_
Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind! -- SHAKESPEARE.
CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA
Clap-Trap--John Flint--The Old House by the Sea--Joe Wilkes--Strephon and Chloe--Tim Enjoying Himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A Last Word.
It is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have of seducing our dramatis personæ into
tableaux vivants, and deserting them abruptly. In a story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly done. So we will make no excuse for leaving
nuestros amigos at the lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of this humble comedy.
Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on our last act.
From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow us?
I.
Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and stiffer, if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. God grant that he is so. But we doubt it. For to such as he, nor April, with its purple-mouthed violets, nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wisdom's goodness. The various months teach him no lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, however, but flesh and blood mortality; and though we have only outlined his weakness--his love of gold, his cold, intriguing spirit--yet the sketch is such that, if he looks at it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him!
II.
It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old house situated between Ivyton and the sea, are fringed with pink peach blossoms, and the air is freighted with their odors. The violets, with dew in their azure eyes, peep from every possible nook; and those sweet peris of the summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. Surely Titania has been in this spot, breathing exquisite beauty upon the flowers, or, perhaps, Flora's dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, perchance, wild Puck, or Prospero's good Ariel has been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It was here that we first met the little castle-builders--the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is not changed much. The same emerald waves break on the white beach; the same cherry-trees are spreading their green tresses, and the simple church-yard sleeps, as it used, in sunshine and shadow.
The house has been newly painted, and the fresh green blinds make one feel a sense of shade and coolness. The garden in front has been re-made with a careful eye to its old beauties. The white pebbled walks, the strawberry and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down.
We shall accuse the reader with having a bad memory, if he does not recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener, who occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, which persists in running wild over the new summer-house. It is he, indeed--the whilome jailor of the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison-keys, and taken up the shovel and the hoe.
III.
Two persons are standing at the "round window," where Bell and her brother used to linger, dreamily, in the twilights of long ago. The rays of the setting sun glance over the waves, and fall on the faces of Mortimer and Daisy--Daisy Snarle no more, but little Maude Walters. Their honey-moon has been of six years' duration, and to such as they, that sweet moon of tenderness never wanes, but runs from full to full--never new and never old! Strephon woos Chloe as of yore. The lover, as in some antique picture, is ever kneeling at the feet of his mistress, and she, through the gathering of years, looks down on him with the olden tenderness and the April blushes of womanhood! To such as they, life plays on a dulcimer. The golden age is not dead to them. They see the shepherd Daphnis seated on the slopes of Ætna, and hear him pipe to the nymph Eschenais. This "bank-note world," to them, is Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as pastoral hymns!
But we, the author of this MS., are growing pastoral ourselves, and Heaven forbid that we should venture into a field which one of our poets has recently brought into disrepute by his indifferent blank verse.
Mortimer, leaning on the sill of the window, is looking at Daisy, who stands a little in the background, with that kissable white hand of hers shading the sun from as dangerous a pair of black eyes as ever looked "no" when they meant "yes." She is watching a speck of a boat, which is dancing up and down on the waves like a cork. Mortimer has just brought a telescope to bear on the distant object, and we, with that lack of good-breeding which has characterized all romancers from time immemorial, will look over his shoulder. The delighted occupant of the boat is that audacious fellow, Tim, who has taken a trip up to Ivyton from the great city, to spend a week with "Mr. Mortimer." It may be well to say that Tim--Timothy Jones, Esq., Mr. Reader--has ceased to have a proclivity for the "machine;" and now-a-days, the City Hall alarm bell never disturbs his equanimity. Indeed, he is so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, that the gentle reader stands in some danger of not recognizing him at all. Hence the above formal introduction. Just notice the set of those cream-colored pants, falling without a wrinkle over those mirror-like patent leathers, and the graceful curve of that Shanghai over the hips! Just notice! And more than all, that incipient
moustaché, which only the utmost perseverance on the part of Tim and
Mr. Phalon has coaxed out into mundane existence!
The writer of this veritable history has a great mind to drown Tim for his impudence; but as that young gentleman has a good situation in a Front-street commission-house, he refrains, for a capsize a mile from land would considerably interfere with Young America's prospects.
IV.
CAPTAIN EDWARD WALTERS sits on the door-step of the old house; and through a curtain of honeysuckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching the fawn-like motions of
"A six years loss to Paradise!"
Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like her. Walters thinks so, as the child runs from flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a mist comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see his grandchild for tears.
His lips move, and perhaps he is saying: "Little Bell! Little Bell!"
