Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (266 page)

MARKHAM'S OCCUPATIONS

SINCE the period when Markham had made so great a sacrifice of his
pecuniary resources, in order to effect the liberation of Count Alteroni from a
debtor's prison, be had devoted himself to literary pursuits. He aspired to the
honours of authorship, and composed a tragedy.
    All young authors, while yet nibbling the grass at the foot
of Parnassus (and how many never reach any higher!) attempt either poetry or
the drama. They invariably fix upon the most difficult tasks; and yet they did
not begin learning Greek with Euripides, nor enter upon their initiation into
the mysteries of the Latin tongue with Juvenal.
    There is also another fault into which they invariably fall
;- and that is an extraordinary tendency to those meretricious ornaments which
they seem to mistake for fine writing. Truth and nature may be regarded as a
noble flock, furnishing the richest fleece to mankind; but when a series of
good writers have exhausted their fleece in weaving the fabrics of genius,
their successors are tempted to have recourse to swine for a supply of
materials; and we know, besides, that in this attempt, as in the rude dramas
called " Moralities" in the middle ages, there is great cry and
little wool. It is also liable to the objection that no skill in the
workmanship, or adjustment in the machinery, can give it the beauty and
perfection of the raw material which nature has appropriated to the purpose of
clothing her favoured offspring.
    Too many writers of the present day, instead of attempting
to rival their predecessors in endeavouring to fabricate the genuine fleece
derived from this flock of truth and nature, into new and exquisite forms, are
engaged in shearing the swine, in this labour they can obtain, at best, nothing
more than erroneous principles of science, worthless paradoxes, unnatural
fictions, tinsel poetry and prose, and un-numbered crudities.
    Richard Markham was not exempted from these faults. He wrote
a tragedy - abounding in beauties, and abounding in faults.
    The most delicious sweets, used in undue proportions with
our food and drink, soon become in a high degree offensive and disgusting.
Markham heaped figure upon figure - crammed his speeches with metaphors - and
travelled many thousands of miles out of his way in search of a similitude,
when he had a much better and more simple one close at hand. Nevertheless, his
tragedy contained proofs of a brilliant talent, and, with much judicious
pruning, every element of triumphant success.
    Having obtained the address of the private residence of the
manager of one of the principal metropolitan theatres, Richard sent his tragedy
to the great man. He, however, withheld his real name, for he had determined to
commence his literary career under a feigned one; so that, in case he should
prove unsuccessful, his failure might not become known to his friends the
Monroes, or reach the ears of his well-beloved Isabella. For the same reason he
did not give his proper address in the letter which accompanied the drama; but
requested that a reply might be sent to
 
Edward Preston, to the care of
Mr. Dyson
 
(his solicitor).
    He did not mention to a single soul - not even to Monroe or
the faithful Whittingham - the circumstance of his authorship. He reflected
that if he succeeded, it would then be time to communicate his happiness; but,
that if he failed, it would be useless to wound others by imparting to them his
disappointments. He had ceased to be sanguine about any thing in this world; for
he had met with too many misfortunes to anticipate much success in life; and
his only ambition was to obtain an honourable livelihood.
    Scarcely a week had elapsed after Markham had sent his drama
to the manager, when he received a letter from this gentleman. The contents
were laconic enough, but explicit. The manager "had perused the tragedy
with feelings of extreme satisfaction;" - he congratulated the writer upon
" the skill which he had made his combinations to produce stage effect ;"
- he suggested "a few alterations and considerable abbreviations;"
and concluded by stating that "he should be most happy to introduce so
promising an author to the public." A postscript appointed a time for an
interview at the manager's own private residence.
    At eleven o'clock the next morning Markham was ushered into
the presence of the manager.
    The great man was seated in his study, dressed in a
magnificent Turkish dressing-gown, with a French skull-cap upon his head, and
red morocco slippers upon his feet. He was a man of middle
 
