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Aml^ u,ll ‘. L ilwart stems o’erspread with
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rare , , frost-work—e’en as prayer
nrsign- 5 ive -:-of deeper darkness j^et!
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suidlic -f' 111 . l)ia t are too worn to weep
Mr yearning L . s0 (lrear the way I’ve trod!
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Go<l! Carolina Deane Douglass.
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LlTEGAliY BILL NYE.
H E JOINS OTHER FAMOUS LITERARY
LIGHTS IN LONDON.
Jitt 3 i r . Harte Told an Englishman and
t [, e Result—Nye Goes to the Authors’
Club, Meets Douglas Sladen, Jerome and
Mr. Astor—He Goes Into Training.
/Copyright, 1803, by Edgar W. Nye.]
London, Dec. 16, 1893.
London has changed a good deal since
all the traveling done was by the pil
grims or crusaders. Who would believe
that these trumping Britons who now
take a leather hat box and go over the
world, even into the heart of the deseit
and the jungle, a few centuries ago
made their pilgrimages on foot and ask
ed every time they saw a stone wall in
the distance if that was Jerusalem?
The Yankee is found travelingevery-
where that steam will take him, and he
would go even if he returned penniless,
VISITING MR. ASTOR BY APPOINTMENT,
but he does not hanker for mango
swamps, jungle fever and the interior
of a tiger. Stanley, it is true, roamed
around in Africa for some time, rescu
ing people, it is said, even leaving a line
of negro cemeteries behind him in or
der to forcibly rescue a man who was
perfectly comfortable and seeking se
clusion at the time, but Stanley is not,
strictly speaking, an American, except
for lecturing purposes.
The Englishman, however, loves to
chase elephants for the sport of it and is
all the time looking for a place where
no other white man has ever been be
fore. And yet sometimes he believes
things that no one else would swallow.
On the Paris, for instance, there returned
in Uctober a young man who had been
told before leaving London by an Amer
ican—1 think it was Bret Harte—that no
one should think of going to Chicago
without ample protection, for although
Americans had a protective policy it did
not help foreigners. As 1 understand it,
Mr. Harte told this young man that he
should be well armed, and in addition
for running about of evenings he should
protect himself still further by using a
Siberian sleuth hound that had been
dieting for a few years.
Mr. Harte told the young man—whose
name was Asscott-Asscott, Esq.—that
he should sleep on his arms while at
Chicago and never get out of sight of
his dog. %
Asscott-Asscott bought himself a dog
that had plain but rather strong fea
tures. Her name was Marie Antoinette.
-Marie Antoinette was about eight hands
high and had a big bloodshot eye.
M here the other eye had been there was
°nly a damp siot.
Asscott-Asscott devoted the months
July and August to gradually getting
ac( }uaintod with Marie Antoinette and
convincing her that his attentions were
nn honorable character and not
offered simply as a means of killing
fane. Before there was an understand
ing between them Asscott-Asscott had
een three or four times -in the surgeon’s
lauds, and places where he had been
noted and pinked by Marie Antoinette
Were caught back and gathered with
®j lr geon's silk of different shades, so
i/ has daisies now and black eyed
‘■ sans embroidered all over him from
Lvl gns by Marie Antoinette.
He came home disgusted, however,
for the police would not let him into
the fair grounds with Marie Antoinette,
and they disarmed him also, so that he
would not distract people’s attention
from the Ferris wheel. He came back
on the Paris, as 1 said, and if you do
not believe what 1 say of him you may
ask Nugent Robinson of 142 West Nine
ty-fifth street, New York, U. S. A. I
do not make hasty statements without
proof.
Literary London is most charming
and most generous. The Authors’ club
is situated in the heart of the universe
according to the Englishman’s idea—
viz, near Charing Cross. You leave the
station, and passing the Metropole on
the left you enter Whitehall court, where
you will find the clubrooms convenient
for all points of interest about the great
city. The club is most kindly to stran
gers and not too * ‘ pernicketty, ’ ’ as we say
in North Carolina, or Caroline du Nord,
as the French have it. Some pretty
lightweight authors are entertained at
the Authors’ club. The name of one of
them will be found at the foot of this
letter.
its officers are most thoroughly in
earnest in making it a success. Walter
Besant is vice president. He met me
there.
Douglas Sladen, the globe trotting
poet now with Mr. Jerome on The Idler,
is the honorable secretary. Both he and
Jerome are extremely busy, but never
too much so to greet the pilgrim from
the States and give him joy.
Jerome looks young to be famous,
but he labors his regular number of
hours and then flies home to the place
where his heart is, which is in a beauti
ful part of London. 1 went there to
dine one evening, but did not take Clar
ence along to show me the way. That
is why 1 fetched up at Hammersmith,
i also had Mr. Jerome’s and Mr. Sla-
den’s addresses confused. But he for
gave me.
“Lost in London; or, One Half Hour
With Jack the Ripper, ” will be the title
of a little work by me, which will soon
be ready for the printer.
