'Under the Thirty Acres-by the stile. A gun went off, and

'Sho!' Miss Peacock cried contemptuously. A gun went off, indeed! At your age, Josina! I don't know what girls are coming to! If you don't take care you'll be all nerves and vapours like your aunt at the Cottage! Go and take a dose of gillyflower-water this minute, and the less said to your father the better. Why, you'd never hear the end of it! Afraid because a gun went off!'

Josina agreed that it was very silly, and went quickly up to her room. Yes, the less said about it the better !

THE W. S. GILBERT OF HIS OWN LETTERS.

BY H. ROWLAND BROWN AND ROWLAND GREY.

'DEAR MISS-, I will send you some of my plays autographed, but unfortunately I have quarrelled with my (former) Bab Ballad publisher. However, I will get you some copies from a bookseller, and send them to you in due course. I haven't any in my possession. Yours very truly,

W. S. GILBERT.'

CAN you not imagine this letter appearing in a sale catalogue, labelled 'W. S. Gilbert, very characteristic,' to justify a fancy price? So, indeed, the pleased recipient did promptly picture its appearance some day when she could no longer treasure it, for we are all prone to generalise hastily concerning genius though not all are as quickly shown the error of the way.

The revelation of the real man happened years before the time when, with the emotion of the hero of 'The Aspern Papers,' she, with one other, was given gracious access to a wonderful box of letters, with the genuine W. S. Gilbert written clearly between their lines, whether expectedly lambent with a pretty wit, or all unexpectedly touched with a beautiful seriousness. This luckless person wrote a playlet for a charity, and became inordinately puffed up because her heroine was to be created by an attractive young actress. Alas, the interpreter fell ill at the supreme moment, and the wretched author had not merely to massacre her own innocent by taking the professional's place, but to commit the murder under the eye of W. S. Gilbert. She went home in despair, merely wondering by what mordant word he would keep her failure evergreen. Next morning instead the postman brought balm in Gilead.

'I am sorry you should have felt any apprehension at the prospect of my being present at the performance. I had heard so promising an account of your little play from Miss that I was really anxious to hear it. I was very sorry I could not get near enough the stage to enable me to do so. The people you have really to dread are the average public, who know nothing of the difficulties of dramatic composition, and judge only by the impressions left on their minds by the performance. Men like myself, who have been through the mill, and have devoted their lives to learning the art of dramatic composition, know too well the difficulties, risks, and disappointments incident even to the most unpretentious

forms of stage play, not to make every sympathetic allowance for the novice in play-writing. It is when the beginner launches out into a five-act comedy that we are apt to be over-critical. . . . As to my chance of being appreciated by posterity, I fancy posterity will know as little of me as I shall of posterity.'

Most delicately did he realise how useless was the tinsel clink of compliment to one in such a parlous plight. 'Sorry I was placed where I could neither see nor hear,' and this to one then almost a stranger.

To be suddenly confronted with nearly a hundred letters in the fine clear script, with free permission to make extracts, offered a task at once difficult and delightful. Above all, there was a temptation to be resisted-the temptation to explain at last some of the fine shades of their writer's cryptic character by touching upon matters of which it is still too early to speak without reserve. The small sheets have the fragrance of rosemary rather than rue as they tell the story of an ideal friendship, unclouded to the last. Only a thing of shreds and patches' is possible, yet even patchwork can be charming if the colours be well assorted. It will be the fault of clumsy selection if it be not proved that Gilbert, like Lamb and FitzGerald, was a born letter-writer. It seems to require genius to be at once brief and happy, and certainly not every genius replies as promptly as he did to the snow-storms of begging letters which came to one who, to the blank amazement of his suburban neighbours, was as rich as they were only from writing words to operas, as if the words mattered!'

'DEAR MISS,' (with cheque),

and sign myself yours obediently,

I can but do your bidding,

W. S. GILBERT.'

For he was ever that rarity, a cheerful giver, and what this means to those doomed to collect 'voluntary' contributions, they alone know.

He evidently shared Lamb's pleasant faith that 'Presents endear Absents,' when he sent off a complete Punch' to an invalid, or the whole of 'Everyman's Library' to a literary wanderer constantly shifting quarters abroad.

