143

DINING OUT FOR THE PAPERS.

BY W. H. RUSSELL.

I WAS sitting in my attic, very high indeed, up a collegiate Jacob's ladder, in St. John's, Cam. My pipe and fire had gone out together. The festivities of Grouter's party on the other side of the quadrangle, as they celebrated the wranglership of that worthy, but intense, "old stupid," sounded through my dreary domicile.

I, too, had run my academic race; but alas! I had been distanced-beaten from the very start. I had worked hard, to be sure, for many years, but the conviction settled slowly down on me that I could not do it. I never got on well at lecture-the Reverend Jack Lupus was always down on me (I wasn't on his side, it is true, but then he changed sides to have a full opportunity for a cut at me). Proctors were always taking me up on suspicion, and discharging me with apologies-the proctoring became known-the apologies were never heard of. I used now and then to take a quiet pull from Logan's to Chesterton. It was forthwith hinted I was always on the water instead of reading; and once having been found in a secluded walk with a cigar in my mouth, I was made the theme of an eloquent discourse by Gubbins, our tutor, who got so confused between King James's "Counterblast to Tobacco" (from which he quoted copiously), the Apocalypse and Gregory the Ninth, that he identified one with the other at last, and never got right, all through his sermon; which had, however, the effect of damaging me greatly with the "heads of houses." But the thing that decided my fate was my inability to pay the Reverend Driver -our crack "Coach"-the fee necessary to come out in honours. I say this without disrespect to anybody-even to the Reverend Driver, the coach-he was awfully slow, but dreadfully sure, that's certain. I don't mean to assert that fees are demanded for honours by the authorities-far from it—but just go to Cambridge, and get honours without a coach, or get a coach without paying for that pleasant mode of classical and mathematical locomotion, and then-why then-I'll engage to give you one of the new East India cadetships, when they are thrown open to public competition. Public schoolmen do it sometimes; sometimes, too, men tie wet towels round their heads every night for years, and "read" till their brains are as limp and watery as the flax outside their skulls, make a dash at first class and wranglership, get either or both, and then quietly retire into some hole or corner to die in their laurels. But as a rule, the coaches are the boys-I could not afford a coach-I could not read continuously-for, on the sly, I gave lessons to some pupils, one so fair-so (but I'll tell you about her another day); and besides, I do believe I was stupid. At all events, there I was, Artium Baccalaureus. My "great-go" passed, and the

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world, that very extensive and variegated prospect, before me. I was not fit for the Church, for the law, or for the dispensary. is an awfully abrupt thing when, at two-and-twenty, a young gentleman, without any money, is told, "Now, my dear fellow, go forth and make your fortune," or when he has to ask himself, "What the deuce am I to do now!" I felt it so, I can assure you. There was Grouter; now, as sure as fate, he'll be a bishop, or, if very ill treated, a dean. He is heavy and honourable ponderous, upright, and philosophical to a degree-a hard-working sizar, whom Mr. Sine, our crack tutor, coached up for the glory of his "side," and to uphold "John's" against her snubby neighbour, Trinity. But he is made to get on; and the Earl of Grampound, a great whig peer, has already engaged him at a fabulous stipend to make the grand tour with Lord Sarum; and as he is a tremendous Grecian, he is safe on his way to the New Palace at Westminster. There's Sandstone, the hardest going fellow that ever spirted up the river; but he came up from Winchester, has coached carefully, and is sure of his fellowship after to-day. There's-but what is the use of all this? What am I to do? My eye fell mechanically on the newspaper which had been left in my room by Grouter, when I refused to join his party, with the remark, that "There were some instructive remarks, highly adapted for a contemplative state of mind, in the Right Honourable Lord Cinderley's speech, at the Destitute Goldsmiths' and Jewellers' Annual Dinner," and so to divert my thoughts from myself and my fortunes, I turned, with a grim smile of satisfaction, to read the debate on a matter in which I had not the smallest interest, "the Income Tax." As I read on, I came across the florid reference of Mr. Shiel to the gentlemen of the press in the reporters' gallery; and first, I was astonished to find they came within the tax at all, and next, that the accomplished little orator who was talking of them, should have carried with him the applause of the house when giving a highly eulogistic sketch of their attainments and abilities. My slight knowledge of the mysterious operations of that great agent was derived from occasionally seeing a red-faced, dirty, bald-headed man, in a state of extremest seediness, attending the meetings of a political club of which I was a member, as the representative of the "County Luminary," which certainly cast a most unsteady and alcoholic light on most of the topics presented to it by the gentleman in question. The idea suddenly flashed across me, that I would join the press; it seemed easy work, was more lucrative than I had imagined, and I was astonished to find it respectable. I remembered that a great friend of mine, little Beerington, of Magdalen, knew the editor of the great Metropolitan journal, "The Morning Deflagrator" very well, and my plan was made out at once.

