Roundabout Papers

gazine was likened to a ship sailing forth on her voyage, and

d procession came naturally to my mind. The imagination easily supplied a gold coach, eight cream-colored horses of your true Pegasus breed, huzzaing multitudes, running footmen, and clanking knights in armor, a chaplain and a sword-bearer with a muff on his head, scowling out of the coach-window, and a Lord Mayor all crimson, fur, gold chain, and white ribbons, solemnly occupying the place of state. A playful fancy could have carried the matter farther, could have depicted the feast in the Egyptian Hall, the Ministers, Chief Justices, and right reverend prelates taking their seats round about his lordship, the turtle and other delicious viands, and Mr. Toole behind the central throne, bawling out to the assembled guests and dignitaries: “My Lord So-and-so, my Lord What-d’ye-call-’im, my Lord Etcaetera, the Lord Mayor pledges you all in a loving-cup.” Then the noble proceed

d to grin and mumble his poor old speeches. Is he enviable? Would you like to change with his lordship? Suppose that bumper which his golden footman brings him, instead i’fackins

and Robinson (our dear friends) would be at this announcement of success. But now that the performance is over, my good sir, just step into my private room, and see that it is not all pleasure — this winning of successes. Cast your eye over those newspapers

has a right to his opinion. For example, one of the pictures I admired most at the Royal Academy is by a gentleman on whom I never, to my knowledge, set eyes. This picture is No. 346, “Moses,” by Mr. S. Solomon. I thought it had a great intention, I thought it finely drawn and composed. It nobly represented, to my mind, the dark children of the Egyptian bondage, and suggested the touching story. My newspaper says: “Two ludicrously ugly women, looking at a dingy baby, do not form a pleasing object;” and so good-by, Mr. Solomon. Are not most of our babies served so in life? and doesn’t Mr. Robinson

wiseacre in Blackwood’s Magazine lately fall foul of “Tom Jones?” O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. Richardson, who could write

,” so to speak, who begins to find out that some young wag of the company is “chaffing” him? Have you ever tried the sarcastic or Socratic method with a child? Little simple he or she, in the innocence of the simple heart, plays some silly freak, or makes some absurd remark, which you turn to ridicule. The little creature dimly perceives that you are making fun of him, writhes, blushes, grows uneasy, bursts into tears — upon my word it is not fair to try the weapon of ridicule upon that innocent young victim. The awful objurgatory practice he is accustomed to. Point out his fault, and lay bare the dire consequences thereof: exp

s revolt at laughter. Is the satyr always a wicked brute at heart, and are they rightly shocked at his grin, his leer, his horns, hoofs, and ears? Fi donc, le vilain monstre, with his shrieks, and his capering crooked legs! Let him go and get a pair of well-wadded black silk stockings, and pull them over those horrid shanks; put a large gown and bands ove

t, and the profound wisdom lying underneath. Wise or dull, laudatory or otherwise, we put their opinions aside. If they applaud, we are pleased: if they shake their quick pens, and fly off with a hiss, we resign their favors and put on all the fortitude we can muster. I would rather have the lowest man’s good word than his bad one, to be sure; but as for coaxing a compliment, or wheedling

illow. Three I extracted yesterday; two I found this morning. They don’t sting quite so sharply as they did; but a skin is a skin, and they bite, after all, most wickedly. It is all very fine to advertise on the Magazine, “Contributions are only to be sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., and not to the Editor’s private residence.” My dear sir, how little you know man —

RWELL,

y utmost as a governess to support them. I toil at night when they are at rest, and my own hand and brain are alike tired. If I could add but a LITTLE to our means by my pen, many of my poor invalid’s wants might be supplied, and I could procure for her comforts to which she is now a stranger

aithful

S.

n envelope with its penny stamp — heaven he

knew it wouldn’t do: and why is this poor lady to appeal to my pity and bring her poor little ones kneeling to my bedside, and calling for bread which I can give them if I choose? No day passes but that argument ad misericordiam is used. Day and night that sad voice is crying out for help. Thrice it appealed to me yesterday. Twice this morning it crie

hom they are addressing. But this artifice, I state publicly, is of no avail. When I see THAT kind of herb, I know the snake

d hold you their enemy because you could not be their friend. Some, furious and envious, say: “Wh

are two choice slips from that noble Irish oak, which has more

ROYAL, DO

r Tale, Lovel the Widower, and am much surprised at the unwa

g to assure you that the majority of the corps de ballet are virtuous, well-conducted g

anagers are in the habit of speaking good En

the subject in question, or

ose of actors and actresses, are superior to the snarlings of dyspeptic l

your obedi

B.

f the Cornhi

ROYAL, DO

ine for January, the first portion of a Tale

hat way) in trying to degrade the character of the corps de ballet. When you imply that the majority

to speak on the subject. I am only surprised that so vile a libeller as yourself should be allowed to preside at the Dramatic Fund dinner on the 22n

n suprem

.

erted, ugly, and every way odious. In the same page, other little ballet-dancers are described, wearing homely clothing, doing their duty, and carrying their humble savings to the family at home. But nothing will content my dear correspondents but to have me declare that the majority of ballet-dancers have villas in the Regent’s Park, and to convict me of “deliberate falsehood.” Suppose, for instance, I had chosen to introduce a red-haired washerwoman into a story? I might get an expostulatory letter saying, “Sir, in stating that the majority of washerwomen are red-haired, you are a liar! and you had best not speak

emies. But here, in this editorial business, you can’t do otherwise: and a queer, sad, strange, bitter thought it is, that must cross the mind of many a public man: “Do what I will, be innocent or spiteful, be generous