The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown Rabelais, or his wild illustrator Gustave Dore, must have had something to do with the designing of the things called flats in England and America.There is something entirely Gargantuan in the idea of economising space by piling houses on top of each other, front doors and all.And in the chaos and complexity of those perpendicular streets anything may dwell or happen, and it is in one of them, I believe, that the inquirer may find the offices of the Club of Queer Trades.It may be thought at the first glance that the name would attract and startle the passer-by, but nothing attracts or startles in these dim immense hives.The passer-by is only looking for his own melancholy destination, the Montenegro Shipping Agency or the London office of the Rutland Sentinel, and passes through the twilight passages as one passes through the twilight corridors of a dream.If the Thugs set up a Strangers'
Assassination Company in one of the great buildings in Norfolk Street, and sent in a mild man in spectacles to answer inquiries, no inquiries would be made.And the Club of Queer Trades reigns in a great edifice hidden like a fossil in a mighty cliff of fossils.
The nature of this society, such as we afterwards discovered it to be, is soon and simply told.It is an eccentric and Bohemian Club, of which the absolute condition of membership lies in this, that the candidate must have invented the method by which he earns his living.It must be an entirely new trade.The exact definition of this requirement is given in the two principal rules.First, it must not be a mere application or variation of an existing trade.
Thus, for instance, the Club would not admit an insurance agent simply because instead of insuring men's furniture against being burnt in a fire, he insured, let us say, their trousers against being torn by a mad dog.The principle (as Sir Bradcock Burnaby-Bradcock, in the extraordinarily eloquent and soaring speech to the club on the occasion of the question being raised in the Stormby Smith affair, said wittily and keenly) is the same.
Secondly, the trade must be a genuine commercial source of income, the support of its inventor.Thus the Club would not receive a man simply because he chose to pass his days collecting broken sardine tins, unless he could drive a roaring trade in them.Professor Chick made that quite clear.And when one remembers what Professor Chick's own new trade was, one doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The discovery of this strange society was a curiously refreshing thing; to realize that there were ten new trades in the world was like looking at the first ship or the first plough.It made a man feel what he should feel, that he was still in the childhood of the world.That I should have come at last upon so singular a body was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, Icollected the Athenaeum.At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged.I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League.Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word.The first of my revelations, at any rate, shall be concerned with the Club of Queer Trades, which, as I have said, was one of this class, one which I was almost bound to come across sooner or later, because of my singular hobby.The wild youth of the metropolis call me facetiously `The King of Clubs'.They also call me `The Cherub', in allusion to the roseate and youthful appearance I have presented in my declining years.I only hope the spirits in the better world have as good dinners as I have.But the finding of the Club of Queer Trades has one very curious thing about it.The most curious thing about it is that it was not discovered by me; it was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a star-gazer, a mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his attic.
Very few people knew anything of Basil; not because he was in the least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked into his rooms he would have kept him talking till morning.Few people knew him, because, like all poets, he could do without them; he welcomed a human face as he might welcome a sudden blend of colour in a sunset; but he no more felt the need of going out to parties than he felt the need of altering the sunset clouds.He lived in a queer and comfortable garret in the roofs of Lambeth.He was surrounded by a chaos of things that were in odd contrast to the slums around him; old fantastic books, swords, armour--the whole dust-hole of romanticism.But his face, amid all these quixotic relics, appeared curiously keen and modern--a powerful, legal face.And no one but I knew who he was.