A few days completed all my arrangements. My compact little rooms, overlooking the Bridge of Sighs, was handed over to a lanky Hospitaller, and I was on my way to London, much cheered by Beerington's assurances that I would find Mr. Dammer, the editor, a "most regular good brick as ever was!"

Why are newspaper offices always foci of dirty little boys? Why are they interiorily seedy exceedingly? (there is, to be sure, one exception probably, the "Hymen's Journal;" but then all the attachés are compelled to wash themselves once a day, and the gentlemen when placed on the establishment have orders for bergamott scented soap and macassar to an unlimited extent.) Why are they, as a general rule, retired into the most mysterious quarters of the town, in proportion to their influence and circulation, so that one would imagine the great object of the proprietors was to baffle news-agents and cut off the stream of advertisements as far as the greatest ingenuity in selecting abstruse recesses in unintelligible portions of the metropolis could do it? These and many other things did I revolve within myself while seated in a very rickety chair in a dingy room, awaiting the advent of Dammer, who had left directions that I should call on him at 12 o'clock at night, for the sake of convenience and a quick dispatch of business. I was listening to a great deal of bell-pulling and tinkling -a succession of feet on the stairs, as of men running up and down on perpetual errands-a hazy murmur out of the upper regions of the house, which flared brightly out through the windows with gas-light, white shirt-sleeves, and pale faces-and a heavy thudding sort of hammering noise from time to time, which put me in mind of a set-to with the gloves between the Rev. Billy Pounder, of King's, and his friend "The Deaf'un "-when Dammer rushed in. His personal appearance is a subject too awful to be treated of. Who shall dare to roll back the clouds which enshrined the Olympian Jupiter? Who shall live and see-clothed with that particular description of garment, of which we have all read, that an ancient sinner fabricated his "strong expressions"-the ineffable, intangible, impersonal "We?" Those who like may essay to limn the terrors of his beak (probably somewhat roseate and fuliginous, as to the tip, with snuff) and behold the lightnings of his eye dimmed, haply though they be by the ostreafying properties of Hodge's Balm of Gilead-I tremble and am silent.

Dammer soon found out I was as nearly useless for his purposes, or, indeed, for most things, as a good university education could have rendered me, and was evidently much perplexed. He could not throw me over-that was out of the question; Tom Beerington had written him such a letter, had recalled so many boasts and promises, and had put on the screw with such vigour, that Dammer was afraid of cutting off the supplies of fat round haunches, of birds, hares, grouse, of good mounts and runs, and dinners, which "The Swill," my friend's family mansion had always afforded him in due season, if he did not do "something devilish handsome and permanent for my best friend, Wentworth Rushton." I was young, lanky, with a fine run of spare ribs, and altogether in good condition for work-a great desideratum for newspaper men-but Dammer had found out I did not write short-hand, though I was indifferent well at Greek verse; that I could not undertake the composition of "leaders on any one of the extensive subjects he placed before me-notwithstanding

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I had gained the prize of my college for English composition (subject, "The Advantages of Steam-power")—and that I was, in fact, generally unfit for anything. "Beerington," quoth he, " is a great friend of mine, Mr. Rushton-when in the jungles of Ava, shooting. However, I must tell you that some other time. anxious to oblige him and to do you a service as a friend of his. If you were going into the church, I'd get you a living at once from my best friend the Archbishop of Canterbury-we travelled through Arabia Petræa together, and I fed him through a reed for weeks in the jungle-but you're not. I'd ask Lord John, but that I have not spoken to him lately-d-n him. However, I dare say I'll find something for you to do, and meantime you can, by a little application, render yourself better fitted for a good engagement. When I commanded the irregular horse of my friend Shah Murdo Jung, I-but just wait a moment, if you please; I'll just see if I can't try you at a dinner or two."