And he thinks of the angel whom he left years ago, playing on the
partarré, in front of the gate. He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and sees her golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and cannot tell if they be curls or sunshine!
The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell as one white lily does another. She has the same wavy tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with their longing, languid expression. Her form has the
abandon of childhood, with a certain shadow of dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and spiritual; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in moulding the child, had hesitated whether to make her an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the better parts of each!
Let us take one more look at her sweet young face--
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever!
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her bosom; and, with her eyes running over with childish merriment, trips toward the house; but two arms stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters a pretty scream, and then sits quietly on Walters' knee. He kisses her laughingly; but his face grows serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped pearls which encircle the child's delicate neck; on the innocent white bosom lies a
[Illustration: Cross]
It is DAISY'S NECKLACE; that is WHAT CAME OF IT; and here, gentle reader, is
THE END OF THE CHAIN.
EPILOGUE.
DON SEBASTIAN.--
You have no plot. FABRICIO.--
But such characters! and every one is as true
as truth: copied right off from nature. DON SEBASTIAN.--
Badly done, sir Poet. --LOPE DE VEGA.
EPILOGUE.
"What a mournful glory falls upon the October woods! It seems as if a broken rain-bow were strained through a sieve of gray clouds, and sprinkled over the crisp leaves. Ochre, vermillion, dappled russet, and all rare tintings! And then the wind that rushes so gloriously through the woodlands, bearing with it a rich, earthy smell, and scattering the purple wealth, the hoarded gold of the autumnal days! Pleasant Forest, with your oaken harps! Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and moonlight--how sad I was to leave ye! Pleasant River, that stealest up from the sea, past the fort and into the old weather-beaten seaport town--crawling lazily among the rotting piers of deserted wharves, then gliding off through the shaky bridge, squirming and curveting into a world of greenery, like a great serpent with an emerald back! And the girls! Village belles, rustic flirts--eyes, lips, shady curls, white hands, little feet, enchanting pouts--ah, me!
"Pleasant it was when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low--"
This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one fine October morning, two days after my return from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking. It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with the following pertinent inquiry:
"Prolific producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at home?"
I could not see Mrs. Muggins' face, for that good soul was standing at the foot of the stairs; but I knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened out of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might ensue.
MRS. MUGGINS, (
after a long silence, and with some asperity)--"What, sir?"
BARESCYTHE, (
petulantly)--"Is Ralph in, Sycorax?"
What reply the "relick" of Joshua Muggins might have made to this interrogation, is only to be imagined; for I immediately "discovered" myself, to use a theatrical phrase, and led my solemn friend from hostile ground.
"My dear Barry," said I, after greeting him cordially, "you shouldn't--"
"Shouldn't what?"
"Call Mrs. Muggins names."
"Sycorax? She deserved it. Women are Cleopatras until they are thirty, then they are old witches with broomstick propensities! Don't interrupt me. Don't speak to me."
I choked down a panegyric on Woman, for I knew that Barry was thinking of a cold, heartless piece of femininity that, years and years ago, forgot her troth to an honest man, and ran away with a moustache and twenty-four gilt buttons. I could never see why he regretted it, for Mrs. Captain Mary O'Donehugh never stopped growing till she could turn down a two hundred weight; and she looks anything but interesting, with her long file of little O'Donehughs--nascent captains and middies in the bud!
I knew that Barescythe was not in a mood to be critically just, yet, for the sake of turning his thoughts into different channels, I glanced significantly at the MS. under his arm.
"My Novel," I ventured.
"Like the man in the play," said Barescythe, "the world should ask somebody to write it down an ass!"
With which, he threw the manuscript on the table before me.
His remark was uttered with such an air of logic, that I nodded assent, for I never disagree with logicians.
"The world is wide-mouthed, long-eared, and stupid--it will probably like that affair of yours, though I doubt if the book sells."
And Barry pointed to the curled up novel on the table.
I bowed with, "I hope it will."
"The world," he continued, "that gave Milton £10 for
Paradise Lost, ought surely to be in ecstacies over DAISY'S NECKLACE."
"Barry," said I, somewhat nettled, "is it my good nature, or your lack of it, that seduces you into saying such disagreeable things?"
"Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature than you possess it. But we won't quarrel. I am sore because the day of great books has gone by! Once we could boast of giant minds: we have only pigmies now."
"But let them speak, Barry. There may be some among us that are not for a day. Who foresaw in the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist of all time? Your pet Homer was a mendicant. Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged, until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand that toiled, cold, and the lips that murmured, patient forever!
