Olla Podrida Part 49

_Clem._ (_rising._) Stay then--but I shall not. Oh, Edward! Edward!

[_Exit, weeping._

_Jel._ (_alone._) Well, I really thought I should have burst--to be forced not to allow people to suppose that I cared, when I should like to tear the old wretch out of his coffin to beat him. _His_ wardrobe! If people knew his wardrobe as well as I do, who have been patching at it these last ten years--not a shirt or a stocking that would fetch sixpence! And as for his other garments, why a Jew would hardly put them into his bag! (_Crying._) Oh dear! oh dear! After all, I'm just like Miss Clementina; for Sergeant O'Callaghan, when he knows all this, will as surely walk off without beat of drum, as did Mr Edward--and that too with all the money I have lent him. Oh these men! these men!--whether they are living or dying there is nothing in them but treachery and disappointment! When they pretend to be in love, they only are trying for your money; and e'en when they make their wills, they leave to those behind them nothing but _ill-will_!

[_Exit, crying, off the stage as the curtain falls._

How to write a Fashionable Novel

[_Scene.--Chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Arthur Ansard at a briefless table, tete-a-tete with his wig on a block. A. casts a disconsolate look upon his companion, and soliloquises._]

Yes, there you stand, "partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame."

We do not _suit_, for we never gained a _suit_ together. Well, what with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C., who has given me an order for a fashionable novel, written by a "n.o.bleman." But how I, who was never inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of Court is comprised in the Court of King's Bench, am to complete my engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well enough; but as to what occurs within doors, I am quite abroad. I shall never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor's bill must be paid.

(_Knocking outside._) Come in, I pray.

_Enter Barnstaple._

_B._ Merry Christmas to you, Arthur.

_A._ Sit down, my dear fellow; but don't mock me with merry Christmas.

He emigrated long ago. Answer me seriously: do you think it possible for a man to describe what he never saw?

_B._ (_putting his stick up to his chin._) Why, 'tis possible; but I would not answer for the description being quite correct.

_A._ But suppose the parties who read it have never seen the thing described?

_B._ Why then it won't signify whether the description be correct or not.

_A._ You have taken a load off my mind; but still I am not quite at ease. I have engaged to furnish C. with a fashionable novel.

_B._ What do you mean to imply by a fashionable novel?

_A._ I really can hardly tell. His stipulations were, that it was to be a "fashionable novel in three volumes, each volume not less than three hundred pages."

_B._ That is to say, that you are to a.s.sist him in imposing on the public.

_A._ Something very like it, I'm afraid; as it is further agreed that it is to be puffed as coming from a highly talented n.o.bleman.

_B._ You should not do it, Ansard.

_A._ So conscience tells me, but my tailor's bill says Yes; and that is a thing out of all conscience. Only look here.

[_Displays a long bill._

_B._ Why, I must acknowledge, Ansard, that there is some excuse. One needs must, when the devil drives; but you are capable of better things.

_A._ I certainly don't feel great capability in this instance. But what can I do? The man will have nothing else--he says the public will read nothing else.

_B._ That is to say, that because one talented author astonished the public by style and merits peculiarly his own, and established, as it were, a school for neophites, his popularity is to be injured by contemptible imitators. It is sufficient to drive a man mad, to find that the tinsel of others, if to be purchased more cheaply, is to be p.a.w.ned upon the public instead of his gold; and more annoying still, that the majority of the public cannot appreciate the difference between the metal and the alloy. Do you know, Ansard, that by getting up this work, you really injure the popularity of a man of great talent?

_A._ Will he pay my tailor's bill?

_B._ No; I daresay he has enough to do to pay his own. What does your tailor say?

_A._ He is a staunch reformer, and on March the 1st he declares that he will have the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill--carried to my credit. Mr C., on the 10th of February, also expects the novel, the whole novel, and nothing but the novel, and that must be a fashionable novel. Look here, Barnstaple. (_Shows his tailor's bill._)

_B._ I see how it is. He "pays your poverty, and not your will."

_A._ And, by your leave, I thus must pay my bill (_bowing._)

_B._ Well, well, I can help you: nothing more difficult than to write a good novel, and nothing more easy than to write a bad one. If I were not above the temptation, I could pen you a dozen of the latter every ordinary year, and thirteen, perhaps, in the biss.e.xtile. So banish that Christmas cloud from your brow; leave off nibbling your pen at the wrong end, and clap a fresh nib to the right one. I have an hour to spare.

_A._ I thank you: that spare hour of yours may save me many a spare day.

I'm all attention--proceed.

_B._ The first point to be considered is the _tempus_, or time; the next the _locus_, or place; and lastly, the _dramatis personae_; and thus, chapter upon chapter, will you build a novel.

_A._ Build!

_B._ Yes, build; you have had your dimensions given, the interior is left to your own decoration. First, as to the opening. Suppose we introduce the hero in his dressing-room. We have something of the kind in Pelham; and if we can't copy his merits, we must his peculiarities.

Besides, it always is effective: a dressing-room or boudoir of supposed great people, is admitting the vulgar into the arcana, which they delight in.

_A._ Nothing can be better.

_B._ Then, as to time; as the hero is still in bed, suppose we say four o'clock in the afternoon?

_A._ In the morning, you mean.

_B._ No; the afternoon. I grant you that fashionable young men in real life get up much about the same time as other people; but in a fashionable novel your real exclusive never rises early. The very idea makes the tradesman's wife lift up her eyes. So begin. "It was about thirty-three minutes after four, _post meridian_----"

_A._ Minute--to a minute!

_B._ "That the Honourable Augustus Bouverie's finely chiselled----"

_A._ Chiselled!

_B._ Yes; great people are always chiselled; common people are only cast.--"Finely chiselled head was still rec.u.mbent upon his silk-encased pillow. His luxuriant and Antinous-like curls were now confined in _papillotes_ of the finest satin paper, and the _tout ensemble_ of his head----"

_A._ _Tout ensemble!_

_B._ Yes; go on.--"Was gently compressed by a caul of the finest net-work, composed of the threads spun from the beauteous production of the Italian worm."

_A._ Ah! now I perceive--a silk nightcap. But why can't I say at once a silk nightcap?

_B._ Because you are writing a fashionable novel.--"With the forefinger of his gloved left hand----"