was ill, who forgot the natral dignities of his station,and answered the two-pair bell? Oh, sir," says I, "I know what's what;don't send me away. I know them littery chaps, and, beleave me, I'drather be a footman. The work's not so hard--the pay is better: thevittels incompyrably supearor. I have but to clean my things, and run myerrints, and you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth. Sir! Mr.Bullwig! an't I right? shall I quit MY station and sink--that is to say,rise--to YOURS?"
Bullwig was violently affected; a tear stood in his glistening i."Yellowplush," says he, seizing my hand, "you ARE right. Quit not yourpresent occupation; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, all yourlife, but don't turn literary man. Look at me. I am the first novelistin Europe. I have ranged with eagle wing over the wide regions ofliterature, and perched on every eminence in its turn. I have gazed witheagle eyes on the sun of philosophy, and fathomed the mysterious depthsof the human mind. All languages are familiar to me, all thoughts areknown to me, all men understood by me. I have gathered wisdom fromthe honeyed lips of Plato, as we wandered in the gardens ofAcadames--wisdom, too, from the mouth of Job Johnson, as we smokedour 'backy in Seven Dials. Such must be the studies, and such is themission, in this world, of the Poet-Philosopher. But the knowledgeis only emptiness; the initiation is but misery; the initiated, a manshunned and bann'd by his fellows
. Oh," said Bullwig, clasping hishands, and throwing his fine i's up to the chandelier, "the curse ofPwometheus descends upon his wace. Wath and punishment pursue themfrom genewation to genewation! Wo to genius, the heaven-scaler, thefire-stealer! Wo and thrice bitter desolation! Earth is the wock onwhich Zeus, wemorseless, stwetches his withing victim--men, the vulturesthat feed and fatten on him. Ai, ai! it is agony eternal--gwoaning andsolitawy despair! And you, Yellowplush, would penetwate these mystewies:you would waise the awful veil, and stand in the twemendous Pwesence.Beware; as you value your peace, beware! Withdwaw, wash Neophyte!For heaven's sake--O for heaven's sake!"--here he looked round withagony--"give me a glass of bwandy-and-water, for this clawet is beginningto disagwee with me."
Bullwig having concluded this spitch, very much to his ownsattasfackshn, looked round to the compny for aplaws, and then swiggedoff the glass of brandy-and-water, giving a sollum sigh as he took thelast gulph; and then Doctor Ignatius, who longed for a chans, and, inorder to show his independence, began flatly contradicting his friend,addressed me, and the rest of the genlmn present, in the followingmanner:--
"Hark ye," says he, "my gossoon, doan't be led asthray by the nonsinseof that divil of a Bullwig. He's jillous of ye, my bhoy: that's therale, undoubted thruth; and it's only to keep you out of litherarylife that he's palavering you in this way. I'll tell you what--Plush yeblackguard,--my honorable frind the mimber there has told me a hundertimes by the smallest computation, of his intense admiration of yourtalents, and the wonderful sthir they were making in the world. He can'tbear a rival. He's mad with envy, hatred, oncharatableness. Look athim, Plush, and look at me. My father was not a juke exactly, nor avena markis, and see, nevertheliss, to what a pitch I am come. I spare noixpinse; I'm the iditor of a cople of pariodicals; I dthrive about in mecarridge: I dine wid the lords of the land; and why--in the name of thepiper that pleed before Mosus, hwy? Because I'm a litherary man. BecauseI know how to play me cards. Because I'm Docther Larner, in fact, andmimber of every society in and out of Europe. I might have remainedall my life in Thrinity Colledge, and never made such an incom as thatoffered you by Sir Jan; but I came to London--to London, my boy, and nowsee! Look again at me friend Bullwig. He IS a gentleman, to be sure, andbad luck to 'im, say I; and what has been the result of his litherarylabor? I'll tell you what; and I'll tell this gintale society, by theshade of Saint Patrick, they're going to make him a BARINET."
"A BARNET, Doctor!" says I; "you don't mean to say they're going to makehim a barnet!"
"As sure as I've made meself a docthor," says Larner.
"What, a baronet, like Sir John?"
"The divle a bit else."
"And pray what for?"
"What faw?" says Bullwig. "Ask the histowy of litwatuwe what faw? AskColburn, ask Bentley, ask Saunders and Otley, ask the gweat Bwitishnation, what faw? The blood in my veins comes puwified thwough tenthousand years of chivalwous ancestwy; but that is neither herenor there: my political principles--the equal wights which I haveadvocated--the gweat cause of fweedom that I have celebwated, are knownto all. But this, I confess, has nothing to do with the question. No,the question is this--on the thwone of litewature I stand unwivalled,pwe-eminent; and the Bwitish government, honowing genius in me,compliments the Bwitish nation by lifting into the bosom of theheweditawy nobility, the most gifted member of the democwacy." (Thehonrabble genlm here sunk down amidst repeated cheers.)
"Sir John," says I, "and my lord duke, the words of my rivrint frendIgnatius, and the remarks of the honrabble genlmn who has just satedown, have made me change the detummination which I had the honor ofigspressing just now.
"I igsept the eighty pound a year; knowing that I shall ave plenty oftime for pursuing my littery career, and hoping some day to set on thatsame bentch of barranites, which is deckarated by the presnts of myhonrabble friend.
"Why shooden I? It's trew I ain't done anythink as YET to deservesuch an honor; and it's very probable that I never shall. Butwhat then?--quaw dong, as our friends say? I'd much rayther have acoat-of-arms than a coat of livry. I'd much rayther have my blud-redhand spralink in the middle of a shield, than underneath a tea-tray. Abarranit I will be; and, in consiquints, must cease to be a footmin.
"As to my politticle princepills, these, I confess, ain't settled:they are, I know, necessary; but they ain't necessary UNTIL ASKT FOR;besides, I reglar read the Sattarist newspaper, and so ignirince on thispint would be inigscusable.
"But if one man can git to be a doctor, and another a barranit, andanother a capting in the navy, and another a countess, and another thewife of a governor of the Cape of Good Hope, I begin to perseave thatthe littery trade ain't such a very bad un; igspecially if you're up tosnough, and know what's o'clock. I'll learn to make myself usefle, inthe fust place; then I'll larn to spell; and, I trust, by reading thenovvles of the honrabble member, and the scientafick treatiseses of thereverend doctor, I may find the secrit of suxess, and git a litell formy own share. I've sevral frends in the press, having paid for many ofthose chaps' drink, and given them other treets; and so I think I've gotall the emilents of suxess; therefore, I am detummined, as I said, toigsept your kind offer, and beg to withdraw the wuds which I made yousof when I refyoused your hoxpatable offer. I must, however--"
"I wish you'd withdraw yourself," said Sir John, bursting into a mostigstrorinary rage, "and not interrupt the company with your infernaltalk! Go down, and get us coffee: and, hark ye! hold your impertinenttongue, or I'll break every bone in your body. You shall have the placeas I said; and while you're in my service, you shall be my servant; butyou don't stay in my service after to-morrow. Go down stairs, sir; anddon't stand staring here!"
. . . . . .
In this abrupt way, my evening ended; it's with a melancholy regret thatI think what came of it. I don't wear plush any more. I am an altered, awiser, and, I trust, a better man.
I'm about a novvle (having made great progriss in spelling), in thestyle of my friend Bullwig; and preparing for publigation, in theDoctor's Cyclopedear, "The Lives of Eminent British and ForingWosherwomen."