“Now, Mr. Churchill,” said Beauclerc; “I am really anxious, I know you are such a good critic, will you show me these faults? blame as well as praise must always be valuable from those who themselves excel.”
“You are too good,” said Churchill.
“Will you then be good enough to point out the errors for me?”
“Oh, by no means,” cried Churchill, “don’t note me, do not quote me, I am nobody, and I cannot give up my authorities.”
“But the truth is all I want to get at,” said Beauclerc.
“Let her rest, my dear sir, at the bottom of her well; there she is, and there she will be for ever and ever, and depend upon it none of our windlassing will ever bring her up.”
“Such an author as this,” continued Beauclerc, “would have been so glad to have corrected any error.”
“So every author tells you, but I never saw one of them who did not look blank at a list of errata—if you knew how little one is thanked for them!”
“But you would be thanked now,” said Beauclerc:—“the faults in style, at least.”
“Nay, I am no critic,” said Churchill, confident in his habits of literary detection; “but if you ask me,” said he, as he disdainfully flirted the leaves back and forward with a “There now!” and a “Here now!” “We should not call that good writing—you could not think this correct? I may be wrong, but I should not use this phrase. Hardly English that—colloquial, I think; and this awkward ablative absolute—never admitted now.”