LETTERS TO THE CELEBRATED.

No. III.-To MR. A. CONAN DOYLE

MY DEAR SIR,-Your modesty will perhaps pardon me if I begin by stating that I consider it a privilege to write to you. We both follow the profession of literature, both of us know what it is not to spare the peritura charta, both understand by what hieroglyphic marks the mistakes in proof-sheets may be corrected, and both of us, I suppose, receive with due gratitude the honorarium to which our labours entitle us. But there the resemblance ends. You have fought your way up to the magic Castle of Romance, you have struck the shield that hangs upon the outer wall, and have blown a loud, clear blast upon the mighty horn. Í- But why should I speak of myself? All I need do is to tell you again that I am proud to have the chance of talking to you for a few moments on paper.

Many are the pleasant hours I have spent with the men you have created, men with deep chests and broad backs and untiring limbs and dauntless courage. That is the company (White or otherwise) that I like. I can step into the street at this moment and see hundreds of the spindie-shanked and pigeon-breasted in their top-hats and black coats and dingy trousers-all very worthy, very respectable, and perfectly punctual. They pay their rates, and eat their roast mutton, and support then families; they catch their morning trains, and crackle the topics of the day with one another as they fare city-wards, but when I say that for interest they cannot vie with Micah Clarke and Hordle John, or many another of the stout and valiant fellows whose honest, swashing blows resound in your stories, that Sherlock Holmes, too (never an arch favourite of mine but let that pass), outweighs them all-when I say this I am stating a truth mildly and, I trust, without offence. And as for problem novels, analytical novels, sex-novels, and all the rest of the Gadarene class, I fancy we have got through any craze we may have had for them. Have we not all problems enough of our own without resorting to novels? How shall we fashion our lives, even in such small matters as the daily arrangement of dinners, or the ordering of new clothes, or the making and keeping of friends, or the acquisition in marriage of the beloved one? These matters are, in all conscience, perplexing enough for us. And as for sex-novels, great Heaven, we may be degenerate and anæmic, but most of us have not yet sunk so low as to bother our heads about the stale questions that occupy the minds of the epicene purveyors of dirt and balderdash. No, penned in as we are by convention and circumstance, we sigh for the lusty and rejoicing manhood of past ages. We commit ourselves to you, and under your guidance we press onward into the mountain passes,

BUT IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT-IF YOU CAN SWIM!," we are with the White Company in their last glorious stand, we hear the trumpets sound and the clamorous battle-cries re-echo from host to host, the arrows hurtle through the air, the great swords rise and gleam and fall, and the tide of conflict rolls backward and forward till the night descends. And then-why, then we come back with fresher hearts to the dull routine of our inglorious lives. And it may chance, too, that after such a companionship with you we shall feel our breasts thrill with a higher emotion and a more generous admiration when we hear of the deeds that our fellow-subjects are even now performing far away amid the crags and precipices of the Indian frontier.

But softly, good friend-it is a carper who speaks-softly: all that Mr. DOYLE does has been done before. Scorr has done it, DUMAS has done it. Granted, I answer; but what then? SCOTT, whom we love, and DUMAS, whom we love, need not exclude a later affection for you. I make no comparisons; I have before my eyes the fear of Mr. CHRISTIE MURRAY; nor, in any case, is it necessary either to exclude or to include a modern by comparing him with the ancient masters. Let a man stand on his own sturdy legs and be judged. Thus I place you, and salute and thank you. And, I may add, that not so long ago I took from the shelf Le Bâtard de Mauléon, by DUMAS, and read it with a breathless interest. The period is that of your White Company, and there is magnificent fighting in it, but the mail-clad warriors fight on the side opposed to yours, and Bertrand du Guesclin is their hero. But my enjoyment of the Bertrand of DUMAS did not in the least impair my delight in your Black Prince and all the rest of your Hampshire heroes. Why should it not be so with all of us? Why should we read SCOTT or DUMAS, and say, "We end there; no other and later romancer shall ever give us pleasure"?

Farewell, Sir. You are yourself a strong, broad-shouldered man, and you take a natural delight in deeds of strength and courage. Soon, I cannot doubt, you will array yourself in armour and gird on your sword again. Are there not vast regions open to you where adventures may be had for the asking? Proceed and conquer them, and lay your spoils once more before Affectionately yours, THE VAGRANT. your faithful readers.

"BRIGHT CHANTICLEER."-During the speech of Mr. CocK, Q.C., in the recent "Medical Divorce Case," a juryman fell fast asleep. At the sound of the voice of "the Herald of the Dawn," it is popularly supposed that the sleeper is awakened. Perhaps the case of the sleeping juryman insensible to the notes of the Cock, chaunt he never so wisely, is the exception that proves the rule. In future, Mr. Cock, Q.C. will not be "too cocky" as to the rousing effect of his oratory.

NOTICED THAT YOU HAD THE LEAST COLD!"

FURTHER PROVERBS.

(By Our Vague Impressionist.) THERE is never rain without sun. The early worm is the shepherd's warning.

Half a loaf is better than a feast. Never cry "wolf" until the steed is stolen.

A stitch in time saves a pig in a poke. Take care of the pence, and you will never know where the shoe pinches.

Wilful waste makes the mare to go. Amongst the blind there is no such word as "fail."

A man convinced against his will may as well be hanged for a dog as a lamb. When the cat's away, a man may look at a king.

One good turn may be another man's poison.

"HORAS NON NUMERO" QUAN

QUAM SERENAS."

[The Times, after publishing an article on the sunny South, ceased to record the sunshine in England.] OH! doubtless, well-intentioned Times, You tantalised the reader

With thoughts of sun in brighter climes,
Depicted in your leader;

In Monte Carlo or in Nice,
Where rooms are twenty francs apiece,
And, as you said, the natives fleece
The stranger.

Yet here the shining of the sun
Deserves more careful mention,
Ten minutes, five, or even one,
In London claim attention.
Strange if no rain or snow should fall,
Or fog should form a sooty pall;
And if the sun should shine, then all
The stranger.

LINKS WITH THE PAST.

(A Continued Correspondence.)

DEAR PUNCH,-I am only forty, yet 1 have talked to a man who saw the battle of Agincourt. He was present when the engagement came off on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre. Yours truly, METHUSELAH, JUNIOR.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,-I was present at the funeral of the first Duke of WELLINGTON, and (as quite a child) the opening of the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. Beyond this, I perfectly well remember the last appearance of Mr. MACREADY. And yet I am only three-and-twenty.

Yours sincerely, A SPINSTER. DEAR SIR,-I have spoken to a man who knew a man who was cousin of a man who bered reading an account of the battle of had seen a man who thought he rememthe Alma. This takes us back to the days of the Crimean war. Yours faithfully, A FOSSIL OF TWENTY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,-I think I can beat the record. It is easy enough to say you have known men who have heard this and that. But to go back to the flood and earlier, is, in my opinion, one better. Well, I have seen a plank of the ark, and a pip from the original apple. I met both in a museum at Boston.

Yours,

SIMON SIMPLE.

MY DEAR SIR,-The other day I found a bottle of sauce that had been forgotten in a cupboard. It bore traces of having been in its glass receptacle for some eighty years. When tasted, the flavour was as good as ever. I need scarcely say to those who know its merits that the condiment was called the."

Yours in the name of business, THE PROPRIETOR. Editorially suppressed. For further particulars, apply to the advertisement department.