646 THE GENIUS AND THE JACKASS. 



with a terrible ferocity, gnawed his lip, as though he would, with 

 Ugolino, have supped off his own flesh. His friend Peter took up 

 the book, the source of all this agony to Silvio. It was one of those 

 detestable publications, one of those fiend-like, diabolical productions, 

 which, like the simoom, or the quartan ague, are periodical; to 

 name the title in all the intensity of its evil, it was " a review." 

 Silvio's " Rose-buds" (such was the affecting name of his volume of 

 poems, printed in small pica, 8vo.) was therein "reviewed." 



" Strange ! that the mind, that very fiery particle, 

 Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." 



Take we a knave, convicted of perjury, or any other offence that 

 may the more readily present itself to the reader ; let us follow him 

 to his pillory, and let us observe his head and hands inserted in the 

 ignominious apertures. He is fixed ; and now, the machine set off, 

 he impartially presents his front and back to the surrounding mob. 

 The murmur deepens into a roar; the one egg heralds a shower ; the 

 solitary cat leads the van of a hundred; turnips, mud, stones, " hurtle 

 through the darken'd air ;" the multitude yell, the victim groans, 

 the assailants shout the louder, and take a surer aim ; the storm falls 

 thicker ; the mob roar, laugh, scream, and pelt, until, the hour con- 

 cluded, the hangman opens the wooden collar, and huddled in aheap, 

 begrimed with filth and bruised with brickbats, down falls the of- 

 fender. Well, it may be said, according to the old phraseology, 

 '' this man has been pilloried." No such thing ; he has been we 

 give the modern copious meaning he has been " reviewed." Poor 

 Silvio Tinkerville had been " reviewed." 



Peter Griffiths was, happily, not of that fine susceptible clay which 

 composed Silvio ; he was not of that porcelain mysteriously sent into 

 this world to be chipped and cracked by the grosser delf : to his eyes, 

 the " review" was only so many little black marks on a piece of white 

 paper. He did not see the fiends, the devils, the incubi and succubi, 

 grinning, scowling, leering from every letter ; he saw no defunct cat 

 hurled along the page his sense was offended by no ancient egg 

 no, he only saw a fair page, " printed in a handsome type, expressly 

 cast for the occasion." Thus Peter could not offer that tender sym- 

 pathy, that fraternal delicacy of sentiment, which the case of Silvio 

 so imminently demanded. But what he could offer, he did ; namely, 

 a supper of cold quarter of lamb, salad and green cheese. Silvio, 

 with an inexpressible look of mournful sense and anguish, started 

 from his chair, desperately grasped his hat, and rushed from the 

 house. 



It was night dark night. Silvio was alone alone in an unfre- 

 quented, dreary lane, near Battersea. At any other time he would 

 have felt cold, but there was that undefinable something in his heart 

 which defied the night air. He strode on as though he had te some 

 busy fiend " in his breast, and the Ogre's seven-leagued boots on his 

 legs. It was, as we have premised, dark ; and yet Silvio thought he 

 saw, " Rose-buds, by Silvio Tinkerville," in burning characters 

 dancing, like so many ignes fatui, before him nay, his very ears 

 seemed scorched. He felt that all the world was against him and 



