The record-union., 1896-10-25
A FRIENDLY CRITIC.

Lenora Campbell was not what you
would call clever woman; nevertheless
in the temporary insanity of Ormond
BrOwnrigg, it was she who brought the
poor afflicted gentleman to reason. She
never could think what Horace Gibson
saw In him; and certainly that strin-
gent editor and austere critic must have
had weak side to his nature some
where. At all events 1T was not very
long after he had become engaged to
Gibson's cousin that Brownrigg burst
into the office of the "Picadilly Review"
with his pockets bulging with manu-
scripts. He took up firm position in
front of the fireplace, and poured out his
soul. while he passionately prodded the
| hearth-rug wuth the point of his UNI
brella.
We'll, my boy" said Gibson, at last.
Il admire your genial pessimism, but
can't see what you've got to grumble at.
You're young, excessively young, In
| your case an obvious advantage; you're
| a Government clerk, and therefore an
| Irresponsible person; and you're engaged
| to my small cousin, jamie Morris. What
more do you want?" The editor swung
| round in his revolving chair, and looked
| at his friend with critical interest
| Brownrigg was a callOw youth, with a
prosaic body much too long for it's
! clothes, and a poetic soul also absurdly
overgrown. He WINGED nervously under
| the editorial gaze and shifted his posi-
| ton.
by the by" continued Gibson, what
on earth brought you two together"
Fate said Brownrigg, with sulky
solemnity.
,"Ah! Fate's a matchmaker who won't
be cut by any man, let alone boy Of
your age. 1 congratulate you on your
| good luck
IT'S all very well for you to grin when
you're at the top of the tree I want to
climb; but how would you like to sit on
high stool with your head, mind you,
| bursting with original ideas) and have
to copy piles Of official letters all day?"
That kind of literature's not remark
able for imaginative thought, or for
charm and dignity Of style; all the
"All the same it's ruin to mans Eng
| lish. Besides. it's the injustice Of the
thing l can't stand. If I'd condescended
to prose. if I'd pandered to the popular
| taste, written say a disgusting novel
or frantic romance, I'd have been all
right; being a poet, of course I'm stuck
| into an Office to find my bread and but
| ter"
And then you find it buttered side
down. My dear fellow, you're too young
to appreciate the artistic irony of the
situation
Look here, Gibson, If you can't help
me, say SO. 1 sent you all my manu-
| INT hot
mightn't be embarrassed by any feeling
of friendship
! Thanks; it was most considerate of
you
Yes, but honestly, did you suspect me
| of having written those verses you sent
back?"
No, my bear boy, to do you justice, I
did not
Would you mind telling me what
fault you found with A Souls Epic
Really, it's the most sustained effort I've
made yet" and Brownrigg produced the
manuscript of long photographed
poem in blank verse.
| Gibson feigned extreme embarrass-
ment at the sight. Il hardly know
I may have thought it a little too sus-
| tanned. You see the Review is linn
| tied as to space, and "A Souls Epic
would have swamped 1t for the next
| three months He wheeled his chair
back to the table and began to look over
a pile of papers. Suddenly he uttered
| an amused exclamation. Il say, you
| young puppy! You don't mean to say
you wrote these studies of Swinburne %
We'll. yes, 1 did-but-''
They're counfoundedly we'll done
Have you any more Of the same sort
| handy?"
''Loads-all idiotic. I've hacked and
polished them till they make me i'll.
| You see, the poet is born, but the essay
ist is a manufactured article. Those
things you admire are purely mechani-
cal; but this little epic was struck out
at white heat: it's charged with"
I've no doubt it is; but don't let it off
just now. 1 can't read and listen at
| the same time
There was silence in the office for a
quarter of an hour, broken only by the
creaking of Brownrigg's boots as he
roamed from chair to chair. Presently
Gibson turned round Yes, thatll do.
I'll take this, and if you choose you can
send me some more like it; not any
poetry, please"
oh" said Brownrigg a little stiffly
don't take the things because l happen
to be a friend and engaged to your
cousin. I prefer to stand or fall by my
| own merits"
II assure you I'm not infiuenced by
personal affection. I'm merely pander-
ing, in an editorial capacity, to the pop
ular taste. By the by, does my cousin
admire "A Souls Epic?'"
Yes" said Brownrigg, with some
emotion. "she says it's a noble poem
rates 1t as high as anything in Byron
Milton, or Mrs. Browning
IF you'll take my advice, you'll keep
your verse for jamie and your prose for
the public. I really think you may dc
something by and by if you'll conde-
scend to stick to journalism. And now
would you very much mind saying
good morning."
| The poet went away more cast down
than otherwise by the prospect of sue
cess, for it was not the success of which
he had dreamed. AS a writer of mere
prose he had risen in Gibson's eyes but
he had fallen in his own. At the same
time he was quite aware that he had
fallen on his feet, for Gibson was one
of those people who are always rather
better than their word, and to be taken
up by him was to be more or less certain
of a career.
In due time Brownrigs made his tri-
umphal entry into the world of litera-
ture through the classic pages of the
| "Piccadilly Review" He wrote tC
jamie and told her all about it, saying
and indeed believing, that it was for hel
sake that he had made this sacrifice oi
his supreme ambition, and had con-
sented to work on lower level for g
! while: adding that 1t would not be long