Dammer returned in a moment with two large envelopesplaced them in my hand, and said, "Would you be good enough to attend to these to-morrow-they're only dinners-I must now bid you good night-I've got your address-a short paragraph will do-good night!" and left me in such a state of mind I could scarcely find my way into the street. Under the first lamp I stopped and tore open the envelopes. No. 1 was a request from the Committee of the Society for the Amelioration of Mankind that the editor of the "Morning Deflagrator" would favour them with his company to dinner at the Metropolis Tavern, at 6 o'clock the following day. No. 2 was a magnificent-looking ukase from the managers of the Profligate Females' Restoration Association to the same individual, demanding his attendance at a dinner, in aid of the funds of the Association, the same day at 7 o'clock. Two dinners in one day! I did perceive there a divided duty, but knowing I had a good digestion and a stout constitution, I went to bed with a clear conscience and dreamt all night of charging the Amelioration Society at the head of Murdo Jung's Irregular Horse.

Who has not heard of the Metropolis Tavern? It is the temple of hungry benevolence, the shrine where Lazarus kneels in confidence to the beneficent Dives, and where the appeals of suffering humanity go direct to the heart through the chylopoietics. Day after day may streams of black-coated, white chokered people, of waiters, "professionals" and "company" of whom in my early times of dining out, I might have said with truth "Tros Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur," be seen pouring in to that shady hall within which resounds for ever the clang of covers and the rattle of the dinner steel mingled with the faintest soupçon of French cookery from the remoter kitchen. Day after day carriages and cabs there deposit their joyous burthens towards seven o'clock, and the band of the Guards seem there to be on constant duty. Fresh posters outside announce diurnally new objects to be achieved in the paths of gastronomic regeneration, nor is there in this age of progress any development of science, of social know

ledge, or of political life in which the Metropolis Tavern and its dinners do not play an important part.

"Mankind Amealorations?" said the fat porter in his arm chair, as I timidly made my enquiries; "up stairs, Sir, third flight. Leaves yer hat and coat at the table, please, Sir."

And so I ascended a lofty flight of stairs, the walls by the side of which were decked with portraits of great kings and admirals and generals who had feasted in their day right gloriously in these saloons, amid files of smiling waiters and plethoric guests 'till I reached the banqueting-room. What a new world it was to me! Three long tables glittering with plate, with centre-pieces laden with bouquets, with stupendous wine-coolers, side-covers, and heaps of silver knives and forks flashing brightly beneath the light of wax and gas, ran the length of a noble and richly decorated hall, till they effected a junction with a transverse cross table-the seat of honour-at the end of the room, covered with dazzling ornaments, such as the Roman in his conquering hour might have snatched from the treasure-houses of an Eastern monarch. In the orchestra over the entrance were the fair ladies whose happiness it was to be about to see the Ameliorators feeding, and beneath it that indefatigable band of the Guards was already bleating through all its lungs of brass a preparatory rehearsal of the march in Nabucco. The cards before the dishes bespoke the rank of the guests. There was Lord Cinderley the benevolent chairman. Lord Brufham, Mr. Benjamin Ligament Cable, the vice, Mr. Wirey, the great city orator, Mr. Deputy Greenpea, Alderman Carcaseman, Lord Fudleigh Steward, Sir Benjamin Bawl, &c., all in due order. Lower down, little cards stuck into sponge-cakes pointed out the local boundaries for "the Press," which I approached with much humility. A stout gentleman with spectacles was busy pointing a pencil, and prematurely sipping hock as I sidled up. He looked at me-brushed the crumbs of bread off his highly ornate "tommy," and addressed me in some cabalistic phraseology of which I only understood the words "Going to make much of this?" as I felt hungry, I replied, "Well, I should rather say so;" on which the stout gentleman immediately turning his back on me, merely remarked "You'l h've it all to yourself then," an observation which left me to infer that he was slightly deranged and decidedly ill-bred, for I could not at all fancy that I would be really called on to consume the whole banquet. By and by the press seats became fuller and fuller, and I was aware that I was a black sheep, a "new boy at school," for as no one could say who I was, it seemed to be taken for granted I was nobody. Spriggs of the "Star," who wore a bright blue cravat, and a white vest, with gold flowers, hinted audibly to Brown of the "Moon," that I was some "outsider," that Ginner of the "Deflagrator" had engaged for the evening, but Brandyer's theory that I was "doing it" on my own "hook," for the society, seemed to be most generally acceptable.

It is not pleasant to be the subject of baseless theories in one's own hearing; and for some few minutes I felt unhappy and dis