Our revels1 now are ended: these our actors, As I foretold2 you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, thin air: And, like the baseless fabric3 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 pageant4 faded, Leave not a rack behind! -- SHAKESPEARE. CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA
Clap-Trap--John Flint--The Old House by the Sea--Joe Wilkes--Strephon and Chloe--Tim Enjoying Himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A Last Word.
It is an artistic5 little weakness we scribblers have of seducing6 our dramatis person? into tableaux7 vivants, and deserting them abruptly8. In a story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly done. So we will make no excuse for leaving nuestros amigos at the lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of this humble9 comedy. Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on our last act. From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow us? I. Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre10 look. His cravat11 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, intriguing12 spirit--yet the sketch13 is such that, if he looks at it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him! II. It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old house situated14 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 azure15 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 exquisite16 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 slumbering17 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 pebbled18 walks, the strawberry and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down. We shall accuse the reader with having a bad memory, if he does not recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener, who occupies himself with tying up a refractory20 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 ponderous21 prison-keys, and taken up the shovel22 and the hoe. III. Two persons are standing23 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 wanes25, 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 gathering26 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 ?tna, and hear him pipe to the nymph Eschenais. This "bank-note world," to them, is Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as pastoral hymns28! 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 speck29 of a boat, which is dancing up and down on the waves like a cork30. 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 proclivity31 for the "machine;" and now-a-days, the City Hall alarm bell never disturbs his equanimity32. Indeed, he is so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, that the gentle reader stands in some danger of not recognizing him at all. Hence the above formal introduction. Just notice the set of those cream-colored pants, falling without a wrinkle over those mirror-like patent leathers, and the graceful33 curve of that Shanghai over the hips34! Just notice! And more than all, that incipient35 moustaché, which only the utmost perseverance36 on the part of Tim and Mr. Phalon has coaxed37 out into mundane38 existence! The writer of this veritable history has a great mind to drown Tim for his impudence39; 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 considerably40 interfere41 with Young America's prospects42. IV. CAPTAIN EDWARD WALTERS sits on the door-step of the old house; and through a curtain of honeysuckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching the fawn-like motions of
"A six years loss to Paradise!"
Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like her. Walters thinks so, as the child runs from flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a mist comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see his grandchild for tears. His lips move, and perhaps he is saying: "Little Bell! Little Bell!" And he thinks of the angel whom he left years ago, playing on the partarré, in front of the gate. He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and sees her golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and cannot tell if they be curls or sunshine! The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell as one white lily does another. She has the same wavy43 tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with their longing44, languid expression. Her form has the abandon of childhood, with a certain shadow of dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and spiritual; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in moulding the child, had hesitated whether to make her an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the better parts of each! Let us take one more look at her sweet young face-- "A thing of beauty is a joy forever! Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower46 quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing." Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her bosom47; and, with her eyes running over with childish merriment, trips toward the house; but two arms stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters a pretty scream, and then sits quietly on Walters' knee. He kisses her laughingly; but his face grows serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped pearls which encircle the child's delicate neck; on the innocent white bosom lies a [Illustration: Cross] It is DAISY'S NECKLACE; that is WHAT CAME OF IT; and here, gentle reader, is THE END OF THE CHAIN. EPILOGUE. DON SEBASTIAN.--You have no plot. FABRICIO.--But such characters! and every one is as true as truth: copied right off from nature. DON SEBASTIAN.--Badly done, sir Poet. --LOPE DE VEGA. EPILOGUE. "What a mournful glory falls upon the October woods! It seems as if a broken rain-bow were strained through a sieve48 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 scattering49 the purple wealth, the hoarded50 gold of the autumnal days! Pleasant Forest, with your oaken harps51! Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and moonlight--how sad I was to leave ye! Pleasant River, that stealest up from the sea, past the fort and into the old weather-beaten seaport52 town--crawling lazily among the rotting piers53 of deserted54 wharves55, then gliding56 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 belles57, rustic58 flirts--eyes, lips, shady curls, white hands, little feet, enchanting59 pouts--ah, me! "Pleasant it was when woods were green, And winds were soft and low--" This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one fine October morning, two days after my return from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking. It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with the following pertinent60 inquiry61: "Prolific62 producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at home?" I could not see Mrs. Muggins' face, for that good soul was standing at the foot of the stairs; but I knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened out of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might ensue. MRS. MUGGINS, (after a long silence, and with some asperity)--"What, sir?" BARESCYTHE, (petulantly)--"Is Ralph in, Sycorax?" What reply the "relick" of Joshua Muggins might have made to this interrogation, is only to be imagined; for I immediately "discovered" myself, to use a theatrical63 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 propensities64! Don't interrupt me. Don't speak to me." I choked down a panegyric65 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 gilt66 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 ass45!" With which, he threw the manuscript on the table before me. His remark was uttered with such an air of logic67, that I nodded assent68, 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 pointed69 to the curled up novel on the table. I bowed with, "I hope it will." "The world," he continued, "that gave Milton ￡10 for Paradise Lost, ought surely to be in ecstacies over DAISY'S NECKLACE." "Barry," said I, somewhat nettled70, "is it my good nature, or your lack of it, that seduces71 you into saying such disagreeable things?" "Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature than you possess it. But we won't quarrel. I am sore because the day of great books has gone by! Once we could boast of giant minds: we have only pigmies now." "But let them speak, Barry. There may be some among us that are not for a day. Who foresaw in the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist of all time? Your pet Homer was a mendicant72. Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged, until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand that toiled73, cold, and the lips that murmured, patient forever! 'So angels walked unknown on earth, But when they flew were recognized!' What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the chef-d'oeuvre of Sir Walter Scott's genius? Barry, there is a little bird in our New-England woods known only by its pleasant chirp74; yet who would break its amber19 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 metaphor75 in my face, and I cannot see for the feathers! You are not a man to argue with. Poetical76 men never are: they make up in sentiment what they lack in sense; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry is more than a match for a piece of logic. 'No more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me.' Your book is a miserable77 one. All your voluble ingenuity78 cannot controvert79 that." Barry's better nature had slipped out of him for a moment into the sunshine, like a turtle's head; but it slipped back again, and the speech that commenced with a laugh ended with a snarl24. "It shows," he said, rumpling80 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 uneven81. How can it be otherwise, since it is only an intolerable echo of Hood27, 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 proclivities82 are prominent in the chapter headed 'A Few Specimens83 of Humanity.' Was ever anything more like the author of 'The Old Curiosity Shop?' Your short, jerky sentences are modeled after Reade's 'Peg84 Woffington,' and 'Christie Johnstone,' or any of Dumas' thefts. As to the plot, that is altogether too improbable and silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 'Daisy's Necklace'--'Betsy's Garter!'" "Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz over again! Do you remember that after all the strictures of the eastern savant, Feramorz turned out to be not only a Poet but a Prince? I could take you to be 'Blackwood' slashing85 an American book, rather than a Yankee editor looking over a friend's virgin86 novel. You are like all critics, Barry. They ignore what might please them greatly if they had not their critical behavior on, and grow savage87 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 growls88 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 sentimental89 chapter with 'The Dead Hope' caption90, is quite as good as your blank verse, and I would wager91 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 diabolical92 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 garnered93 from my own experience, and--" "Garnered from your maternal94 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 Anatomy95'!" "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 oversight96. There should be one at the end of each chapter--twenty 'sunsets' at least. Then you have no seduction." "A seduction?" horrified97. "Of course. What modern novel is complete without one? It gives a spicy98 flavor to the story. People of propriety99 like it. Prim100 ladies of an uncertain age always 'dote' on the gallant101, 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 contagious102 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 duel103, in which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, falls mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory104 blood, and is borne to his ladye-love on a shutter105! 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 plebeian106!) 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 celestial107 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 throbs108 the wide world over. The sequel will prove whether or not I have failed." Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin109. "Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating110 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 immortal111 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 extravagantly112. 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 peculiar113 pleasure derived114 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) costly115 advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little finger) am expected to laud116 all the books they publish." Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter. He went on, with a ruthful face: "Here is 'The Life of Jinkings'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man in his way, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy117 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 luminaries118 of the age, a mental Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to resurrectionize the insipid119 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 malice120, "you wantingly abuse my book, because I cannot injure you pecuniarily121." "Perhaps I do," growled122 Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start The Weekly Critique, then look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for themselves, and not their advertisements-- 'Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul123 and wrong, But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song.'" "What a comment is this on American criticism! O, Barry, it is such men as you, with fine taste and fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute. Your genius gives you responsible places in the world of letters, and how you wrong the trust!" "Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, "you blend flattery and insult so ingeniously, that I hesitate whether to give you the assurance of my distinguished124 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 appendage125 as T. J. Barescythe. =?= * * * * * It is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith pat you patronisingly on the back, and say, "My dear fellow, when is your book coming out?" Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after that--and all Mrs. Smith's relations. "DAISY'S NECKLACE" is nearly ready. The following advertisement, which I cut from "The Evening Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates126 the manner in which "my publishers," Messrs. Printem & Sellem, make their literary announcements:
"We have in Press, and shall publish in the course of a few days, a New Work of rare merit, entitled-- DAISY'S NECKLACE, And what came of it. A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING, in pathos127 and quiet satire128, the most felicitous129 efforts of Dickens!! PRINTEM & SELLEM, Publishers."
That was rather modest and pleasant; but it is pleasanter than all to have an early copy of your book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly, some sunshiny morning--to behold130, for the first time, the darling of your meditation131 in a suit of embossed muslin. How your heart turns over--if you are not used to the thing. How you make pauses between your coffee and muffins, to admire the clear typography, the luxurious132 paper, the gold letters on the back! Messrs. Printem & Sellem sent me two out-of-town papers, containing notices of "DAISY." These notices were solicited133 by advance copies of the work, for the purpose of being used in the publication advertisement. It is curious to remark how great minds will differ.
[From the Blundertown Journal.] "NEW PUBLICATIONS. "DAISY'S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. New-York: Printem and Sellem. THIS production is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious genius! Nothing like it has been produced in this century. It possesses all the fine elements of Dickens' novels, without any of their numerous defects. Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is[B] beyond all praise. Our Britannic brethren will no longer ask, 'Who reads an American book?' For we can reply, 'The World!' FOOTNOTE: [B] Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is what editors call "a typographical error." "We learn, from good authority, that the publishers have received orders for twenty thousand copies of the work, in advance of its publication. We have no doubt of it; for 'Daisy's Necklace' will shed new lustre on the name of American Literature! Envious134 authors will abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe says, 'De gustibus non est disputandum!' Our rush of advertisements prevents us from making voluminous extracts from the novel; this, however, would be useless, as everybody will read it for themselves. "Orders addressed to HIGGINS & CO., of this town, will be promptly135 filled."
I should take the editor of the "Blundertown Journal" to be a man of cultured taste, appreciative136 and discriminating137. The second review was not quite so "favorable," and can scarcely be called "a first-rate notice."
[From the Frogpond Gazette.] "DAISY'S NECKLACE" is the silly title of an absurd novel about to be issued by Printem & Sellem, of New-York. From the fact that the author's name is withheld138 from the title-page, we infer that he had some friends--some few who were not wholly willing that he should make a donkey of himself. We have read a great deal of trash in our day; but 'Daisy's Necklace' is the king of all vapid139 novels,--sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in fiction, and entirely140 intolerable from beginning to end. The first forty pages put us to sleep. We advise all druggists to keep the book for sale,--as an anodyne141. "The binding142 is good, and that is all the praise we can give so contemptible143 an abortion144. A reading public that tolerates a novel like this, must be made up of very good-natured persons--assinine in temperament145, and mentally obtuse146. "This 'work,' we presume, is written by that much-abused and prolific myth--'a young gentleman of this city,' distinguished, of course. We believe that he writes all of Printem & Sellem's books. At all events, those enterprising gentlemen always have 'a startling novel' in press, from his immortal pen. What a long string of sins these gentlemen have to answer for! What a commotion147 there would be among the shelves of their book-store, if dead authors could come back and reclaim148 stolen property! If the shade of Lindley Murray could stalk among them! "For our part, we had rather see the Hudson River Railroad's list of 'dead and wounded,' than Printem & Sellem's list of 'Popular Publications!' But it is consoling to know that books like 'Daisy's Necklace,' in spite of 'purchased puffery,' find their level at last as linings149 for portmanteaus and third-rate trunks. We shall make cigar-lighters of our copy, and thank the stars that we were not born a book-making genius!"
Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the unstrained censure150! I could not account for the malignant151 personality of this critique, until Barry informed me that my publishers never advertised their books in the columns of the "Frogpond Gazette." This, of course, explained it. I only wish I had the stubborn editor of the "Frogpond" at arm's length, I would try the consistency152 of his ears. I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find how ingeniously Messrs. Printem & Sellem made the adverse153 criticism subservient154 to their interests. My lucubration was out. The "Post" said so; the "Morning Rabid" said it; the "Evening Looking-Glass" said it; and a host of small fry echoed the important fact. I unfolded "The Rabid," and beheld155 the following advertisement:
"PUBLISHED THIS DAY, A Novel of Unprecedented156 Power, entitled, DAISY'S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. THE 'FROGPOND GAZETTE,' (high authority), in a long review of this work says: 'Daisy's Necklace is the King of all Novels.' 'The Blundertown Journal' (also high authority) remarks: 'This Book is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious genius!' 'Nothing like it has been produced in this century!' 'It has all the fine elements of Dickens' Novels, without any of their numerous defects!' Our first edition (20,000 copies) is exhausted157, and we beg our friends to have patience for a few days. WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the above work!! PRINTEM & SELLEM, Publishers."
"Four thousand agents!" quoth Barry, looking over my shoulder; "I rather think it would take forty thousand to sell an edition of 'DAISY!'" I laughed at my irate158 friend, and, igniting a fresh regalia, crossed my feet on the mantel-piece, and remarked, composedly, "Now for the Critics!" FINIS. ERRATUM. The Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph ---- Esq., seems decidedly rusty159. He has evidently given his lexicon160 an icy shoulder. Will the intellectual and erudite reader substitute kyrie eleyson for kyrie elyson on page 131?
The End
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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5
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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6
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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7
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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8
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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9
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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10
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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11
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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12
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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13
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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14
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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15
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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16
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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17
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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18
pebbled
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| 用卵石铺（pebble的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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19
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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20
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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21
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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22
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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23
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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24
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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25
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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26
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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27
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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28
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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29
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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30
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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31
proclivity
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| n.倾向，癖性 | |
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32
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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33
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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34
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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35
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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36
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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37
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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38
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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39
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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40
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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41
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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42
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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43
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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44
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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45
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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46
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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49
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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50
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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52
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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53
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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54
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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55
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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56
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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57
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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58
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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59
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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60
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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61
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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62
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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63
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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64
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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65
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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66
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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67
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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68
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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69
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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70
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
seduces
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| 诱奸( seduce的第三人称单数 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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72
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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73
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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74
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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75
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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76
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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78
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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79
controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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80
rumpling
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的现在分词 ) | |
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81
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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82
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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83
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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84
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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85
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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86
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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87
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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88
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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89
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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90
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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91
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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92
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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93
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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95
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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96
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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97
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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98
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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99
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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100
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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101
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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102
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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103
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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104
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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105
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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106
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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107
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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108
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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109
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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110
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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111
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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112
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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113
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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114
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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115
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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116
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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117
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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118
luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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119
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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120
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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121
pecuniarily
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| adv.在金钱上，在金钱方面 | |
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122
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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123
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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124
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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125
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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126
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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127
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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128
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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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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subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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