I have known a book-reviewer give oranges (not poisoned
ones) to children. A man is not a character, he is a dozen characters,
one of them prominent, the other eleven more or less undeveloped. I knew
a man once, two of whose characters were of equal value, and the
consequences were peculiar."
We begged him to relate the case to us, and he did so.
"He was a Balliol man," said MacShaughnassy, "and his Christian name was
Joseph. He was a member of the 'Devonshire' at the time I knew him, and
was, I think, the most superior person I have ever met. He sneered at
the _Saturday Review_ as the pet journal of the suburban literary club;
and at the _Athenaeum_ as the trade organ of the unsuccessful writer.
Thackeray, he considered, was fairly entitled to his position of
favourite author to the cultured clerk; and Carlyle he regarded as the
exponent of the earnest artisan. Living authors he never read, but this
did not prevent his criticising them contemptuously. The only
inhabitants of the nineteenth century that he ever praised were a few
obscure French novelists, of whom nobody but himself had ever heard. He
had his own opinion about God Almighty, and objected to Heaven on account
of the strong Clapham contingent likely to be found in residence there.
Humour made him sad, and sentiment made him ill.
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