age - gentlemanly and affable in
manner - and possessed of considerable literary abilities.
    "Sit down, sir - pray, sit down," said the
manager, when Markham was introduced. " I have perused your tragedy with
great attention, and am pleased with it. I am, moreover, perfectly willing to
undertake the risk of bringing it out, although tragedy is at a terrible
discount now-a-days. But, first and foremost, we must make arrangements about
terms. What price do you put upon your manuscript?"
    "I have formed no idea upon that subject," replied
Markham." I would rather leave myself entirely in your hands."
    "Nay - you must know the hope you have entertained in
this respect?" said the manager.
    "To tell you the candid truth, this is my first
essay," returned Markham; "and I am totally unacquainted with the
ordinary value of such labour."
    "If this be your first essay, sir," said the
manager, surveying Markham with some astonishment, "I can only assure you
that it is a most promising one. But once again - name your price."
    "The manner in which you speak to me shows that if I
trust to your generosity, I shall not do wrong."
    "Well, Mr. Preston," cried the manager, pleased at
this compliment, " I shall use you in an equally liberal manner. You must
be informed that you will have certain pecuniary privileges, in respect to any
provincial theatres at which your piece may be performed should it prove
successful and you will also have the benefit of the publication of the work in
a volume. What, then, should you say if I were to give you fifty guineas for
the play, and five guineas a-night for every time of its performance, after the
first fortnight?"
    "I should esteem your offer a very liberal one,"
answered Richard, overjoyed at the proposal.
    "In that case the bargain is concluded at once, and
without any more words," said the manager; then, taking a well-filled
canvass bag from his desk, he counted down fifty guineas in notes, gold, and
silver.
    Markham gave a receipt, and they exchanged undertakings
specifying the conditions proposed by the manager.
    "When do you propose to bring out the piece?"
inquired Richard, when this business was concluded.
    " In about six weeks," said the manager. "
Shall you have any objection to attend the rehearsals, and see that the
gentlemen and ladies of the company fully appreciate the spirit of the parts
that will be assigned to them?"
    "I shall not have the least objection," answered
Markham; " but I am afraid that my experience  —"
    "Well, well," said the manager, smiling, "I
will not press you. Leave it all to me - I will see justice done to your
design, which I think I understand pretty well. If I want you I will let you
know; and if you do not hear from me, you will see by the advertisements in the
newspapers for what night the first representation will be announced."
    Markham expressed his gratitude to the manager for the
kindness with which he had received him, and then took his leave, his heart
elated with hope, and his mind relieved from much anxiety respecting the
future.
    When he left the manager's residence he repaired to-an
adjacent tavern to procure some refreshment; and there, while engaged in the
discussion of a sandwich and a glass of sherry, he cast his eyes over
 
