THE MAN WHO WOULD.
V.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BRING AN ACTION FOR LIBEL.
The following incident in the career of Browzer was recalled to memory by an article in a literary journal. An author was airing his grievances; among them this,—that writers of repute occasionally lend their names and pens to obscure or unsuccessful papers for a consideration, without asking how the usual staff of the paper is paid. These, indeed, are delicate inquiries. Part of the plaint was expressed in the following sentence:—
"When a journal makes a call upon a good author, and in the pages of
which he can gain neither honour nor renown, from which, as a matter of
taste, he would shrink, under ordinary circumstances, from contributing to,
that journal ought to be subjected to careful scrutiny."
Now what can this possibly be supposed to mean?—
"When a journal makes a call upon a good author, and in the pages of which he can gain neither honour nor renown," (why "and"?) "from which" (namely, "honour and renown") "he would shrink" (why should he shrink from renown and honour?) "from contributing to," (and how can he contribute to honour and renown?) "that journal ought to be subjected to careful scrutiny." "From which he would shrink from contributing to," what have we here? Surely it is the grammar that needs careful scrutiny, and surely, in no circumstances, could a lofty "rate of pay" be conferred on a style of this description.
It is natural to reflect that a writer in this unconventional manner has mainly to thank himself for any want of success which he, and we, may regret; and that reflection, again, suggests the case of Browzer, the Man who would bring an Action for Libel.
Browzer had a small patrimony, any amount of leisure, and a good deal of ambition. He liked the society of literary gentlemen, he envied their buoyant successes, such as being "interviewed,", and sorrowed with their sorrows, such as being reviewed. He listened to their artless gossip, and fancied himself extremely knowing. In these circumstances of temptation, Browzer fell, as many better men have done, and wrote a Novel. He drew on the recollections of his suburban youth; he revived the sorrows of his sole flirtation; he sketched his aunts with a satirical hand, and he produced a packet of manuscript weighing about 7-1/2 lbs. This manuscript he sent, first, to a literary man, whose name he had seen in the papers, with a long and fulsome letter, asking for an opinion. The parcel came back next day, accompanied by a lithographed form of excuse. Browzer denounced the envy and arrogance of mankind, and sent his parcel to a publisher. He carefully set little traps, with pieces of adhesive paper, every here and there, to detect carelessness on the side of the reader. The parcel came back in a week, with a note of regret that the novel was not suitable. Only one of Browzer's pieces of adhesive paper had been removed, but the others were carefully initialled. A modest author would have concluded that his opening chapters condemned him, but Browzer's wrath against mankind only burned the more fiercely. He removed his traps, however, and sent Wilton's Wooing the round of the Row. It always came back, "returning like the peewit," at uncertain intervals. It was really a remarkable manuscript, for it was written in black ink, blue ink, red ink, pencil, and stylograph; moreover, most of it was inscribed on the margins, the original copy having been erased, in favour of improved versions. Finally Browzer discovered a publisher who would take Wilton's Wooing, on conditions that the author should pay £150 for preliminary expenses (exclusive of advertising, for which a special charge was to be made), would guarantee the sale of 300 copies, and would accept half profits on the net results of the transaction.
The work saw the light, and, externally, it certainly did look very like a novel. The reviews, which Browzer read with frenzied excitement, also looked very like reviews of novels. They were usually about two inches in length, and generally ended by saying that "Mr. Browzer has still much to learn." Some of them condensed Browzer's plot into about eight lines, in this manner:—
"He was a yearning psychologist—she was a suburban flirt. He sighed, and analysed; she listened, and yawned. Finally, she went on the stage, and he compiled this record of the stirring transaction."
But at last there came a longer criticism of Wilton's Wooing in the Erechtheum. Somebody took Browzer to pieces, averring that "Mr. Browzer has neither grammar" (here followed a string of examples of Browzer's idioms) "nor humour," (here came instances of his wit and fancy), "nor taste" (again reinforced by specimens), "nor even knowledge of the French language, which he habitually massacres." (Here followed à l'outrance, bête noir, soubriquet, all our old friends.) Finally, Mr. Browzer was informed that many fields of honourable distinction might be open to him, but that a novelist he could never be.
The wrath of Browzer was magnificent. He went about among his friends, who told him that the critique was clearly by that brute St. Clair; they knew his hand, they said; a confounded, conceited pendant, and a stuck-up puppy. The review was calculated to damage the sale of any book; it was a dastardly attack on Browzer's reputation as a man of wit and humour, a linguist, and a grammarian. They thought (as Browzer wished to know) that an action would lie against the reviewer, or the review. Browzer went to a Solicitor, who espoused his cause, but without enthusiasm. The name of the reviewer was demanded. Now St. Clair was not the reviewer; the critic was a man just from College, hence his fresh indignation. Whether for the sake of diversion, or for the advertisement, the critic wished himself to bear the brunt of Browzer's anger, and the Erechtheum handed him over to justice; his name was Smith. This damped Browzer's eagerness; no laurels were to be won from the obscure Smith. The advocate of that culprit made out a case highly satisfactory to the learned Judge, who had been a reviewer himself upon a time. He showed that malice was out of the question; Smith had never heard Browzer's name, nor Browzer, Smith's (in this instance) before the book was published. He called several professors of the French tongue, to prove that Browzer's French was that usual in fiction, but not the language of Molière, or of the Academy. He left no doubt on the question of grammar. As to the wit and pathos, he made much mirth out of them. He cross-examined Browzer: had other reviews praised him? Had publishers leaped eagerly at his work? On what terms was it published? Browzer's answer appeared to show that Wilton's Wooing was not regarded as a masterpiece by the Trade.
Browzer's advocate put it that Browzer was being crushed by unfair ridicule on his first entry into a noble profession, or art, that of Scott and Fielding. He spoke of mighty poets in their misery dead. He drew a picture of Browzer's agonies of mind. He showed that masterpieces had, ere now, been rejected by the publishers. He denounced the licence of the Press. Who was an unheard-of Smith, who had written nothing, to come forward and shout at Browzer from behind the hedge of the anonymous? The novelist was a creature of delicate organisation; he suffered as others did not suffer; his only aim was to lighten care, and instruct ignorance. Why was he to be selected for cruel sarcasm and insult?
The learned Judge summed-up dead against Browzer. Browzer had published a book, had invited criticism, and then, when he only got what his work merited, he came and asked for damages.
The question of malice he left to the Jury, who must see that the Critic and Author had each been ignorant of the other's existence.
The Jury did not deliberate long. They brought in a verdict for Browzer, damages £500, and costs.
The advertisement, the publicity, caused Wilton's Wooing to be eagerly asked for. Browzer's book went into ten editions, and a large issue, at six shillings. Next year Browzer's publishers proved that he owed them £37 14s. 6d. This was disappointing, and even inexplicable, but Browzer's fortune was made, and now he is much lauded by all the reviewers.
The Foreman of the Jury is my grocer, and I ventured, in the confidence of private life, to question the justice of the verdict. "Well," he said, "you see it comes to this: where is this to stop? Mr. Browzer, he sells novels; I sell groceries."
"Excellent of their kind!" I interrupted.
"Well, I try to give satisfaction; and so does Mr. Browzer. If that young Mr. Smith writes to the papers that my sugars are not original, that I plagiarise them from a sand-bunker, or that my teas are not good Chinese,—like Mr. Browzer's French, which is what is usual in the Trade,—why, then, he interferes with my business. I bring my action, and hope to win it; and so, as a tradesman, I feel that Mr. Browzer was wronged." There was no reply to these arguments, but I pity the Reviewers.