The Pall Mall Magazine, Mr. Astor’s
handsome and booming periodical, is a
big feather in the caps of the proprietor
and its titled editors. Mr. Astor has as
sociated with him Lord Frederic Hamil
ton and Sir Douglas Straight as editors,
and my fondest dreams about the
wealthy and titled leading lives of gaudy
indolence in all cases got a severe set
back when I saw Mr. Astor actually
producing copy and his noble associates
with their coats off, so to speak, mold
ing public opinion, and English opinion
at that, which I regard as one of the
most massive jobs ever undertaken by
the press.
I visited Mr. Astor at his office by ap
pointment. Everything is done here by
appointment. The man who makes my
sausages does so also for the royal fam
ily by appointment. 1 allow him to do
so after he gets mine done. Mr. Astor
is generally at the office of the Astor
estate, but when The Magazine goes to
press up at the office, 18 Charing Cross,
you will see him up there locking up
the forms after telling Sir Douglas or
Lord Frederic to write him a paragraph
of 10 to 20 lines so that the page will
“justify.”
It proves that there is a fascination
about the expression of opinion through
the press, which makes many an editor
almost content with meager salary,
while those who are far beyond the ac
tual need of such employment are tempt
ed to engage in it instead of polo, golf
and other means of obtaining a liveli
hood.
The Pall Mall Magazine is already
successful, and with the beginning of
the year will cease to receive four foot
wood on subscriptions. “1 would not
mind taking it,” said Mr. Astor, “but
here along Charing Cross I cannot get
room for storing my wood, and the po
lice will not allow me to obstruct the
sidewalk. Old subscribers who-are away
behind on the books, say from 8 to 30
years, caa slide a few loads of hay
around to my stables at home, but 1
will not go out and help mow it away
in the barn any more. I’ve done that
for the last time. ”
Seriously, Mr. Astor is a picture of
pluck, health and courage, and those
who think he does not write for his
own publications are mistaken, for he
showed me the manuscript at which he
had been working aud kindly asked my
opinion of it. Mr. Astor has not allow
ed his possessions to make a dignified
ass of him, and there is a snap to his
eye that shows good health of mind and
bodv, together with a sense of humor
which is generally God's most kindly
gift to the poor. ^ , . . . ,
1 have often wished that 1 might be
placed as Mr. Astor is, so that what 1
wrote would be printed, whether the
advertisements all went in or not.
1 agreed with Mr. Astor to write
some of my impressions of America aft
er I get home and publish them in Pall
Mall.
Mr. Besant was in America this sum
mer and is now congratulating himself
especially in the prompt service he gets
at home compared with that he has had
in the States. He draws his impres
sions, I fear, from the restaurant serv
ice at the fair, which is not fair, so to
speak. No other universal exposition
has ever been compelled to feed every-
STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL,,
body on the grounds, but at Chicago at
least the midday meal was out of reach
in the city, and there is no doubt that
to feed all the multitude at once was
utterly out of the question.
Mr. Besant, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr.
Jerome, Conan Doyle and a few others
are making hay while the sun shines,
and though you can hardly pick up a
publication without finding one of their
names at the end of a story they mostly
seem to lead lives of elegant ease. 1 do
not know how they do that. 1 studied
one of these gentlemen for 48 hours a
few weeks ago to find out how he did
it, so that possibly 1 might hereafter
convey the impression that 1 lead a but
terfly existence in low neck and short
sleeves all the time; but, alas! at the end
of the 48 hours 1 was in the veterinary
hospital, suffering from Pall evil, botts
and blind staggers, while my associate
had ahead of him 11 stories to write in
three weeks, high jinks every night and
a pedestrian tour through Norway,Swit
zerland and Siberia besides.
1 have tried every way to keep in
training, but look more and more like
a plum pudding eloping with the run
ning gear of a flamingo. 1 exercise one
day and eat oatmeal, and the balance
of the week is required to rest up and
regain my strength.
My literary habits, I presume, are
different from any other of the great
authors who have gone before me. A
week ago I tried the Dickens course,
which consisted in walking as far as
the dry land of England extended and
back before breakfast; then eating
enough for two men and working till
luncheon; then eating enough for four
men, reading what the press said of me
and sipping a churnful of gin and wa
ter; then walking through the slums
and coming home with a keen appetite,
ordering dinner for a thrashing crew
and eating it myself; then writing
seven or eight chapters of choice liter
ature; then after jerking the children
out of bed for a romp and returning
them, taking a bath qnd “a nightcap”
which for size might easily be mistaken
for each other, hopping nimbly into bed
before the “booggy man” gets a chance
at one’s pink toes and sleeping melodi
ously till dawn.
I’ve tried that one day only. I can
not repeat it.
Now I lise gently, look out of the
window, ga2e in my mirror, which still
tells me that I am strangely beautiful,
put my teeth in a beautiful cut glass
bouquet holder with fresh rose water in
it and then go back to bed again.
By that time a blizzard and snow
storm of calling cards begin to float up
the broad onyx stairway. I tell my lack
ey, Clarence, to stand the callers up
around the reception room and issue
numbers to them as they do at a big
barber shop.
Then I dress without the aid of my
maid, who was objected to and dis
charged by my grandparents, from
whom I inherit a Christian spirit and a
cranberry marsh in Wisconsin.
Suffice it that I cannot keep up my
training and meet all the social de
mands made upon me without neglect
ing the literary work to which I have
pledged my life, my fresh young intel
lect and my sacred honor.
1 5
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It is an easy matter to claim to cure
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