Now, suppose that all through that 9th of November his lordship has had a racking rheumatism25, or a toothache, let us say, during all dinner-time — through which he has been obliged to grin and mumble26 his poor old speeches. Is he enviable? Would you like to change with his lordship? Suppose that bumper27 which his golden footman brings him, instead i’fackins of ypocras or canary, contains some abomination of senna? Away! Remove the golden goblet28, insidious29 cupbearer! You now begin to perceive the gloomy moral which I am about to draw.
Last month we sang the song of glorification30, and rode in the chariot of triumph. It was all very well. It was right to huzza, and be thankful, and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides, you know, there was the enjoyment31 of thinking how pleased Brown, and Jones, and Robinson (our dear friends) would be at this announcement of success. But now that the performance is over, my good sir, just step into my private room, and see that it is not all pleasure — this winning of successes. Cast your eye over those newspapers, over those letters. See what the critics say of your harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries! Why, you are no better than an idiot; you are drivelling; your powers have left you; this always overrated writer is rapidly sinking to, &c.
This is not pleasant; but neither is this the point. It may be the critic is right, and the author wrong. It may be that the archbishop’s sermon is not so fine as some of those discourses32 twenty years ago which used to delight the faithful in Granada. Or it may be (pleasing thought!) that the critic is a dullard, and does not understand what he is writing about. Everybody who has been to an exhibition has heard visitors discoursing33 about the pictures before their faces. One says, “This is very well;” another says, “This is stuff and rubbish;” another cries, “Bravo! this is a masterpiece:” and each has a right to his opinion. For example, one of the pictures I admired most at the Royal Academy is by a gentleman on whom I never, to my knowledge, set eyes. This picture is No. 346, “Moses,” by Mr. S. Solomon. I thought it had a great intention, I thought it finely drawn34 and composed. It nobly represented, to my mind, the dark children of the Egyptian bondage35, and suggested the touching36 story. My newspaper says: “Two ludicrously ugly women, looking at a dingy37 baby, do not form a pleasing object;” and so good-by, Mr. Solomon. Are not most of our babies served so in life? and doesn’t Mr. Robinson consider Mr. Brown’s cherub38 an ugly, squalling little brat39? So cheer up, Mr. S. S. It may be the critic who discoursed40 on your baby is a bad judge of babies. When Pharaoh’s kind daughter found the child, and cherished and loved it, and took it home, and found a nurse for it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-dust colored chamberlains, or some of the tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses at court, who never had children themselves, who cried out, “Faugh! the horrid41 little squalling wretch23!” and knew he would never come to good; and said, “Didn’t I tell you so?” when he assaulted the Egyptian.
Never mind then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, because a critic pooh-poohs your work of art — your Moses — your child — your foundling. Why, did not a wiseacre in Blackwood’s Magazine lately fall foul42 of “Tom Jones?” O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. Richardson, who could write novels himself — but you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear sir, agree in giving our respect, and wonder, and admiration43, to the brave old master.
In these last words I am supposing the respected reader to be endowed with a sense of humor, which he may or may not possess; indeed, don’t we know many an honest man who can no more comprehend a joke than he can turn a tune4. But I take for granted, my dear sir, that you are brimming over with fun — you mayn’t make jokes, but you could if you would — you know you could: and in your quiet way you enjoy them extremely. Now many people neither make them, nor understand them when made, nor like them when understood, and are suspicious, testy44, and angry with jokers. Have you ever watched an elderly male or female — an elderly “party,” so to speak, who begins to find out that some young wag of the company is “chaffing” him? Have you ever tried the sarcastic45 or Socratic method with a child? Little simple he or she, in the innocence46 of the simple heart, plays some silly freak, or makes some absurd remark, which you turn to ridicule47. The little creature dimly perceives that you are making fun of him, writhes48, blushes, grows uneasy, bursts into tears — upon my word it is not fair to try the weapon of ridicule upon that innocent young victim. The awful objurgatory practice he is accustomed to. Point out his fault, and lay bare the dire49 consequences thereof: expose it roundly, and give him a proper, solemn, moral whipping — but do not attempt to castigare ridendo. Do not laugh at him writhing50, and cause all the other boys in the school to laugh. Remember your own young days at school, my friend — the tingling51 cheeks, burning ears, bursting heart, and passion of desperate tears, with which you looked up, after having performed some blunder, whilst the doctor held you to public scorn before the class, and cracked his great clumsy jokes upon you — helpless, and a prisoner! Better the block itself, and the lictors, with their fasces of birch-twigs, than the maddening torture of those jokes!
