You know, I say? WHY should you know? I make no manner of doubt you never were taken by a bailiff in your life. I never was. I have been in two or three debtors’ prisons, but not on my own account. Goodness be praised! I mean you can’t escape your lot; and Nab only stands here metaphorically10 as the watchful11, certain, and untiring officer of Mr. Sheriff Fate. Why, my dear Primrose, this morning along with your letter comes another, bearing the well-known superscription of another old friend, which I open without the least suspicion, and what do I find? A few lines from my friend Johnson, it is true, but they are written on a page covered with feminine handwriting. “Dear Mr. Johnson,” says the writer, “I have just been perusing12 with delight a most charming tale by the Archbishop of Cambray. It is called ‘Telemachus;’ and I think it would be admirably suited to the Cornhill Magazine. As you know the Editor, will you have the great kindness, dear Mr. Johnson, to communicate with him PERSONALLY (as that is much better than writing in a roundabout way to the Publishers, and waiting goodness knows how long for an answer), and state my readiness to translate this excellent and instructive story. I do not wish to breathe A WORD against ‘Lovel Parsonage,’ ‘Framley the Widower,’ or any of the novels which have appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, but I AM SURE ‘Telemachus’ is as good as new to English readers, and in point of interest and morality far,” &c. &c. &c.
There it is. I am stabbed through Johnson. He has lent himself to this attack on me. He is weak about women. Other strong men are. He submits to the common lot, poor fellow. In my reply I do not use a word of unkindness. I write him back gently, that I fear “Telemachus” won’t suit us. He can send the letter on to his fair correspondent. But however soft the answer, I question whether the wrath13 will be turned away. Will there not be a coolness between him and the lady? and is it not possible that henceforth her fine eyes will look with darkling glances upon the pretty orange cover of our Magazine?
Certain writers, they say, have a bad opinion of women. Now am I very whimsical in supposing that this disappointed candidate will be hurt at her rejection14, and angry or cast down according to her nature? “Angry, indeed!” says Juno, gathering15 up her purple robes and royal raiment. “Sorry, indeed!” cries Minerva, lacing on her corselet again, and scowling16 under her helmet. (I imagine the well-known Apple case has just been argued and decided17.) “Hurt, forsooth! Do you suppose WE care for the opinion of that hobnailed lout18 of a Paris? Do you suppose that I, the Goddess of Wisdom, can’t make allowances for mortal ignorance, and am so base as to bear malice19 against a poor creature who knows no better? You little know the goddess nature when you dare to insinuate20 that our divine minds are actuated by motives21 so base. A love of justice influences US. We are above mean revenge. We are too magnanimous to be angry at the award of such a judge in favor of such a creature.” And rustling22 out their skirts, the ladies walk away together. This is all very well. You are bound to believe them. They are actuated by no hostility23: not they. They bear no malice — of course not. But when the Trojan war occurs presently, which side will they take? Many brave souls will be sent to Hades. Hector will perish. Poor old Priam’s bald numskull will be cracked, and Troy town will burn, because Paris prefers golden-haired Venus to ox-eyed Juno and gray-eyed Minerva.
The last Essay of this Roundabout Series, describing the griefs and miseries24 of the editorial chair, was written, as the kind reader will acknowledge, in a mild and gentle, not in a warlike or satirical spirit. I showed how cudgels were applied25; but surely, the meek26 object of persecution27 hit no blows in return. The beating did not hurt much, and the person assaulted could afford to keep his good-humor; indeed, I admired that brave though illogical little actress, of the T. R. D-bl-n, for her fiery28 vindication29 of her profession’s honor. I assure her I had no intention to tell l — s — well, let us say monosyllables — about my superiors: and I wish her nothing but well, and when Macmahon (or shall it be Mulligan?) Roi d’Irlande ascends30 his throne, I hope she may be appointed professor of English to the princesses of the royal house. Nuper — in former days — I too have militated; sometimes, as I now think, unjustly; but always, I vow31, without personal rancor32. Which of us has not idle words to recall, flippant jokes to regret? Have you never committed an imprudence? Have you never had a dispute, and found out that you were wrong? So much the worse for you. Woe33 be to the man qui croit toujours avoir raison. His anger is not a brief madness, but a permanent mania34. His rage is not a fever-fit, but a black poison inflaming35 him, distorting his judgment36, disturbing his rest, embittering37 his cup, gnawing38 at his pleasures, causing him more cruel suffering than ever he can inflict39 on his enemy. O la belle40 morale41! As I write it, I think about one or two little affairs of my own. There is old Dr. Squaretoso (he certainly was very rude to me, and that’s the fact); there is Madame Pomposa (and certainly her ladyship’s behavior was about as cool as cool could be). Never mind, old Squaretoso: never mind, Madame Pomposa! Here is a hand. Let us be friends as we once were, and have no more of this rancor.