'So angels walked unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized!'
What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the
chef-d'oeuvre of Sir Walter Scott's genius? Barry, there is a little bird in our New-England woods known only by its pleasant chirp; yet who would break its amber bill because the nightingales in eastern lands warble so deliciously?"
Barry laughed.
"There you come, Ralph, with your bird-conceits! You flap the wings of some thread-bare metaphor in my face, and I cannot see for the feathers! You are not a man to argue with. Poetical men never are: they make up in sentiment what they lack in sense; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry is more than a match for a piece of logic. 'No more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me.' Your book is a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity cannot controvert
that."
Barry's better nature had slipped out of him for a moment into the sunshine, like a turtle's head; but it slipped back again, and the speech that commenced with a laugh ended with a snarl.
"It shows," he said, rumpling the manuscript with a careless hand, "a want of Art. The construction of the tale is crude: the characters are all old friends with new names--broken down stage-horses with new harnesses--and the prose throughout is uneven. How can it be otherwise, since it is only an intolerable echo of Hood, Dickens, and Charles Reade? Your want of artistic genius is shown in taking three chapters to elaborate "little Bell," who has no kind of influence in working out the plot, and who dies conveniently at Chapter III. Your imitative proclivities are prominent in the chapter headed 'A Few Specimens of Humanity.' Was ever anything more like the author of 'The Old Curiosity Shop?' Your short, jerky sentences are modeled after Reade's 'Peg Woffington,' and 'Christie Johnstone,' or any of Dumas' thefts. As to the plot,
that is altogether too improbable and silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 'Daisy's Necklace'--'Betsy's Garter!'"
"Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz over again! Do you remember that after all the strictures of the eastern
savant, Feramorz turned out to be not only a Poet but a Prince? I could take you to be 'Blackwood' slashing an American book, rather than a Yankee editor looking over a friend's virgin novel. You are like all critics, Barry. They ignore what might please them greatly if they had not their critical behavior on, and grow savage over that part of an author which they should speedily forget--like a dog on a country highway, that turns up his cold nose at the delicate hedge-blossoms, and growls over a decayed bone! So you find nothing to admire in my sixteen chapters?"
"Not much."
"Then say a good word for that little."
"There are some lines, Ralph, some whole paragraphs, may be, that would be very fine in a poem; but in an every-day novel they are strikingly out of place. Your jewels, (heart-jewels I suppose you call 'em,) seem to me like diamonds on the bosom of a calicoed and untidy chambermaid. That sentimental chapter with 'The Dead Hope' caption, is quite as good as your blank verse, and I would wager a copy of Griswold's 'Poets of America,' against a doubtful three-cent piece, that you wrote it in rhyme--it's not very difficult, you know, to turn your poetry into prose. You needn't stare. In a word, your book is as tame as a sick kitten--I hate kittens: there's something diabolical in a yellow cat!"
I nipped a smile in the bud, and said, quietly:
"I intended to write a tame, simple domestic story. The facts are garnered from my own experience, and--"
"Garnered from your maternal grandparent, Ralph! Very much I believe it. Very much anybody will. It's a wonder to me that you didn't call the book 'Heart-life by an Anatomy'!"
"I will acknowledge, Barescythe, that I have not done my best in this affair. 'Yet consider,' as Fabricio says in the play, ''twas done at a sitting: a single sitting, by all the saints! I will do better when I have those pistoles, and may use time.' Local tales of this school have been popular. I wrote mine to sell."
"But it won't."
"Why?"
"Let's see. How many 'sunsets' have you in the book?"
"Not many, I think."
"That was an oversight. There should be one at the end of each chapter--twenty 'sunsets' at least. Then you have no seduction."
"A seduction?" horrified.
"Of course. What modern novel is complete without one? It gives a spicy flavor to the story. People of propriety like it. Prim ladies of an uncertain age always 'dote' on the gallant, gay Lothario, and wish that he wasn't so
very wicked!"
And Barry raised his eye-brows, and broke out in such a clear, bell-like, canorous laugh--so contagious in its merriment, that I joined him; and I fancied I heard Mrs. Muggins beating a hasty retreat down the front stairs. It seems improbable to me that Mrs. Muggins had been listening at the key-hole of my door--respectable Mrs. Muggins.
"Then, sir," said Barry, re-assuming his mock-serious air, "there should be a dreadful duel, in which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, falls mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory blood, and is borne to his ladye-love on a shutter! You have none of these fine points. Then the names of your characters are absurdly commonplace. Mortimer Walters should be Montaldo St. Clare: Daisy Snarle, (how plebeian!) should be Gertrude Flemming: John Flint, Clarence Lester, and so on to the end of the text. How Mrs. Mac Elegant will turn up her celestial nose at a book written all about common people!"
"Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac Elegant, and Barescythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that delicate fact. "It was not for such as she I wrote. I sought to touch that finer pulse of humanity which throbs the wide world over. The sequel will prove whether or not I have failed."
Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin.
"Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of revenge, and unfolding at the same time a copy of the 'Morning Glory,' "did you write the book criticisms in to-day's paper?"
"Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly.
"They are very fine."
Barry's blood went up to his forehead.
"So consistent," I continued, "with what you have been saying. I have neither read '
The Scavenger's Daughter,' nor '
The Life of Obadiah Zecariah Jinkings;' but, judging from the opinion here expressed, I take them to be immortal works. I could never be led to think so by reading the extracts you have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly constructed. Indeed, Barry, here's a sentence which lacks a personal pronoun and a verb."
"I see what you are aiming at," replied Barescythe, sharply. "You twit me with praising these books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse trash was never in type, (DAISY is not printed yet, you know,) but will you allow me to ask you a question?"
"
Si usted gusta, my dear fellow."
"Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo's, turns spasmodic summersets on a chalked rope for the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom?"
"Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?"
"M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very simple arrangement"--here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his hand--"Messrs. Printem & Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,' (my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish."
Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter.
He went on, with a ruthful face:
"Here is '
The Life of Jinkings'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man
in his way, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy of a biography than a printer's devil!"
With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach with evident satisfaction.
"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do you call him?--Jinkings--is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to resurrectionize the insipid incidents of this man's milk-and-water existence! If he made a speech on the introduction of a 'Town-pump,' or delivered an essay at the 'Bell Tavern'--it was very kind of him, to be sure: but why not bury his bad English with him in the country church-yard? I wish they had, for I am expected to say that ten thousand copies of the 'work' have been sold, when I know that only five hundred were printed; or else Messrs. Printem & Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which case my occupation's gone! And this '
Scavenger's Daughter'--a book written by a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-butter--see how I have plastered it all over with panegyric!"
"And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "you wantingly abuse
my book, because I cannot injure
you pecuniarily."
"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start
The Weekly Critique, then look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for themselves, and not their advertisements--
'Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul and wrong,
But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song.'"
"What a comment is this on American criticism! O, Barry, it is such men as you, with fine taste and fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute. Your genius gives you responsible places in the world of letters, and how you wrong the trust!"
"Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, "you blend flattery and insult so ingeniously, that I hesitate whether to give you the assurance of my distinguished consideration, or knock you down."
"Either you please, Barry. I have spoken quite as honestly, if not so bluntly as you; and I regret that I have so little to say in favor of your inconsistent criticism. I am sorry you dislike my novel, but--"
I looked toward the chair in which Barescythe had been sitting.
He was gone.
I was not surprised, for Barry does few things "after the manner of men," and a ceremonious departure is something he never dreams of. I sat and thought of what had been said. I wondered if we were the dregs of time, the worthless leaves of trees that had borne their fruit--if there were none among us,
"Like some of the simple great ones gone
Forever and ever by!"
And lastly, I wondered if any of our city papers had such a critical appendage as T. J. Barescythe.
=?=
* * * * *
It is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith pat you patronisingly on the back, and say, "My dear fellow, when is your book coming out?"
Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after that--and all Mrs. Smith's relations.
"DAISY'S NECKLACE" is nearly ready. The following advertisement, which I cut from "The Evening Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates the manner in which "my publishers," Messrs. Printem & Sellem, make their literary announcements:
"We have in Press, and shall publish in the course of a few days, a New Work of rare merit, entitled--
DAISY'S NECKLACE,
And what came of it.
A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING, in pathos and quiet satire, the most felicitous efforts of Dickens!!
PRINTEM & SELLEM,
Publishers."
That was rather modest and pleasant; but it is pleasanter than all to have an early copy of your book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly, some sunshiny morning--to behold, for the first time, the darling of your meditation in a suit of embossed muslin. How your heart turns over--if you are not used to the thing. How you make pauses between your coffee and muffins, to admire the clear typography, the luxurious paper, the gold letters on the back!
Messrs. Printem & Sellem sent me two out-of-town papers, containing notices of "DAISY." These notices were solicited by advance copies of the work, for the purpose of being used in the publication advertisement. It is curious to remark how great minds will differ.