In dealing with the letters, accurate chronology and classification are alike impossible. The only thing to do is to glance through each little packet and quote, for instance, from one vaguely marked' miscellaneous.'

'Did you know? She was married yesterday to of the Eighteenth Hussars, with much pomp and ancientry. I can't understand why so much fuss is made over a partnership-or rather I don't understand why the process should not be applied to all partnerships. It seems to me that the union (say) of Marshall and Snelgrove might and should have been celebrated in the same fashion. Marshall waiting at the altar for Snelgrove to arrive (dressed in summer stock remnants), a choir to walk in front of Snelgrove, a Bishop and a Dean (and also a solicitor to ratify the deed of partnership), and a bevy of coryphée fitters-on to strew flowers in their path. It is a pretty idea, and invests a contract with a charm not to be found in a solicitor's or conveyancer's chambers.'

In sending a pressing invitation he adds:

'They are getting on rapidly with my electric lighting. Now mind, I am installing electric light simply that you may be able to do your hair in the most perfect possible manner. I have no other thought-no other design-so, if you decline to come and stay here, all my money and pains will be thrown away. I shall un-wire the house, pull down the engine house, sell the engine, and revert to paraffin oil; so now you know.'

In the chilly spring of 1903 he breaks out :

'All our fruit and flowers are being ruined by this cussed weather, and my bones ache with rheumatism till I can almost hear them. I have used all the bad language I know (except one expletive which I am keeping for Coronation Day), and have sent to Whiteley's for a fresh batch.'

He does not, however, explain why he failed to employ The Sorcerer.

'It is in all the special evening editions that you went to Drury Lane theatre last evening and caught a bad cold. That was very careless of you, and very unfair to your friends, who can't expect to be happy while you are suffering. I hope it won't be a very bad cold; indeed, I hope it will be a very good cold and go away at

once.'

On another occasion he asks pathetically:

'Why does the Almighty make delightful people and then make them go and live at Dunbar? It is as though I wrote a masterpiece of a play and then stipulated that it should only be performed at the Theatre Royal, Spitzbergen. . . . Gracious Heavens! what

VOL LII.-NO. 308, N.S.

11

has Dunbar done that it should be so favoured? There is a proverb, "Do as you would be done bar," or something like that; but it doesn't seem to throw any light on the question.'

There is an ironical interest in contrasting the handful of letters commenting on the meagre official recognition meted out to our English Aristophanes' with the abundant honours he won for himself. He had given the language an often mis-used adjective, and enriched the thesaurus of English letters with words and a wealth of quotation before his death. More popular than half the poets dead, and all the poets living, his real claim to an offer of the vacant laureateship was recognised by the fit though few. 'His foe was folly, and his weapon wit,' and, like his famous ancestor, Sir Humphrey Gilbert of 'Squirrel' fame, whose height and proportions were exactly the same as his own, he gave us a Newfoundland where sorrows go and pleasure tarries.'

His fairy folk were honest as they were merry. The lamps of burlesque were low and of evil odour when he flashed into our ken with elf maidens significantly wearing the clean radiant electric light star-wise in their hair.

In January 1907 he writes:

has com

'Now I've a little bit of news for you. It is a profound secret, and I haven't told it to anybody: my news is that missioned Lord Knollys to find out whether I would accept a knighthood, and as I expressed my willingness to do so, it will, I suppose, be conferred next May, when the birthday honours are announced. It is a tin-pot, twopenny halfpenny sort of distinction, but as no dramatic author as such ever had it for dramatic authorship alone, I felt I ought not to refuse it. I suppose it is to be given to me as a sort of impalpable old-age pension in consideration of my being a broken-down old ruin. Possibly the King may forget all about it (which wouldn't cause me a moment's annoyance), but those who know about these things say it is sure to be.'

That Sir John Vanbrugh was knighted for his hideous architecture, not for his sparkling licentious stage work, is too often forgotten. On July 1, 1907, he wrote as Sir William :

'I went yesterday to the Investiture at Buckingham Palace, and was duly tapped on both shoulders by Edward VII, and then kissed hands. I found myself politely described in the official list as Mr. William Gilbert, playwright, suggesting that my work was analogical to that of a wheelwright, or a millwright, or a wain