Now, Art is not to be served
by paid votaries."
"Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking
his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and
I will be the Critic."
"Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that
means you would receive all the money."
"And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?"
"Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view
to obtaining cash."
"Indeed! Well, I am tired of work. You have nothing to do but
criticise. Let us swap positions."
"Are you mad?" shouted the Critic. "Why, I am fond of my work. You
don't imagine I am going to give up my salary to you? Why, it would
demoralise you. I know the drawback of the system." And the Author
applied himself to the study of the New Criticism, and it seemed as
great a mystery to him as ever.
* * * * *
LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of _the_
smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted
me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to
be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful
meeting ever held there--(the backers "went down" to a man, and so
did the excellent lunch--so what more _could_ you want?)--and, in
addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner
of the Cesarewitch!--they all named different horses, so that _one_ is
almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of
voice people adopt after a successful prophecy--(this does _not_ apply
to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)--"_There_!
I _told_ you it was a certainty for _Whiteface_!--couldn't lose!--_of
course_ you backed it, after what I told you!"--which of course was
the very reason why you _hadn't_ backed it; however--as he may really
be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a
ghastly smile, and say--"Oh, yes--I had a trifle on--but my _money_
was on _Blackfoot_ before you told me--but it got me out!"--and it
does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told
you "ought to have won a good stake!"
However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately
able to set aside all "information received," because I have had _a
dream_!--not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams
one reads about--(naturally _I_ should not have an inferior kind,
having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken
every night at bed-time)--in which the dreamer only sees _one_
horse--but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy
task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!
Well--I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves,
on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little _Golden
Drop_ of _Brandy_ as an _Insurance_ against restlessness--went
to sleep, and dreamt that my friends _Lady Villikins_ and _Madame
d'Albany_, with their maid _Helen Ware_, were attacked on their way
from _Illsley_ to _Weymouth_, by some _Dare Devil_ of a _Circassian_,
whose horse's hoofs rang in a _Metallic_ manner on the road! They were
rescued in the pass of _Ben Avon_ by the gallant _Burnaby_, who after
a long _Rigmarole_, squared their captor, _Roy Neil_, with a _Hanover
Jack_, and acted as their _Pilot_ to safe quarters at _Versailles_!
There!--that was my dream--and I think it points most conclusively
to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only
back them _all_, and there you are!--or at least you _may_ be.
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