November 26, Sunday. - The curate preached a very good sermon to- day - very good indeed. His appearance is never so impressive as our dear old vicar's, but I am bound to say his sermons are much more impressive. A rather annoying incident occurred, of which I must make mention. Mrs. Fernlosse, who is quite a grand lady, living in one of those large houses in the Camden Road, stopped to speak to me after church, when we were all coming out. I must say I felt flattered, for she is thought a good deal of. I suppose she knew me through seeing me so often take round the plate, especially as she always occupies the corner seat of the pew. She is a very influential lady, and may have had something of the utmost importance to say, but unfortunately, as she commenced to speak a strong gust of wind came and blew my hat off into the middle of the road.
I had to run after it, and had the greatest difficulty in recovering it. When I had succeeded in doing so, I found Mrs.
Fernlosse had walked on with some swell friends, and I felt I could not well approach her now, especially as my hat was smothered with mud. I cannot say how disappointed I felt.
In the evening (SUNDAY evening of all others) I found an impertinent note from Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, which ran as follows:
"Dear Mr. Pooter, - Although your junior by perhaps some twenty or thirty years - which is sufficient reason that you ought to have a longer record of the things and ways in this miniature of a planet - I feel it is just within the bounds of possibility that the wheels of your life don't travel so quickly round as those of the humble writer of these lines. The dandy horse of past days has been known to overtake the SLOW COACH.
"Do I make myself understood?
"Very well, then! Permit me, Mr. Pooter, to advise you to accept the VERB. SAP. Acknowledge your defeat, and take your whipping gracefully; for remember you threw down the glove, and I cannot claim to be either mentally or physically a COWARD!
"REVENONS E NOS MOUTONS.
"Our lives run in different grooves. I live for MY ART - THE STAGE. Your life is devoted to commercial pursuits - 'A life among Ledgers.' My books are of different metal. Your life in the City is honourable, I admit. BUT HOW DIFFERENT! Cannot even you see the ocean between us? A channel that prevents the meeting of our brains in harmonious accord. Ah! But CHACUN E SON GOUT.
"I have registered a vow to mount the steps of fame. I may crawl, I may slip, I may even falter (we are all weak), but REACH THE TOP RUNG OF THE LADDER I WILL!!! When there, my voice shall be heard, for I will shout to the multitudes below: 'VICI!' For the present I am only an *******, and my work is unknown, forsooth, save to a party of friends, with here and there an enemy.
"But, Mr. Pooter, let me ask you, 'What is the difference between the ******* and the professional?'
"None!!!
"Stay! Yes, there is a difference. One is PAID for doing what the other does as skilfully for NOTHING!
"But I will be PAID, too! For I, contrary to the wishes of my family and friends, have at last elected to adopt the stage as MY profession. And when the FARCE craze is over - and, MARK YOU, THAT WILL BE SOON - I will make my power known; for I feel - pardon my apparent conceit - that there is no living man who can play the hump-backed Richard as I FEEL and KNOW I can.
"And YOU will be the first to come round and bend your head in submission. There are many matters you may understand, but knowledge of the fine art of acting is to you an UNKNOWN QUANTITY.
"Pray let this discussion cease with this letter. VALE!
Yours truly, "Burwin-Fosselton."
I was disgusted. When Lupin came in, I handed him this impertinent letter, and said: "My boy, in that letter you can see the true character of your friend."
Lupin, to my surprise, said: "Oh yes. He showed me the letter before he sent it. I think he is right, and you ought to apologise."