The Times
 
newspaper.
    A particular advertisement arrested his attention.
    A gentleman - a widower - required a daily tutor for his two
young sons whom he was desirous of having instructed in Latin, history,
drawing, arithmetic, &c. The boys were respectively nine arid eleven years
old. The advertiser stated that any individual who could himself teach the
various branches of education specified, would be preferred to a plurality of
masters, each proficient only in one particular study. Personal application was
to be made between certain hours.
    The residence of the advertiser was in Kentish Town; and
this vicinity to Markham's own abode induced him to think seriously of offering
his services. He did not feel disposed to pursue his literary labours until
after the representation of his drama, as he was as yet unaware of the
reception it might experience at the hands of the public ;-and he was also by
no means inclined to remain idle. The occupation of daily tutor in a
respectable family appeared congenial to his tastes; and he resolved to proceed
forthwith to the residence of Mr. Gregory, in Kentish Town.
    Arrived at the house, he was admitted into the presence of a
gentleman of about fifty, with a serious arid melancholy countenance,
prepossessing manners, and a peculiar suavity of voice that gave encouragement
to the applicant.
    Markham told him in a few words that he was once possessed
of considerable property, the greater portion of which he bad lost through the
unfortunate speculations of his guardian, and that he was new anxious to turn
the excellent education which he had received to some advantage.
    Mr. Gregory had only lately arrived in London with his
family, from a very distant part of the country, where he had a house and small
estate; but the recent death of a beloved wife had rendered the scenes of their
wedded happiness disagreeable to him ;- and this was the cause of his removal
and his settlement in London. He lived in a very retired manner, and had.
previously known nothing of Markham - not even his name. He was therefore
totally ignorant of Richard's trial and condemnation for forgery. The young man
felt the greatest possible inclination to reveal the entire facts to Mr.
Gregory, whose amiable manners gave him confidence; but he restrained himself -
for it struck him that others were dependent upon him - that he ought not to
stand in his own light - and that his innocence of the crime imputed to him,
and the consciousness of those upright and honourable intentions which on all occasions
filled his breast, were a sufficient extenuation for this silence.
    Mr. Gregory, who was himself a highly-educated man, soon saw
that Markham was competent to teach his children all that it was desirable for
them to acquire; and he agreed to engage the applicant as his sons' tutor.
Richard offered to give him a reference to his solicitor; but Mr. Gregory
declined to take it, saying, "Your appearance, Mr. Markham, is
sufficient."
    On the following day Richard entered upon his new avocation.
He was engaged to attend at Mr. Gregory's house from ten till three every day.
The employment was a pleasant one; and the pecuniary terms were liberal in the
extreme.
    Gustavus and Lionel Gregory were two intelligent and
handsome youths; and they soon became greatly attached to their tutor.
    From the mere fact of having never been accustomed to tuition, Richard took
the greater pains to explain all difficult subjects to them; and so well did he
adapt his plan of instruction to their juvenile capacities, that in the short
space of a month, Mr. Gregory was himself perfectly astonished at the advance
which his sons had made in their studies. He then determined that the
advantages of the tutors abilities should be extended to his daughter, in
respect to drawing; and Miss Mary-Anne Gregory was accordingly added to the
number of Markham's pupils.
    Mary-Anne was, at the time of which we are writing, sixteen
years of age. Delicate in constitution, and of a sweet and amiable disposition,
she was an object of peculiar interest to all who knew her. Her long flaxen
hair, soft blue eyes, pale countenance, and vermilion lips, gave her the
appearance of a wax figure; and her light and airy form, flitting ever hither
and thither in obedience to the innocent gaiety rind vivacity of her
disposition, seemed that of some fairy whose destinies belonged not to the
common lot of mortals.
    Although she was sixteen, she was considered but a mere
girl; and she romped with her brothers, and with the young female friends who
occasionally visited her, with all the joyousness and glee of a child of ten
years old.
    The animation of her countenance was on those occasions
radiant and brilliant in the extreme :- a spectator could have snatched her to
his arms and embraced her fondly, - not with a single gross desire - not with
the shadow of an unhallowed motive; but, in the same way as a man, who, being a
parent himself, is attached to children, suddenly seizes upon a lovely little
boy or girl of two or three years old, and covers its cheeks with kisses.
    Mary. Anne was by no means beautiful - not even pretty; and
yet there was something altogether unearthly in the whole character and
expression of her countenance. It was a face of angelic interest - indicative
of a mental amiability and serenity truly divine.
    Without possessing the ingredients of physical beauty -
without regularity of feature or classical formation of head, - there was still
about her an abstract loveliness, apart from shape and features, which was of
itself positive and distinct, and seemed an emanation of mental qualities,
infantine joyousness, and winning manners. It produced a sort of atmosphere of
light around her - enveloping her as with a halo of innocence.
    Her face was as pale - as colourless as the finest Parian
marble, but also, like the surface of that beautiful material, spotless and
devoid of blemish. Her pure forehead was streaked with small azure veins: her
lips were thin, and of the brightest vermilion; and these hues placed in
contrast with that delicate complexion, gave a sentiment and expression to her
countenance altogether peculiar to itself.
    Her eyes, of a light and yet too positive a blue to be
mistaken for grey, were fringed with long dark lashes, which imparted to them -
ever gay and sparkling as they were - a magic eloquence as powerful as that of
the most faultless beauty. And, again, in strange contrast with those dark
lashes was her flaxen hair, the whole of which fell in ringlets and its waves
over her shoulders and her back, no portion of it being collected in a knot
behind.
    Then her form - it was so slight as to appear almost
etherealised, and yet there was no mistaking the symmetry of its proportions.
    Thus - without being actually beautiful - Mary-Anne was a
creature of light and joy who was calculated to interest, fascinate, and win,
in a manner which produced feelings of admiration and of love. Her appearance
therefore produced upon the mind an impression that she was beautiful - very
beautiful; and yet, if any one had paused to analyse her features, she would
have been found to possess no real elements of physical loveliness. She was
charming - fascinating - bewitching - interesting;  therefore lovely in
one sense, and loveable in all respects!
    Mary-Anne was a very difficult pupil to teach. In the midst
of the most serious study, that charming and volatile creature would start from
her chair, run to her piano, and commence a lively air, which she would leave
also unfinished, and then narrate some sprightly anecdote, or utter some
artless sally, which would create a general laugh.
    The seriousness of the tutor would be disturbed in spite of
himself: and even her father, if present, could not find it in his heart to
scold.
    The drawing would at length be resumed; and for half an
hour, the application of Mary-Anne would be intense. Then away would be flung
the pencil; and a new freak must be accomplished before the study would be
resumed.
    Richard could not help liking this volatile, but artless and
innocent creature,- as a man likes his daughter or his sister; and she, on her
part, appeared to become greatly attached to her tutor.
    Although Mr. Gregory followed no profession, being a man of
considerable independent property, he was nevertheless much from home, passing
his time either at the library of the British Museum or at his Club. Richard
and Mary-Anne were thus much together, - too much for the peace of that
innocent and fascinating girl!
    She speedily conceived a violent passion for her tutor, which
he, however, neither perceived nor returned.
    She was herself unaware of the nature of her own feelings
towards him ;- she knew as much of love and its sensations as a beauteous
savage girl, in some far-off isle, knows of Christianity ;- and hers was an
attachment which could only be revealed to herself by some accident, which
might excite her jealousy or awaken her grief.
    One morning, before the usual lessons of the day commenced,
Mr. Gregory entered the study, and, addressing himself to Markham, said,
"We meet now give the young people a holiday for a short time. Proper
relaxation is as necessary to their bodily welfare as education to their mental
well-being. We will suspend their studies for a month, if you be agreeable, Mr.
Markham. I shall, however, be always pleased to see you as often as you choose
to call during that interval; and every Sunday, at all events, we shall expect
the pleasure of your company to dinner as usual."
    "What!" cried Mary-Anne; "is Mr. Markham to
discontinue his daily visits for a whole month?"
    "Certainly, my dear," said her father. "Mr.
Markham requires a holiday as well as you."
    "I want no holiday," exclaimed Mary Anne, pouting
her lip, in a manner that was quite charming, and which might remind the reader
of the