and brow, "my bitter, relentless enemy."

"I fear, then, you have as little studied the critical press of the
Augustan age as you have imbued your muse with the classical spirit of
its verse. For the art of writing a man must cultivate himself. The art
of being reviewed consists in cultivating the acquaintance of reviewers.
In the Augustan age criticism is cliquism. Belong to a clique and you
are Horace or Tibullus. Belong to no clique and, of course, you are
Bavius or Maevius. 'The Londoner' is the enemy of no man: it holds all
men in equal contempt. But as, in order to amuse, it must abuse, it
compensates the praise it is compelled to bestow upon the members of its
clique by heaping additional scorn upon all who are cliqueless. Hit him
hard: he has no friends."

"Ah," said the minstrel, "I believe that there is much truth in what you
say. I never had a friend among the cliques. And Heaven knows with what
pertinacity those from whom I, in utter ignorance of the rules which
govern so-called organs of opinion, had hoped, in my time of struggle,
for a little sympathy, a kindly encouragement, have combined to crush
me down. They succeeded long. But at last I venture to hope that I
am beating them. Happily, Nature endowed me with a sanguine, joyous,
elastic temperament. He who never despairs seldom completely fails."

This speech rather perplexed Kenelm, for had not the minstrel declared
that his singing days were over, that he had decided on the renunciation
of verse-making? What other path to fame, from which the critics had
not been able to exclude his steps, was he, then, now pursuing,--he whom
Kenelm had assumed to belong to some commercial moneymaking firm? No
doubt some less difficult prose-track, probably a novel. Everybody
writes novels nowadays, and as the public will read novels without being
told to do so, and will not read poetry unless they are told that they
ought, possibly novels are not quite so much at the mercy of cliques as
are the poems of our Augustan age.

However, Kenelm did not think of seeking for further confidence on that
score. His mind at that moment, not unnaturally, wandered from books and
critics to love and wedlock.

"Our talk," said he, "has digressed into fretful courses; permit me
to return to the starting-point. You are going to settle down into the
peace of home. A peaceful home is like a good conscience. The rains
without do not pierce its roof, the winds without do not shake its