Roundabout Papers | Page 6

supply saddles and pale ale for Bombay or Calcutta.
But as surely as the cadet drinks too much pale ale, it will disagree with
him; and so surely, dear youth, will too much novels cloy on thee. I
wonder, do novel-writers themselves read many novels? If you go into
Gunter's, you don't see those charming young ladies (to whom I present
my most respectful compliments) eating tarts and ices, but at the proper
eventide they have good plain wholesome tea and bread-and-butter.

Can anybody tell me does the author of the "Tale of Two Cities" read
novels? does the author of the "Tower of London" devour romances?
does the dashing "Harry Lorrequer" delight in "Plain or Ringlets" or
"Sponge's Sporting Tour?" Does the veteran, from whose flowing pen
we had the books which delighted our young days, "Darnley," and
"Richelieu," and "Delorme,"* relish the works of Alexandre the Great,
and thrill over the "Three Musqueteers?" Does the accomplished author
of the "Caxtons" read the other tales in Blackwood? (For example, that
ghost-story printed last August, and which for my part, though I read it
in the public reading-room at the "Pavilion Hotel" at Folkestone, I
protest frightened me so that I scarce dared look over my shoulder.)
Does "Uncle Tom" admire "Adam Bede;" and does the author of the
"Vicar of Wrexhill" laugh over the "Warden" and the "The Three
Clerks?" Dear youth of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous pudor! I
make no doubt that the eminent parties above named all partake of
novels in moderation--eat jellies--but mainly nourish themselves upon
wholesome roast and boiled.
* By the way, what a strange fate is that which befell the veteran
novelist! He was appointed her Majesty's Consul-General in Venice,
the only city in Europe where the famous "Two Cavaliers" cannot by
any possibility be seen riding together.
Here, dear youth aforesaid! our Cornhill Magazine owners strive to
provide thee with facts as well as fiction; and though it does not
become them to brag of their Ordinary, at least they invite thee to a
table where thou shalt sit in good company. That story of the "Fox"*
was written by one of the gallant seamen who sought for poor Franklin
under the awful Arctic Night: that account of China** is told by the
man of all the empire most likely to know of what he speaks: those
pages regarding Volunteers*** come from an honored hand that has
borne the sword in a hundred famous fields, and pointed the British
guns in the greatest siege in the world.
* "The Search for Sir John Franklin. (From the Private Journal of an
Officer of the 'Fox.')"
** "The Chinese and the Outer Barbarians." By Sir John Bowring.
*** "Our Volunteers." By Sir John Burgoyne.
Shall we point out others? We are fellow-travellers, and shall make
acquaintance as the voyage proceeds. In the Atlantic steamers, on the

first day out (and on high- and holy-days subsequently), the jellies set
down on table are richly ornamented; medioque in fonte leporum rise
the American and British flags nobly emblazoned in tin. As the
passengers remark this pleasing phenomenon, the Captain no doubt
improves the occasion by expressing a hope, to his right and left, that
the flag of Mr. Bull and his younger Brother may always float side by
side in friendly emulation. Novels having been previously compared to
jellies--here are two (one perhaps not entirely saccharine, and flavored
with an amari aliquid very distasteful to some palates)--two novels*
under two flags, the one that ancient ensign which has hung before the
well-known booth of "Vanity Fair;" the other that fresh and handsome
standard which has lately been hoisted on "Barchester Towers." Pray,
sir, or madam, to which dish will you be helped?
* "Lovel the Widower" and "Framley Parsonage."
So have I seen my friends Captain Lang and Captain Comstock press
their guests to partake of the fare on that memorable "First day out,"
when there is no man, I think, who sits down but asks a blessing on his
voyage, and the good ship dips over the bar, and bounds away into the
blue water.

ON TWO CHILDREN IN BLACK.
Montaigne and "Howel's Letters" are my bedside books. If I wake at
night, I have one or other of them to prattle me to sleep again. They
talk about themselves for ever, and don't weary me. I like to hear them
tell their old stories over and over again. I read them in the dozy hours,
and only half remember them. I am informed that both of them tell
coarse stories. I don't heed them. It was the custom of their time, as it is
of Highlanders and Hottentots to dispense with a part of dress which
we all wear in cities. But people can't afford