J. G. Burbank, Attorney at Law.
What transpired between him and that gentleman we will leave to the surmises of the reader. After being closeted for an hour in a room whose only furniture consisted of one or two green baize-covered tables, piled with papers, and a book-case crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend turned his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint & Snarle.
Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found Edward Walters quietly seated beside him. They had not met since the interview we described at Mr. Flint's house; and the captain's presence at the present time was not a thing to be desired by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever doubts he entertained respecting its object were immediately dispelled.
"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.
Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."
"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.
"And I found my son, John Flint!"
Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he grew cowardly desperate.
"You found a thief, sir—a miserable thief."
We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that light.
"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whomyoupersecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he must be released."
"Mustbe, Mr. Walters!"
"I think I said so."
Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.
"John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to serve the boy. There is nothing I will not do to crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do not know that he is innocent—I do not know that he is worthy of my love. I only know that he is my child."
There was an agony in the tone with which these words were spoken that was music to Mr. Flint. He smiled that undertaker's smile of his.
"The law must take its course," he said. "It is impossible to stopthat."
"Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon. If you do not appear against him, Mortimer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I havethe letter."
"Stop!" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, and he assumed his usual, fawning, hypocritical air.
"If I do as you wish, what then?"
"You shall have the letter."
"What assurance have I of that?"
"My word."
"Is that all?" said Flint. "Would you take mine, in such a case?"
"No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. "Your word is worthless. Mine was never broken. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes."
"There must be another stipulation."
"What is it?"
"You are not to mention my name to Mortimer. He does not know of my existence."
"I shall not be likely to meet him," returned Flint, a little surprised. "I thought you had seen him."
"I did—through the bars of his cell."
And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of mind. So absorbed was he in his disappointment, that Tim several times that afternoon whistled snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity.
The twilight came stealing into the room in which Mrs. Snarle and Daisy were sitting. The food on the supper table remained untouched. Neither of them had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew denser and denser, and the shadows on their faces deepened. Daisy had told her mother all—the search of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the Tombs, and Mortimer's protestation of innocence. Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for a moment; but she saw how strong their evidence might be against him.
"God only knows how it will end, Daisy."
"As God wills it, mother!"
As these words were said, a shadow fell across the entry, and a pair of arms was thrown tenderly around Daisy's neck.
"Mortimer!"
Quin.—Is all our company here?
Mid-summer's Night Dream.
A Picture—The Lawyer's Note—Mr. Hardwill once more—The Scene at the Law Office—Mr. Flint Hors du Combat—Face to Face.
A Picture—The Lawyer's Note—Mr. Hardwill once more—The Scene at the Law Office—Mr. Flint Hors du Combat—Face to Face.
"Mortimer!"
That was all Daisy said.
The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness; and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming, forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him.
Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and, inexplicable to himself, Mortimer connected it in some way with his unexpected release.
Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room, which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the shadows of the room.
It was a delicate picture.
Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's.
What if their lips touched?
"O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while you were in ——"
"The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling.
"Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though."
"Were you?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom youspeak so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor."
And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes.
Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note.
"That is strange—read it, Daisy."
Daisy read:
"Sir,—By calling at my office, No.—— Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4p. m., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
"Sir,—By calling at my office, No.—— Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4p. m., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
"Respectfully,
"J. C. Burbank,
"Attorney at Law."
About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of similar import, after reading which, he said:
"Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket.
Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you.
The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.
He found that gentleman talking with three newgeniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to "bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.
When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.
"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."
Mortimer bowed.
"Did you read it all, sir?"
"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but the size of the manuscript."
"Then you buy by theweight," said Mortimer, smiling.
"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages. As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."
"Your reader, sir?"
"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I seldom read my publications. I merely sell them—sometimes I don't dothat. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his judgment."
"Ah!"
"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."
Mr. Hardwill might have added—"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and 'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.
Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and "striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.
On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the reader nor myself; but, while remarking,en passant, that the book, owing to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a "second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit ourselves.
It is 4p. m.
Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr. Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry atthis, (we doubt if the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot—in coming to the last page, where the author can write "Finis"—which no one but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.
The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the lawyer.
Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to Daisy.
Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him from being observed by the first-described group.
Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made his appearance.
This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.
The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not liking the company he was in.
Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.
"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations which will explain themselves."
Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.
The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional dignity.
"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died, is it not?"
The merchant nodded.
"He left no heirs—I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful appearance of hesitation.
"He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn which the conversation was taking.
"Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was the name."
(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.)
"Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F.,—the initials in the necklace!"
"I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my memory has been tasked with more important things."
He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.
"What became of this child—Maude?"
"Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air.
"And the property——?"
"Came to me—the child having no other relative," said Flint, rallying.
The lawyer was silent for a moment.
"Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that your brother's child is still living, what would you say?"
"I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, springing to his feet, "I should say, sir, that it was a lie! I see through it all. This is a miserable conspiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling at the bottom of it." He pointed at Mortimer. "But it won't do!" he thundered, "itwon'tdo!"
"Of course it won't for you to get in a passion. The man who gets into a passion," continued Mr. Burbank, philosophically, "never acts with judgment. And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted with all the circumstances of the child's disappearance; indeed, I have a full account of them in your own handwriting."
Mr. Flint turned white.
"This letter, which I shall give you by and by,"said the man of law, "divulges a plot of villainy which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate; and I'll prove the truth of what I say."
And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach him.
She did so, mechanically.
"This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, "is my first witness. Will you raise your veil?"
Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. Flint in the face. Flint turned his eyes on her with such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:
"So help me God, it is Henry's child!"
Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and looked over the baize screen.
Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.
"This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, "I return to the owner. It was my misfortune to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return it to one who does not require any proof of my innocence."
Daisy pressed his hand.
"Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint.
"Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness thedenouementof our little drama."
With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and handed him a paper.
"What this fails to explain relative to your father, you must seek from his own lips."
"My father!—his lips!"—repeated Mortimer, bewildered.
He opened the paper.
"My father! where is he?"
"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.
And they stood face to face.
Our revels now are ended: these our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits, andAre 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.
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.
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 intotableaux 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 leavingnuestros amigosat 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?
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!
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 badmemory, 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.
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, isArcady, 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 notrecognizing 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 incipientmoustaché, which only the utmost perseverance on the part of Tim andMr. Phalonhas 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.
Captain Edward Walterssits 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 thepartarré, 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 theabandonof 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 neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever!Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull 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 armsstretching 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
Cross
It isDaisy's Necklace; that isWhat Came of it; and here, gentle reader, is
Don Sebastian.—You have no plot.
Fabricio.—But such characters! and every one is as trueas truth: copied right off from nature.
Don Sebastian.—Badly done, sir Poet.
Lope de Vega.
"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 fortand 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—"
"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 mighthave 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 forParadise Lost, ought surely to be in ecstacies overDaisy'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 someamong 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!'
'So angels walked unknown on earth,But when they flew were recognized!'
What if my poor story is stale and flat beside thechef-d'Å“uvreof 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 bookis a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity cannot controvertthat."
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,thatis 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 Feramorzover again! Do you remember that after all the strictures of the easternsavant, 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 soverywicked!"
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, (Daisyis 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 manin his way, no doubt,—the big gun of a little village, butno 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 abusemybook, because I cannot injureyoupecuniarily."
"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I startThe 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—