THORNS IN THE CUSHION.
In the Essay with which this volume commences, the Cornhill Magazine was likened to a ship sailing forth on her voyage, and the captain uttered a very sincere prayer for her prosperity.The dangers of storm and rock, the vast outlay upon ship and cargo, and the certain risk of the venture, gave the chief officer a feeling of no small anxiety; for who could say from what quarter danger might arise, and how his owner's property might be imperilled? After a six months'
voyage, we with very thankful hearts could acknowledge our good fortune: and, taking up the apologue in the Roundabout manner, we composed a triumphal procession in honor of the Magazine, and imagined the Imperator thereof riding in a sublime car to return thanks in the Temple of Victory.Cornhill is accustomed to grandeur and greatness, and has witnessed, every ninth of November, for Idon't know how many centuries, a prodigious annual pageant, chariot, progress, and flourish of trumpetry; and being so very near the Mansion House, I am sure the reader will understand how the idea of pageant and 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 proceedings come to an end; Lord Simper proposes the ladies; the company rises from table, and adjourns to coffee and muffins.The carriages of the nobility and guests roll back to the West.The Egyptian Hall, so bright just now, appears in a twilight glimmer, in which waiters are seen ransacking the dessert, and rescuing the spoons.His lordship and the Lady Mayoress go into their private apartments.The robes are doffed, the collar and white ribbons are removed.The Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty surely in a fluster about the speeches which he has just uttered; remembering too well now, wretched creature, the principal points which he DIDN'T make when he rose to speak.He goes to bed to headache, to care, to repentance, and, I dare say, to a dose of something which his body-physician has prescribed for him.
And there are ever so many men in the city who fancy that man happy!
Now, suppose that all through that 9th of November his lordship has had a racking rheumatism, or a toothache, let us say, during all dinner-time--through which he has been obliged 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 of ypocras or canary, contains some abomination of senna? Away! Remove the golden goblet, insidious cupbearer! You now begin to perceive the gloomy moral which I am about to draw.
Last month we sang the song of glorification, and rode in the chariot of triumph.It was all very well.It was right to huzza, and be thankful, and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides, you know, there was the enjoyment of thinking how pleased Brown, and Jones, 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, over those letters.See what the critics say of your harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries! Why, you are no better than an idiot; you are drivelling; your powers have left you;this always overrated writer is rapidly sinking to, &c.
This is not pleasant; but neither is this the point.It may be the critic is right, and the author wrong.It may be that the archbishop's sermon is not so fine as some of those discourses twenty years ago which used to delight the faithful in Granada.Or it may be (pleasing thought!) that the critic is a dullard, and does not understand what he is writing about.Everybody who has been to an exhibition has heard visitors discoursing about the pictures before their faces.One says, "This is very well;" another says, "This is stuff and rubbish;" another cries, "Bravo! this is a masterpiece:" and each 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 consider Mr.
Brown's cherub an ugly, squalling little brat? So cheer up, Mr.S.
S.It may be the critic who discoursed on your baby is a bad judge of babies.When Pharaoh's kind daughter found the child, and cherished and loved it, and took it home, and found a nurse for it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-dust colored chamberlains, or some of the tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses at court, who never had children themselves, who cried out, "Faugh! the horrid little squalling wretch!" and knew he would never come to good; and said, "Didn't I tell you so?" when he assaulted the Egyptian.