"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do you call him?--Jinkings--is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to resurrectionize the insipid 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 malice, "you wantingly abuse _my_ book, because I cannot injure _you_ pecuniarily." "Perhaps I do," growled 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 foul 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 distinguished 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 appendage 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.