"None—none! I have written to the Times; I have applied to the Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannot always dissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,—
'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
write that on my sepulchre."
Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost St. Barbe, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.
DIARY OF A STATESMAN.
("Made in France.")
Monday.—Immense enthusiasm. The Ministry never so strong. When asked my intentions, replied, "My intentions are the intentions of my country." They nearly shook my hand off in their delight. Grand official reception in the evening. Everyone there. All the Diplomatic body offered congratulations.
Tuesday.—Ministry suddenly threatened by an unseen danger. Everything going smoothly, when someone in the back benches interrogated us about an open window in the corridors. Considering the question frivolous, declined to answer. Enormous excitement, all the Members shaking their fists, and gesticulating. "Urgency" asked for. We protested; and, after a heated debate, secured the passing to the Order of the Day pur et simple by a majority of two! Too close to be pleasant.