of course, I have taken from Shakespeare: what a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. * * * Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting,—perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I have scourged. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband."
To Mr. Booker, of The Literary Chronicle, she is gently
menacing, reminding him that she has engaged to review
his New Tale of a Tub for The Morning Breakfast Table;[1]
"Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains
with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said
as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know.
I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical
details, which I know you can safely do."
To Mr. Alf, of The Evening Pulpit, of whom she has reason
to be afraid, her candor assumes a more impersonal and
business-like air. She alludes to a recent caustic criticism
in the Pulpit of some poor poetic wretch who well deserved
it:
"I have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets
who contrive by toadying and underground influences to get
their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. * * *
Is it not singular how some men contrive to obtain the reputation
of popular authorship without adding a word to the literature
of their country worthy of note? It is accomplished by
unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. To puff and to
get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new
- ↑ This proves efficacious, since Mr. Booker, though "an Aristides among reviewers," cannot resist the bait of a favorable notice of his Tale, "even though written by the hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in The Literary Chronicle."
