Upon the afternoon of that Monday which was made memorable in the national life by the fact that upon that day, Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s version of Homer was issued to the Trade, towards five o’clock on that epoch-making afternoon, the calm and self-contained right hand of Mr. M. A. Dodson smote the portal of the sanctum sanctorum of Mr. Octavius Crumpett, while in his equally calm and self-contained left hand he bore the sacred volume upon which he had been concentrating the whole of his critical faculty, which was not inconsiderable, for three days past.
“Ah, Mr. Dodson, good-morning,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a benign beam in his mild eyes, as he looked up from the perusal of the list of books received by his favourite Journal of English and Foreign Literature, Science, the Fine Arts, Music and the Drama. It is to be observed inter alia that the seeming inconsistency of which this great and good man was guilty of ascribing the name of morning to five o’clock in the afternoon, was in strict accordance with the higher usage.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with a slightly austere but perfectly amiable self-possession.
“Is it to be my privilege, Mr. Dodson, to hear the first verdict which has been passed upon—ah, my little book?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with the expansive pleasantness of one who had received already that morning, at his favourite hall of physical and mental refreshment, the sonorously-tendered compliment of a stalwart of the Episcopal Bench, upon its long-expected-and-eagerly-looked-for appearance.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, opening at a leisure which conferred an adventitious weight upon an utterance which stood not in the least need of it; “well, sir, it is not my intention to enter into petty details nor into the minutiæ and fine points of scholarship. I think, sir, those can be resigned with every propriety into more competent hands. But what I would like to do, sir, with your kind indulgence, is to view this work as a whole. I do not know, sir, that I have any special claim to do this, but I would like to say just in what manner your—ah, achievement strikes me——”
“Pray proceed, Mr. Dodson, pray proceed,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, as Mr. M. A. Dodson inserted one of those masterful pauses in his oratory which in after days were likely to stand him in such good stead in both houses of parliament, and on political platforms in the United Kingdom far too numerous to mention.
“My survey of your achievement as a whole, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson continued at a forensically magnificent leisure, “can be summed up in one word. That word is the word consummate. To my mind, sir, the word consummate alone envisages in any adequate sense that which you have achieved. I say, sir, I do not propose to go into fine points of scholarship, which even under the most favourable auspices are apt to be vexed and over-nice. I speak merely as an amateur, sir, as a humble, but ardent lover of letters. And in that capacity, sir, and in no other, as I hope, sir, you will please understand, I have been unable to refrain from underlining certain passages of your—ah, rendering which to my mind are in-comparably fe-lic-i-tous.”
Mr. M. A. Dodson paused to take from his pocket a slip of paper on which was set forth a collocation of mystic numerals. Mr. Octavius Crumpett lay back in his revolving chair with closed eyes, and with his hands folded over that portion of his being that was embellished by his waistcoat of immaculate whiteness; and he seemed to vibrate internally with that large content which it is only given to the good and great to feel.
“Page sixty-four, the line beginning, ‘Behold the deep-shaking thunder,’” Mr. M. A. Dodson continued as he ran his fingers through the pages with that precision which is the fruit of a long and loving intercourse with books. “Now, sir, to my mind, the whole passage as far as ‘all-fostering Zeus’ could not be improved. To my mind, it is an incomparable advance upon Pope and upon Chapman, and even upon the extremely skilful version of the late Lord Derby. If I may be permitted to say it, sir, to my mind, the manner in which you have surmounted the well-nigh in-superable difficulties of metre is worthy of the highest praise; and yet, sir, you do not appear to have sacrificed one iota of the sense or the spirit of the peerless original. Then, sir, page seventy-two, beginning with line eighteen, ‘Treads the waves of the many-tremulous seas.’ Or page ninety-one, that matchless rendering of—— But I must not pause to enumerate.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson ran his fingers with extreme rapidity through one after another of these underlined passages, a kind of generous enthusiasm communicated itself to his wizened countenance. His diction, ever touched by Attic grace, seemed presently to glow with a little of the Promethean fire. Yet never for a moment did it fall into incoherence, nor lapse from the ideal of style in spoken diction, however rapidly uttered, which was ever before him.