ST. BARBE, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to
live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on
the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a
large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way
through, I saw that St. BARBE'S windows were broken, glass was in a weak
minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed
to be done _from within_! Objects were flying out into the garden, and
those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few
as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry,
and, in every case, they bore ST. BARBE'S name on the fly-leaf, with a
flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors'
names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I
had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire
of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're
not an Interviewer, Sir?"
"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.
"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two
Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."
"I am a friend of Mr. ST. BARBE'S." I explained, scarcely audible amidst
the yells of that man of letters.
"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was
too heavy for him."
So speaking, the maid led me to ST. BARBE'S study. He was now quiet, and
only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of
furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however,
that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet
neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he
did?
"Better," said ST. BARBE, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."
"Clearing what out?" I asked.
"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added,
"and the devils of publishers."
At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters
with an air of anxiety.
ST. BARBE tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he
cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic
expression of hatred and contempt.
As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently
twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.
"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be
very modestly and properly expressed:--
"DEAR SIR,--You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total
stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you
write, induces me to send you my little work on _The Folk Lore of Tavern
Signs_."
Here ST. BARBE sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head,
in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.
"_I_ don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:--
"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--You will not remember me, but I met you once at
Lady CAERULEA SMITHFIELD'S, and therefore I take the liberty of sending
you my little book of verses."
Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had
heard of things like this in the time of the PLANTAGENETS, but I never
expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.
"It is signed MARY MIDDLESEX," I said. "She's very pretty, and a
Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"
"Try the next," he said.
[Illustration: "Poor fellow! he is now under
restraint."]
"MY DEAR SIR,--Being well aware of the interest you take in the
fragments of DIONYSIUS SCYTOBRACHION, I have requested my publisher to
send you my little work on his _Quelle_. BOUNDER, as you are aware"----
Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and groaned audibly. I tried
another:--
"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--I know how busy you are, but you can always spare
an hour or two for the work of a friend. My _Love well Lost_, in three
volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to review it in all the
periodicals with which you are connected. Last time I wrote a novel, my
nephew reviewed it, very perfunctorily, in the _Pandrosium_; this time I
want only to be reviewed by my _friends_." He was kicking on the sofa,
and apparently trying to commit suicide with the pillows.
"Command yourself, ST. BARBE," I said; "this behaviour is unworthy
either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which irritate
you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admiration. The
books which you have been heaving through the window are, no doubt, of
interest and value."
"Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he added, as he
rumpled his hair in a frantic manner, "I'd like to see _you_, old cock,
if you had to live this life! It isn't living, it's answering humbugging
letters, and opening brown-paper parcels, all day long, all the weary
day. And my temper, which was angelic, and my manners, which were the
mirror of courtesy, are irretrievably ruined. And my time is wasted, and
my stationer's bill is mere perdition. It begins in the morning; I try
to be calm; I sit down to write replies to all these pestilent idiots."
"Your admirers?" I said.
"They're _not_ admirers; they only cadge for reviews. Time was, they
say, when critics were bribed. Ha! ha! _Now_ they all expect to be
praised for nothing. And the parcels of books they send." Here I noticed
a London Parcels Delivery van, laden with brown-paper packages of books.
Quickly the maid rushed out, and induced the driver to remember that he
was a family man, and he went on his way without calling.
"They come all day long," my poor friend went on, "and all of them are
trash, rubbish that they shoot here; _shoot_, ha! ha'" and he took down
a Winchester rifle, and crept stealthily to the window. Luckily none of
his enemies were in view.
"No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said,
ruefully, "and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours are
beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in England, for a
man of letters. Letters, indeed! I write them all day to these
impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece out of a glass,
which was standing handy.
"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked, with
sympathy.
"None--none! I have written to the _Times_; I have applied to the
Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a
stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannot
_always_ dissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,--
'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'--
write that on my sepulchre."
Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under
restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost ST. BARBE, at
heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are
the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of
the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better
fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from
sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain
that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they
themselves inflict.
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