Now with respect to jokes — and the present company of course excepted — many people, perhaps most people, are as infants. They have little sense of humor. They don’t like jokes. Raillery in writing annoys and offends them. The coarseness apart, I think I have met very, very few women who liked the banter52 of Swift and Fielding. Their simple, tender natures revolt at laughter. Is the satyr always a wicked brute53 at heart, and are they rightly shocked at his grin, his leer, his horns, hoofs54, and ears? Fi donc, le vilain monstre, with his shrieks55, and his capering56 crooked57 legs! Let him go and get a pair of well-wadded black silk stockings, and pull them over those horrid shanks; put a large gown and bands over beard and hide; and pour a dozen of lavender-water into his lawn handkerchief, and cry, and never make a joke again. It shall all be highly-distilled poesy, and perfumed sentiment, and gushing58 eloquence59; and the foot SHAN’T peep out, and a plague take it. Cover it up with the surplice. Out with your cambric, dear ladies, and let us all whimper together.
Now, then, hand on heart, we declare that it is not the fire of adverse60 critics which afflicts61 or frightens the editorial bosom62. They may be right; they may be rogues63 who have a personal spite; they may be dullards who kick and bray64 as their nature is to do, and prefer thistles to pineapples; they may be conscientious65, acute, deeply learned, delightful66 judges, who see your joke in a moment, and the profound wisdom lying underneath67. Wise or dull, laudatory68 or otherwise, we put their opinions aside. If they applaud, we are pleased: if they shake their quick pens, and fly off with a hiss69, we resign their favors and put on all the fortitude70 we can muster71. I would rather have the lowest man’s good word than his bad one, to be sure; but as for coaxing72 a compliment, or wheedling73 him into good-humor, or stopping his angry mouth with a good dinner, or accepting his contributions for a certain Magazine, for fear of his barking or snapping elsewhere — allons donc! These shall not be our acts. Bow-wow, Cerberus! Here shall be no sop74 for thee, unless — unless Cerberus is an uncommonly75 good dog, when we shall bear no malice76 because he flew at us from our neighbor’s gate.
What, then, is the main grief you spoke77 of as annoying you — the toothache in the Lord Mayor’s jaw78, the thorn in the cushion of the editorial chair? It is there. Ah! it stings me now as I write. It comes with almost every morning’s post. At night I come home and take my letters up to bed (not daring to open them), and in the morning I find one, two, three thorns on my pillow. Three I extracted yesterday; two I found this morning. They don’t sting quite so sharply as they did; but a skin is a skin, and they bite, after all, most wickedly. It is all very fine to advertise on the Magazine, “Contributions are only to be sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., and not to the Editor’s private residence.” My dear sir, how little you know man — or woman-kind, if you fancy they will take that sort of warning! How am I to know, (though, to be sure, I begin to know now,) as I take the letters off the tray, which of those envelopes contains a real bona fide letter, and which a thorn? One of the best invitations this year I mistook for a thorn-letter, and kept it without opening. This is what I call a thorn-letter:—
“CAMBERWELL, June 4.
“SIR— May I hope, may I entreat79, that you will favor me by perusing80 the enclosed lines, and that they may be found worthy81 of insertion in the Cornhill Magazine. We have known better days, sir. I have a sick and widowed mother to maintain, and little brothers and sisters who look to me. I do my utmost as a governess to support them. I toil82 at night when they are at rest, and my own hand and brain are alike tired. If I could add but a LITTLE to our means by my pen, many of my poor invalid’s wants might be supplied, and I could procure83 for her comforts to which she is now a stranger. Heaven knows it is not for want of WILL or for want of ENERGY on my part, that she is now in ill-health, and our little household almost without bread. Do — do cast a kind glance over my poem, and if you can help us, the widow, the orphans84 will bless you! I remain, sir, in anxious expectancy85,
“Your faithful servant,
“S. S. S.”
And enclosed is a little poem or two, and an envelope with its penny stamp — heaven help us! — and the writer’s name and address.
Now you see what I mean by a thorn. Here is the case put with true female logic86. “I am poor; I am good; I am ill; I work hard; I have a sick mother and hungry brothers and sisters dependent on me. You can help us if you will.” And then I look at the paper, with the thousandth part of a faint hope that it may be suitable, and I find it won’t do: and I knew it wouldn’t do: and why is this poor lady to appeal to my pity and bring her poor little ones kneeling to my bedside, and calling for bread which I can give them if I choose? No day passes but that argument ad misericordiam is used. Day and night that sad voice is crying out for help. Thrice it appealed to me yesterday. Twice this morning it cried to me: and I have no doubt when I go to get my hat, I shall find it with its piteous face and its pale family about it, waiting for me in the hall. One of the immense advantages which women have over our sex is, that they actually like to read these letters. Like letters? O mercy on us! Before I was an editor I did not like the postman much:— but now!
A very common way with these petitioners87 is to begin with a fine flummery about the merits and eminent88 genius of the person whom they are addressing. But this artifice89, I state publicly, is of no avail. When I see THAT kind of herb, I know the snake within it, and fling it away before it has time to sting. Away, reptile90, to the waste-paper basket, and thence to the flames!