I had hardly sent that last Roundabout Paper to the printer (which, I submit, was written in a pacable and not unchristian frame of mind), when Saturday came, and with it, of course, my Saturday Review. I remember at New York coming down to breakfast at the hotel one morning, after a criticism had appeared in the New York Herald42, in which an Irish writer had given me a dressing43 for a certain lecture on Swift. Ah my dear little enemy of the T. R, D., what were the cudgels in YOUR little billet-doux compared to those noble New York shillelaghs? All through the union, the literary sons of Erin have marched alpeen-stock in hand, and in every city of the States they call each other and everybody else the finest names. Having come to breakfast, then, in the public room, I sit down, and see — that the nine people opposite have all got New York Heralds44 in their hands. One dear little lady, whom I knew, and who sat opposite, gave a pretty blush, and popped her paper under the tablecloth45. I told her I had had my whipping already in my own private room, and begged her to continue her reading. I may have undergone agonies, you see, but every man who has been bred at an English public school comes away from a private interview with Dr. Birch with a calm, even a smiling face. And this is not impossible, when you are prepared. You screw your courage up — you go through the business. You come back and take your seat on the form, showing not the least symptom of uneasiness or of previous unpleasantries. But to be caught suddenly up, and whipped in the bosom of your family — to sit down to breakfast, and cast your innocent eye on a paper, and find, before you are aware, that the Saturday Monitor or Black Monday Instructor46 has hoisted47 you and is laying on — that is indeed a trial. Or perhaps the family has looked at the dreadful paper beforehand, and weakly tries to hide it. “Where is the Instructor, or the Monitor?” say you. “Where is that paper?” says mamma to one of the young ladies. Lucy hasn’t it. Fanny hasn’t seen it. Emily thinks that the governess has it. At last, out it is brought, that awful paper! Papa is amazingly tickled48 with the article on Thomson; thinks that show up of Johnson is very lively; and now — heaven be good to us! — he has come to the critique on himself:—“Of all the rubbish which we have had from Mr. Tomkins, we do protest and vow that this last cartload is” &c. Ah, poor Tomkins! — but most of all, ah! poor Mrs. Tomkins, and poor Emily, and Fanny, and Lucy, who have to sit by and see paterfamilias put to the torture!
Now, on this eventful Saturday, I did not cry, because it was not so much the Editor as the Publisher of the Cornhill Magazine who was brought out for a dressing; and it is wonderful how gallantly49 one bears the misfortunes of one’s friends. That a writer should be taken to task about his books, is fair, and he must abide50 the praise or the censure51. But that a publisher should be criticised for his dinners, and for the conversation which did NOT take place there — is this tolerable press practice, legitimate52 joking, or honorable warfare53? I have not the honor to know my next-door neighbor, but I make no doubt that he receives his friends at dinner; I see his wife and children pass constantly; I even know the carriages of some of the people who call upon him, and could tell their names. Now, suppose his servants were to tell mine what the doings are next door, who comes to dinner, what is eaten and said, and I were to publish an account of these transactions in a newspaper, I could assuredly get money for the report; but ought I to write it, and what would you think of me for doing so?
And suppose, Mr. Saturday Reviewer — you censor54 morum, you who pique55 yourself (and justly and honorably in the main) upon your character of gentleman, as well as of writer, suppose, not that you yourself invent and indite56 absurd twaddle about gentlemen’s private meetings and transactions, but pick this wretched garbage out of a New York street, and hold it up for your readers’ amusement — don’t you think, my friend, that you might have been better employed? Here, in my Saturday Review, and in an American paper subsequently sent to me, I light, astonished, on an account of the dinners of my friend and publisher, which are described as “tremendously heavy,” of the conversation (which does not take place), and of the guests assembled at the table. I am informed that the proprietor57 of the Cornhill, and the host on these occasions, is “a very good man, but totally unread;” and that on my asking him whether Dr. Johnson was dining behind the screen, he said, “God bless my soul, my dear sir, there’s no person by the name of Johnson here, nor any one behind the screen,” and that a roar of laughter cut him short. I am informed by the same New York correspondent that I have touched up a contributor’s article; that I once said to a literary gentleman, who was proudly pointing to an anonymous58 article as his writing, “Ah! I thought I recognized YOUR HOOF59 in it.” I am told by the same authority that the Cornhill Magazine “shows symptoms of being on the wane,” and having sold nearly a hundred thousand copies, he (the correspondent) “should think forty thousand was now about the mark.” Then the graceful60 writer passes on to the dinners, at which it appears the Editor of the Magazine “is the great gun, and comes out with all the geniality61 in his power.”
