The Wallypug in London

CHAPTER IX

THE WALLYPUG’S OWN

It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own.

image the doctor-in-law was editor

After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it The Wallypug’s Own, as the name was considered a striking one. The first number was to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all of my guests were busily engaged in its production.

“There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last,” hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of “The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and Treatment”; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the Wallypug on the subject of “Julius Caesar,” illustrated by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the Boys’ Own Paper some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that.

image from “the wallypug’s own”

The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this:

“Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in Latin, ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ which means, ‘I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle’, which has been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who lived here then, didn’t understand Latin, and so they went for Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen’s helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus, to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in Latin, ‘Et tu, Brute,’ which means ‘Oh, you brute,’ and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of Julius Caesar landing in Britain—that’s him waving things, and calling to the others to come on.”

The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this:

“You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can’t you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn’t.”

The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows:

“You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken.”

The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate. This is what he sent:

THE NEW ROBIN.

image

The North wind doth blow,
And we ought to have snow,
If ’tis true what my nurse used to sing,
Poor thing.

Yet up in yon tree
Robin Redbreast I see
As happy and gay as a king,
Poor thing.

image

Look! as true as I live,
There’s a boy with a sieve
And a stick and a long piece of string,
Poor thing.

But the bird doesn’t care,
For I hear him declare,
“Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring,
Poor thing.”

“What ridiculous cheek,”
And he turns up his beak
Ere he tucks his head under his wing,
Poor thing.

The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on “Fashions for the Month by Our Paris Model.” He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the stupid blunders which he made:

“Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit.

“Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly ‘chic.’

“Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined—a last year’s clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-¾d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families. “I hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. The most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material.

“A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge.”

There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of.

You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own.

The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it

HE and I and IT.

Oh HE was a Publisher
And I was a Publishee,
And IT was a book
Which the Publisher took
And pub-l-i-s-h-e-d.

The Publisher’s smile it was bland,
’Twas a beautiful smile to see,
As again and again
He took pains to explain
How large my “half-profits” might be.

IT had a capital sale,
Well reviewed by the Times and D.T.,
And a great many more,
So my friends by the score
Came around to congratulate me.

And people I scarcely had met,
Just “dropped in” to afternoon tea;
While my aunt, who’s a swell,
Now remembered quite well
That I was related to she.

And girls that were rich and plain,
Or pretty and poor, did agree
To let me suppose
That I’d but to propose
To be m-a-r-r-i-e-d.

image my friends all turned tail

Yes, HE published IT in the Spring,
That season of frolic and glee;
“In the Autumn,” HE said,
Gravely nodding his head,
“‘Half-profits’ will mean L.S.D.”

But Autumn has come and gone,
And I’m so to say, “All at sea,”
For HE sobs and HE sighs
And HE turns up his eyes
When I ask what my “half-profits” be.

There are “charges for this, and for that,”
And for “things that HE couldn’t foresee,”
And HE “very much fears,”
So he says twixt his tears,
“That there won’t be a penny for me.”

Oh! rich is the Publisher
And poor is the Publishee;
Of the profits of IT
I shall touch not a bit,
They are all swallowed up by HE.

The girls now all treat me with scorn—
Aunt turns up her n-o-s-e,
And my friends all turn tail,
While my book they assail
And call rubbish and twad-d-l-e.

Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything.

It was called “The Viscount’s Revenge,” and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes, and in another she was described as “darkly, proudly handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night.”

image the literary housemaid

At the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in the magazine, and, as all of the Rhymester’s were too long, the Doctor-in-Law decided to write one himself, which he called

COMMERCIAL PROBLEMS.

Why doth the little busy bee
Not charge so much an hour,
For gathering honey day by day
From every opening flower?

And can you tell me why, good sir,
The birds receive no pay
For singing sweetly in the grove
Throughout the livelong day?

Why flow’rs should bloom about the place
And give their perfume free,
In so unbusinesslike a way,
Seems very odd to me.

I cannot meet a single cow
That charges for her milk,
And though they are not paid a sou,
The silkworms still spin silk.

While ducks and hens, I grieve to find,
Lay eggs for nothing too,
Which is a most ridiculous
And foolish thing to do.

These problems often puzzle me;
I lie awake at night,
And think and think what I can do
To set this matter right.

I’ve found a way at last, and though
It may at first seem funny,
It cannot fail—’tis this: You pay,
And I’ll collect the money.

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