[From the Blundertown Journal.]
"NEW PUBLICATIONS.
"DAISY'S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. New-York: Printem and Sellem.
THIS production is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious genius! Nothing like it has been produced in this century. It possesses all the fine elements of Dickens' novels, without any of their numerous defects. Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is[B] beyond all praise. Our Britannic brethren will no longer ask, 'Who reads an American book?' For we can reply, 'The World!'
FOOTNOTE:
[B] Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is what editors call "a typographical error."
"We learn, from good authority, that the publishers have received orders for twenty thousand copies of the work, in advance of its publication. We have no doubt of it; for 'Daisy's Necklace' will shed new lustre on the name of American Literature! Envious authors will abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe says, 'De gustibus non est disputandum!' Our rush of advertisements prevents us from making voluminous extracts from the novel; this, however, would be useless, as everybody will read it for themselves.
"Orders addressed to HIGGINS & CO., of this town, will be promptly filled."
I should take the editor of the "Blundertown Journal" to be a man of cultured taste, appreciative and discriminating. The second review was not quite so "favorable," and can scarcely be called "a first-rate notice."
[From the Frogpond Gazette.]
"DAISY'S NECKLACE" is the silly title of an absurd novel about to be issued by Printem & Sellem, of New-York. From the fact that the author's name is withheld from the title-page, we infer that he had some friends--some few who were not wholly willing that he should make a donkey of himself. We have read a great deal of trash in our day; but 'Daisy's Necklace' is the king of all vapid novels,--sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in fiction, and entirely intolerable from beginning to end. The first forty pages put us to sleep. We advise all druggists to keep the book for sale,--as an anodyne.
"The binding is good, and that is all the praise we can give so contemptible an abortion. A reading public that tolerates a novel like this, must be made up of very good-natured persons--assinine in temperament, and mentally obtuse.
"This 'work,' we presume, is written by that much-abused and prolific myth--'a young gentleman of this city,' distinguished, of course. We believe that he writes all of Printem & Sellem's books. At all events, those enterprising gentlemen always have 'a startling novel' in press, from his immortal pen. What a long string of sins these gentlemen have to answer for! What a commotion there would be among the shelves of their book-store, if dead authors could come back and reclaim stolen property! If the shade of Lindley Murray could stalk among them!
"For our part, we had rather see the Hudson River Railroad's list of 'dead and wounded,' than Printem & Sellem's list of 'Popular Publications!' But it is consoling to know that books like 'Daisy's Necklace,' in spite of 'purchased puffery,' find their level at last as linings for portmanteaus and third-rate trunks. We shall make cigar-lighters of our copy, and thank the stars that we were not born a book-making genius!"
Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the unstrained censure! I could not account for the malignant personality of this
critique, until Barry informed me that my publishers never advertised their books in the columns of the "Frogpond Gazette." This, of course, explained it. I only wish I had the stubborn editor of the "Frogpond" at arm's length, I would try the consistency of his ears.
I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find how ingeniously Messrs. Printem & Sellem made the adverse criticism subservient to their interests.
My lucubration was out.
The "Post" said so; the "Morning Rabid" said it; the "Evening Looking-Glass" said it; and a host of small fry echoed the important fact. I unfolded "The Rabid," and beheld the following advertisement:
"PUBLISHED THIS DAY,
A Novel of Unprecedented Power, entitled,
DAISY'S NECKLACE,
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
THE 'FROGPOND GAZETTE,' (high authority), in a long review of this work says: 'Daisy's Necklace is the King of all Novels.'
'The Blundertown Journal' (also high authority) remarks:
'This Book is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious genius!'
'Nothing like it has been produced in this century!'
'It has all the fine elements of Dickens' Novels, without any of their numerous defects!'
Our first edition (20,000 copies) is exhausted, and we beg our friends to have patience for a few days.
WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the above work!!
PRINTEM & SELLEM,
Publishers."
"Four thousand agents!" quoth Barry, looking over my shoulder; "I rather think it would take
forty thousand to sell an edition of 'DAISY!'"
I laughed at my irate friend, and, igniting a fresh regalia, crossed my feet on the mantel-piece, and remarked, composedly,
"Now for the Critics!"
FINIS.
ERRATUM.
The Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph ---- Esq., seems decidedly rusty. He has evidently given his lexicon an icy shoulder. Will the intellectual and erudite reader substitute
kyrie eleyson for
kyrie elyson on page 131?
[THE END]
Thomas Bailey Aldrich's novel: Daisy's Necklace And What Came of It
_