DOI Heft:
December 17, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0290
December 17, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI 285
"My Dear Sir,—Being1 well aware of the interest you take in the
fragments of Diomrsrcrs Scytobrachton", I have requested my pub-
lisher to send you my little work on his Quelle. Bounder, as you
are aware"- Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and
groaned audibly. I tried another :—
"Bear Mr. St. Barre,—I know how busy you are, but you can
always spare an hour or two for the work of a friend. My Love
well Lost, in three volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to
review it in all the periodicals with which you are connected.
Last time I wrote a novel, my nephew reviewed it, very perfunc-
torily, in the Panclrosium ; this time I want only to be reviewed by
my friends." He was kicking on the sofa, and apparently trying to
commit suicide with the pillows.
"Command yourself, St. Barbe," I said; " this behaviour is un-
worthy either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which
irritate you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admira-
tion. The books which you have been heaving through the window
are, no doubt, of interest and value."
Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he
THE MAN WHO WOULD.
IV.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.
St. Barbe, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire
to live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his
house, on the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was
amazed to see a large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity.
Pushing my way through, I saw that St. Barbe's windows were
broken, glass was in a weak minority in the panes, and, what was
more singular, the breakage seemed to be done from ivithin!
Objects were flying out into the garden, and those objects were
books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few as they fell,
and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry, and, in
every case, they bore SL Barbe's name on the fly-leaf, with a flat-
tering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors'
names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title
whom I had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way
through a hot fire of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened
brought'in some letters with ^ u Poor feUow , he is now under restraint." \ Winchester rifle, and crept
an air of anxiety. stealthily to the window.
St. Barbe tore the envelopes open, " There, and there, and there ! "
he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a
satanic expression of hatred and contempt.
Luckily none of his enemies were in view,
" No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said,
ruefully, '' and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours
As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he I are beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in
absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth. England, for a man of letters." Letters, indeed ! I write them all
What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These
notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed :—
" Dear Sir,—You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a
total stranger • but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all
you write, induces me to send you my little work on The Folk
Lore of Tavern Signs."
Here St. Barbe sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on
his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.
" J don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, " or in this :—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—You will not remember me, but I met
day to these impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece
out of a glass, which was standing handy.
"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked,
with sympathy.
'1 None—none! I have written to the Times ; I have applied to
the Magistrates ; I have penned letters which might melt the heart
of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then,
for I cannot always dissemble ! No ! '\ he cried, "I am doomed,—
' Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
write that on my sepulchre."
you once at Lady Caerulea Smithfield's, and therefore I take the Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow ! he is
liberty of sending you my little book of verses." now un(}er restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost
Here he rolled on the floor, and gnawed the castor of a chair. \ St. Barbe, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by
I had heard of things like this in the time of the Plantagenets, but \ authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing
I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour. | are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him,
"It is signed Mart Middlesex," I said. "She's very pretty, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for
and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and
with you?" culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly
" Try the next," he said. j treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.
"My Dear Sir,—Being1 well aware of the interest you take in the
fragments of Diomrsrcrs Scytobrachton", I have requested my pub-
lisher to send you my little work on his Quelle. Bounder, as you
are aware"- Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and
groaned audibly. I tried another :—
"Bear Mr. St. Barre,—I know how busy you are, but you can
always spare an hour or two for the work of a friend. My Love
well Lost, in three volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to
review it in all the periodicals with which you are connected.
Last time I wrote a novel, my nephew reviewed it, very perfunc-
torily, in the Panclrosium ; this time I want only to be reviewed by
my friends." He was kicking on the sofa, and apparently trying to
commit suicide with the pillows.
"Command yourself, St. Barbe," I said; " this behaviour is un-
worthy either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which
irritate you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admira-
tion. The books which you have been heaving through the window
are, no doubt, of interest and value."
Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he
THE MAN WHO WOULD.
IV.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.
St. Barbe, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire
to live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his
house, on the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was
amazed to see a large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity.
Pushing my way through, I saw that St. Barbe's windows were
broken, glass was in a weak minority in the panes, and, what was
more singular, the breakage seemed to be done from ivithin!
Objects were flying out into the garden, and those objects were
books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few as they fell,
and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry, and, in
every case, they bore SL Barbe's name on the fly-leaf, with a flat-
tering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors'
names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title
whom I had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way
through a hot fire of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened
brought'in some letters with ^ u Poor feUow , he is now under restraint." \ Winchester rifle, and crept
an air of anxiety. stealthily to the window.
St. Barbe tore the envelopes open, " There, and there, and there ! "
he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a
satanic expression of hatred and contempt.
Luckily none of his enemies were in view,
" No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said,
ruefully, '' and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours
As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he I are beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in
absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth. England, for a man of letters." Letters, indeed ! I write them all
What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These
notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed :—
" Dear Sir,—You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a
total stranger • but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all
you write, induces me to send you my little work on The Folk
Lore of Tavern Signs."
Here St. Barbe sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on
his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.
" J don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, " or in this :—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—You will not remember me, but I met
day to these impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece
out of a glass, which was standing handy.
"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked,
with sympathy.
'1 None—none! I have written to the Times ; I have applied to
the Magistrates ; I have penned letters which might melt the heart
of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then,
for I cannot always dissemble ! No ! '\ he cried, "I am doomed,—
' Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
write that on my sepulchre."
you once at Lady Caerulea Smithfield's, and therefore I take the Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow ! he is
liberty of sending you my little book of verses." now un(}er restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost
Here he rolled on the floor, and gnawed the castor of a chair. \ St. Barbe, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by
I had heard of things like this in the time of the Plantagenets, but \ authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing
I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour. | are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him,
"It is signed Mart Middlesex," I said. "She's very pretty, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for
and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and
with you?" culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly
" Try the next," he said. j treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.