But of these disappointed people, some take their disappointment and meekly92 bear it. Some hate and hold you their enemy because you could not be their friend. Some, furious and envious93, say: “Who is this man who refuses what I offer, and how dares he, the conceited94 coxcomb95, to deny my merit?”
Sometimes my letters contain not mere96 thorns, but bludgeons. How are two choice slips from that noble Irish oak, which has more than once supplied alpeens for this meek91 and unoffending skull:—
“THEATRE ROYAL, DONNYBROOK.
“SIR — I have just finished reading the first portion of your Tale, Lovel the Widower97, and am much surprised at the unwarrantable strictures you pass therein on the corps98 de ballet.
“I have been for more than ten years connected with the theatrical99 profession, and I beg to assure you that the majority of the corps de ballet are virtuous100, well-conducted girls, and, consequently, that snug101 cottages are not taken for them in the Regent’s Park.
“I also have to inform you that theatrical managers are in the habit of speaking good English, possibly better English than authors.
“You either know nothing of the subject in question, or you assert a wilful102 falsehood.
“I am happy to say that the characters of the corps de ballet, as also those of actors and actresses, are superior to the snarlings of dyspeptic libellers, or the spiteful attacks and brutum fulmen of ephemeral authors.
“I am, sir, your obedient servant,
“A. B. C.”
The Editor of the Cornhill Magazine.
“THEATRE ROYAL, DONNYBROOK.
“SIR — I have just read in the Cornhill Magazine for January, the first portion of a Tale written by you, and entitled Lovel the Widower.
“In the production in question you employ all your malicious103 spite (and you have great capabilities104 that way) in trying to degrade the character of the corps de ballet. When you imply that the majority of ballet-girls have villas105 taken for them in the Regent’s Park, I SAY YOU TELL A DELIBERATE FALSEHOOD.
“Haveing been brought up to the stage from infancy106, and though now an actress, haveing been seven years principal dancer at the opera, I am competent to speak on the subject. I am only surprised that so vile107 a libeller as yourself should be allowed to preside at the Dramatic Fund dinner on the 22nd instant. I think it would be much better if you were to reform your own life, instead of telling lies of those who are immeasurably your superiors.
“Yours in supreme108 disgust,
“A. D.”
The signatures of the respected writers are altered, and for the site of their Theatre Royal an adjacent place is named, which (as I may have been falsely informed) used to be famous for quarrels, thumps109, and broken heads. But, I say, is this an easy chair to sit on, when you are liable to have a pair of such shillelaghs flung at it? And, prithee, what was all the quarrel about? In the little history of “Lovel the Widower” I described, and brought to condign110 punishment, a certain wretch of a ballet-dancer, who lived splendidly for a while on ill-gotten gains, had an accident, and lost her beauty, and died poor, deserted111, ugly, and every way odious112. In the same page, other little ballet-dancers are described, wearing homely113 clothing, doing their duty, and carrying their humble114 savings115 to the family at home. But nothing will content my dear correspondents but to have me declare that the majority of ballet-dancers have villas in the Regent’s Park, and to convict me of “deliberate falsehood.” Suppose, for instance, I had chosen to introduce a red-haired washerwoman into a story? I might get an expostulatory letter saying, “Sir, in stating that the majority of washerwomen are red-haired, you are a liar116! and you had best not speak of ladies who are immeasurably your superiors.” Or suppose I had ventured to describe an illiterate117 haberdasher? One of the craft might write to me, “Sir, in describing haberdashers as illiterate, you utter a wilful falsehood. Haberdashers use much better English than authors.” It is a mistake, to be sure. I have never said what my correspondents say I say. There is the text under their noses, but what if they choose to read it their own way? “Hurroo, lads! here’s for a fight. There’s a bald head peeping out of the hut. There’s a bald head! It must be Tim Malone’s.” And whack118! come down both the bludgeons at once.
Ah me! we wound where we never intended to strike; we create anger where we never meant harm; and these thoughts are the thorns in our Cushion. Out of mere malignity119, I suppose, there is no man who would like to make enemies. But here, in this editorial business, you can’t do otherwise: and a queer, sad, strange, bitter thought it is, that must cross the mind of many a public man: “Do what I will, be innocent or spiteful, be generous or cruel, there are A and B, and C and D, who will hate me to the end of the chapter — to the chapter’s end — to the Finis of the page — when hate, and envy, and fortune, and disappointment shall be over.”
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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adjourns
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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ransacking
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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drawn
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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64
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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65
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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66
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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67
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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68
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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69
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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70
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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71
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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72
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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73
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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75
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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76
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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77
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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78
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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81
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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82
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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83
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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84
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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petitioners
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| n.请求人，请愿人( petitioner的名词复数 )；离婚案原告 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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89
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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90
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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98
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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99
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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101
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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102
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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103
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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104
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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105
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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107
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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109
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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111
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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112
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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113
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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114
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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115
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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116
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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117
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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118
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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119
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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