In a week after these events, six or seven gentlemen were gathered
round a table in a room very near the skylight in the Minerva
chambers. Our former acquaintance, Mr Bristles, whose name shone in
white paint above the entrance door, was evidently strongly impressed
with the dignity of his position; and as in the pauses of conversation
he placed the pen he was using transversely in his mouth, and turned
over the pages of various books on the table before him, it will be
seen that he presided not at a feast of substantial meat and drink,
but at one of those regular "feasts and flows" which the great Mr
Pitskiver was in the habit of alluding to, in describing the
intellectual treats of which he was so prodigious a glutton.
"What success, Sidsby?" enquired Bristles with a vast appearance of
interest.
"None at all," replied the successful dramatist, or, in other words,
the long-backed Ticket to whom we were introduced at the commencement
of the story. "I have no invitation to dinner yet, and Sophy thinks he
has forgotten me."
"That's odd--very odd," mused Mr Bristles, "for I don't know that I
ever praised any one half so highly before, not even Stickleback; and
the first act was really superb. It took me a whole week to write it."
"But I did not understand some parts of it, and I am afraid I spoiled
it in the reading. But Sophy was enchanted with the poem you made me
copy."
"A sensible girl; but how to get at the father is the thing. I have
mentioned a few of the perfections of our friend Miss Hendy to him in
a way that I think will stick. If we could get _her_ good word."
"Oh, she's very good!" replied Sidsby, "she says I'm far above Lord
Byron and Thomas Moore."
"Why not? haven't I told you to say, wherever you go, that she is
above Corinne?"
"Ah," said Sidsby, "but what's the use of all this to me? I am a
wine-merchant, not a poet; my uncle will soon take me into
partnership, and when they find out that I know no more about
literature than a pig, what an impostor they'll think me!"
"Not more of an impostor than half the other literary men of the day,
who have got praised into fame as you have, by judicious and
disinterested friends. No: you must still go on. I shall have the
second act ready for you next week, and you can make it six dozen of
sherry instead of three. You must please the girl first, and get at
the father afterwards. She's of a decidedly intellectual turn, and has
four thousand pounds in her own right."
"I don't believe she is more intellectual than myself; but that silly
old noodle, her father"--
"Stop!" exclaimed Bristles in great agitation, "this is against all
rule. Mr Pitskiver is our friend--a man of the profoundest judgment
and most capacious understanding. I doubt whether a greater judge of
merit ever existed than Mr Pitskiver."
"Hear, hear!" resounded in various degrees of intensity all round the
table.
"Well, all I can say is this--that if I don't get on by shamming
cleverness, I'll try what open honesty will do, and follow Bill
Whalley's advice."
"Bill Whalley! who is he?" asked Bristles with a sneer.
"Son of the old Tom Noddy you make such a precious fool of."
"Mr Whalley of the Boro' is _our_ friend, Mr Sidsby--a man of the
profoundest judgment and most capacious understanding. I doubt whether
a greater judge of merit ever existed than Mr Whalley of the Boro'."
"Hear hear!" again resounded; and Mr Sidsby, shaking his head, said no
more, but looked as sulky as his naturally good-tempered features
would let him.
"And now, Stickleback," said Mr Bristles--"I am happy to tell you your
fortune is made; your fame will rise higher and higher."
A little dark-complexioned man with very large mouth and very flat
nose, looked a little disdainful at this speech, which to any one else
would have sounded like a compliment.
"I always knew that merit such as I felt I possessed, would force its
way, in spite of envy and detraction," he said.
"We have an uphill fight of it, I assure you," rejoined Mr Bristles;
"but by dint of throwing it on pretty thick, we are in hopes some of
it will stick."
"Now, Mr Bristles," resumed the artist, "I don't at all like the style
you talk in to me. You always speak as if my reputation had been made
by your praises. Now, talents such as mine"--
"Are very high, my good sir; no one who reads the _Universal_ doubts
that fact for a moment."
"Talents, I say, such as mine," pursued Mr Stickleback, "were sure to
raise me to the highest honours; and it is too bad for you to claim
all the merit of my success."
"Not I; but all our friends here," said Bristles. "For two years we
have done nothing but praise you wherever we went. Haven't we sneered
at Bailey, and laughed at the ancient statues? Who wrote the epigram
on Thorwaldsen--was it not our friend now present, Mr Banks? a
gentleman, I must say, perfectly unequaled in the radiance of his wit
and the delicious pungency of his satire. Without us, what would you
have been?"
"Exactly what I am. The only sculptor worth a sixpence since the fine
arts were invented," replied the self-satisfied Mr Stickleback.
"No," said Mr Bristles; "since you force us to tell you what we have
done for you, I will mention it. We have persuaded all our friends, we
have even persuaded yourself, that you have some knowledge of
sculpture; whereas every one who follows his own judgment, and is not
led astray by our puffs, must see that you could not carve an old
woman's face out of a radish; that you are fit for nothing with the
chisel but to smooth gravestones, and cut crying cherubs over a
churchyard door; that your donkey"--
"Well, what of my donkey, as you call it?" cried the enraged sculptor,
"I have heard you praise it a thousand times."
"Of course you have; but do you think I meant it?"
"As much as I meant what I said, when I praised some of your
ridiculous rubbish in the _Universal_."
"Oh, indeed! Then you think my writings ridiculous rubbish?"
"Yes--I do--very ridiculous rubbish."
"Then let me tell you, Mr Stickleback, you are about as good a critic
as a sculptor. My writings, sir, are universally appreciated. To find
fault with _them_ shows you are unfit for our acquaintance; and with
regard to Mr Pitskiver's recommendation to the city building
committee, and your donkey to adorn the pediment of the
Mansion-house--you have of course given up all hopes of any interest
_I_ may possess."
"Gentlemen," said a young man with small piercing eyes and a rather
dirty complexion, with long hair rolling over the collar of his
coat--"are you not a little premature in shivering the friendship by a
blow of temper which had been consolidated by several years of mutual
reciprocity?"
"Silence, Snooksby!--I have been insulted. I was ever a foe to
ingratitude, and grievous shall the expiation be," replied Bristles.
"I now address myself to you, sir," continued Snooksby, turning to the
wrathful sculptor, whose wrath, however, had begun to evaporate in
reflecting on the diminished chance of the promotion so repeatedly
promised by Mr Bristles for his donkey; "and I feel on this momintous
occasion, that it is my impiritive duty to endeavour to reinimite the
expiring imbers of amity, and re-knit the relaxed cords of unanimity.
Mr Stickleback, you were wrong--decidedly, powerfully, undeniably
wrong--in denominiting the splindid lucibritions of our illustrious
friend by the name of ridiculous rubbish. Apoligise, apoligise,
apoligise; and I know too well the glowing sympithies of that
philinthripic heart to doubt for a moment that its vibrations will
instantly beat in unisin with yours."
"I never meant to call his writings rubbish," said the subdued
sculptor. "I know he's the greatest writer in England."
"And you, my dear Stickleback, the greatest sculptor the world has
ever seen!" exclaimed the easily propitiated critic. "Why will you
doubt my respect, my admiration of your surpassing talent? Let us
understand each other better--we shall both be ever indebted to the
eloquent Mr Snooksby--(may he soon get on the vestry, the object of
his inadequate ambition;) for a speech more refulgent in simple
pathos, varied metaphor, and conclusive reasoning, it has not been my
good fortune to hear. When our other friends leave me, Stickleback, I
hope you will stay for half an hour. I have a most important secret to
confide to you, and a favour to ask."
The hint seemed to be sufficient. The rest of the party soon retired;
and Bristles and Stickleback began their confidential conclave.