Now suppose this charming intelligence is untrue? Suppose the publisher (to recall the words of my friend the Dublin actor of last month) is a gentleman to the full as well informed as those whom he invites to his table? Suppose he never made the remark, beginning —“God bless my soul, my dear sir,” nor anything resembling it? Suppose nobody roared with laughing? Suppose the Editor of the Cornhill Magazine never “touched up” one single line of the contribution which bears “marks of his hand?” Suppose he never said to any literary gentleman, “I recognized YOUR HOOF” in any periodical whatever? Suppose the 40,000 subscribers, which the writer to New York “considered to be about the mark,” should be between 90,000 and 100,000 (and as he will have figures, there they are)? Suppose this back-door gossip should be utterly62 blundering and untrue, would any one wonder? Ah! if we had only enjoyed the happiness to number this writer among the contributors to our Magazine, what a cheerfulness and easy confidence his presence would impart to our meetings! He would find that “poor Mr. Smith” had heard that recondite63 anecdote64 of Dr. Johnson behind the screen; and as for “the great gun of those banquets,” with what geniality should not I “come out” if I had an amiable65 companion close by me, dotting down my conversation for the New York Times!
Attack our books, Mr. Correspondent, and welcome. They are fair subjects for just censure or praise. But woe be to you, if you allow private rancors or animosities to influence you in the discharge of your public duty. In the little court where you are paid to sit as judge, as critic, you owe it to your employers, to your conscience, to the honor of your calling, to deliver just sentences; and you shall have to answer to heaven for your dealings, as surely as my Lord Chief Justice on the Bench. The dignity of letters, the honor of the literary calling, the slights put by haughty66 and unthinking people upon literary men — don’t we hear outcries upon these subjects raised daily? As dear Sam Johnson sits behind the screen, too proud to show his threadbare coat and patches among the more prosperous brethren of his trade, there is no want of dignity in HIM, in that homely67 image of labor68 ill-rewarded, genius as yet unrecognized, independence sturdy and uncomplaining. But Mr. Nameless, behind the publisher’s screen uninvited, peering at the company and the meal, catching69 up scraps70 of the jokes, and noting down the guests’ behavior and conversation — what a figure his is! Allons, Mr. Nameless! Put up your note-book; walk out of the hall; and leave gentlemen alone who would be private, and wish you no harm.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
rev
|
|
| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
primrose
|
|
| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
lurking
|
|
| 潜在 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
assassinating
|
|
| v.暗杀( assassinate的现在分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
metaphorically
|
|
| adv. 用比喻地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
watchful
|
|
| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
perusing
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
rejection
|
|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
scowling
|
|
| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
lout
|
|
| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
insinuate
|
|
| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
rustling
|
|
| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
hostility
|
|
| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
persecution
|
|
| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
vindication
|
|
| n.洗冤，证实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
ascends
|
|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
vow
|
|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
rancor
|
|
| n.深仇，积怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
mania
|
|
| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
inflaming
|
|
| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
embittering
|
|
| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
gnawing
|
|
| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
inflict
|
|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
belle
|
|
| n.靓女 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
morale
|
|
| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
herald
|
|
| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
heralds
|
|
| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
tablecloth
|
|
| n.桌布，台布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
instructor
|
|
| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
hoisted
|
|
| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
tickled
|
|
| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
gallantly
|
|
| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
abide
|
|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
legitimate
|
|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
warfare
|
|
| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
censor
|
|
| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
pique
|
|
| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
indite
|
|
| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
proprietor
|
|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
anonymous
|
|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
hoof
|
|
| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
geniality
|
|
| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
recondite
|
|
| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
anecdote
|
|
| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
haughty
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
scraps
|
|
| 油渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |