Daisy's Necklace, and What Came of It Part 22

"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-a.s.suming 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 p.r.o.noun 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts, 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 n.o.body 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts, in which case my occupation's gone! And this '_Scavenger's Daughter_'--a book written by a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-b.u.t.ter--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 advertis.e.m.e.nts--

'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 a.s.surance 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt, which I cut from "The Evening Looking Gla.s.s" of last Thursday, ill.u.s.trates 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, ent.i.tled_--

DAISY'S NECKLACE, And what came of it.

A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING, in pathos and quiet satire, the most felicitous efforts of d.i.c.kens!!

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 m.u.f.fins, 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt. 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 d.i.c.kens' 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!'

"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 l.u.s.tre 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts prevents us from making voluminous extracts from the novel; this, however, would be useless, as _everybody_ will read it for _themselves_.