Chapter XVI: The Reviewer

Pray observe the stern Reviewer!
See with what a piercing look
He impales, as with a skewer,
This unlucky little book!
Note his gestures of impatience,
As he contemplates, perplex'd,
The amazing illustrations
Which adorn the text!

Hear him mutter, as his swivel-
Eye converges on the verse,
"Any man who writes such drivel
Must be capable of worse.
Let it be my painful mission,
As a literary man,
To suppress the whole edition,
If a critic can.

"More than tedious ev'ry pome is;
Ev'ry drawing less than true;
Such a trite and trivial tome is
Quite unworthy of review.
On this balderdash no vocal
Praises can my tongue bestow;
To the dust-bin of some local
Pulp-mill let it go!

"There its paper, disinfected
By some cunning artifice,
Shall be presently directed
To diviner ends than this.
There its pages, expurgated
By some alchemy abstruse,
Shall at length be dedicated
To a nobler use!"

Grim, implacable Reviewer,
Do not spurn it with a groan,
Tho' your labours may be fewer
If you leave my books alone!
'Tis the chief of all your duties--
Duties which you strive to shirk--
To discover hidden beauties
In an author's work.

Jewels, though perchance elusive,
Crowd this casket of a book;
'Tis your privilege exclusive
For these hidden gems to look.
When you have adroitly caught them,
Their delights you can explain
To a public which has sought them
For so long in vain.

Tho' you whelm me with your strictures,
Snubs which one might justly call
(Like the artist's cruel pictures)
The "unkindest _cuts_ of Hall"!
Tho' your sneers be fierce and many,
Honest censure I respect,
And will meekly swallow any-
Thing except neglect.

Tho' your mouth be far from mealy,
Tho' your pen be dipped in gall,
Criticise me frankly, freely,--
Better thus than not at all!
Up the ladder I have crept un-
Til I reached a middle rung,
Do not let me die "unwept, un-
Honoured and unhung."

L'ENVOI

Go, little book, and coyly creep
Beneath the pillows of the blest,
Whence those who seek in vain for sleep
Shall drag thee from thy nest;
That so thy sedative aroma
May lull them to a state of coma.

The infant child who lies awake,
Within its tiny trundle-bed,
No soothing potion needs to take,
If thou art duly read;
And hosts of harassed monthly nurses
Shall bless thy soporific verses.

The invalid who cannot rest
Has but at thy contents to glance
To hug thee to his fevered breast
And fall into a trance;
And sleepless patients without number
Shall hail thee harbinger of slumber.

Go then, fond offspring of the Muse,
Perform thy deadly work by night,
Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse,
Thou orphan-child's delight!
Appease the heirs from all the ages
With balm from thine hypnotic pages!

So in the palace of the king,
The mansion of the millionaire,
Thy readers shall combine to sing
Thy praises ev'rywhere,
Till folks in less exalted places
Scream loudly for _Familiar Faces_!

(When, if their cries are shrill and healthy,
_I_ shall become extremely wealthy!)

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