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I explained to him that it was Braxton's second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment of the British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible taste, but was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton had forthwith taken, with all of what Maltby had called 'the passionate force and intensity of his nature, to drink, and had presently gone under and not re-emerged.
The only drawback to their visit was that neither Mrs Maltby nor her daughter would be at home; but Mr Maltby had begged them not to postpone their visit on this account, as his sister, Miss Maltby, would be staying with him, and would take the place of hostess to his guests.
Will you please send me your ortograf? I like your books very much. I have named my white rabit Montagu after you. I punched Jones II in the eye to-day becos he didn't like your books. I have spent the only penny I have on the stampe for this letter which I might have spent on tuck. I want to be like Maltby in "The Soul of Anthony Carrington" when I grow up. Your sincere reader, P. A. Dunstable.
Maltby might once more have been compared with Braxton. But Braxton was now forgotten. So was Maltby. This was not kind. This was not just. Maltby's first novel, and Braxton's, had brought delight into many thousands of homes. People should have paused to say of Braxton "Perhaps his third novel will be better than his second," and to say as much for Maltby.
"They'll find out some day, most likely," growled Oliver; "I'm not going to bother any more about it. I say, Wray, do you know anything of Cripps's son?" "Yes. Don't you know he keeps a dirty public-house in Maltby? a regular cad, they say. The fishing-fellows have seen him up at the Weir now and then."
Braxton, on the other hand, would let slip no opportunity for sneering at Maltby's work 'gimcrack, as he called it. This was not good for Maltby. Different men, different methods. 'The Rape of the Lock' was 'gimcrack, if you care to call it so; but it was a delicate, brilliant work; and so, I repeat, was Maltby's 'Ariel. Absurd to compare Maltby with Pope? I am not so sure.
"Your cousin," Sir Ivor answered, with emphatic dignity, "is certain to have mixed with nobbut the highest officials in Burma." "Yes, I'm sure Dick used to speak of a certain Sir Malcolm. My cousin's name, Dr. Cumberledge, was Maltby Captain Richard Maltby." "Indeed," I answered, with an icy stare. "I cannot pretend to the pleasure of having met him."
He was not exactly a gentleman, for he kept the Cockchafer public-house at Maltby, and often served behind the bar in his own person. Neither was he altogether a reputable person, for he frequently helped himself to an overdose of his own beverages, besides being a sharp hand at billiards, and possessing several packs of cards with extra aces in them.
And off he went, leaving Stephen gaping at the letter in his hand, and quite bewildered as to the orders about tea. Master Paul enjoyed his perplexity. "I suppose you thought you were going to get off fagging. I say, you'll have to take that letter sharp, or you'll be late." "Where's the post-office?" "About a mile down Maltby Road.
'We are told that the subjection of Americans may tend to the diminution of our own liberties; an event which none but very perspicacious politicians are able to foresee. If slavery be thus fatally contagious, how is it that we hear, etc. Works, vi. 262. See page 76 of this volume. The address was delivered on May 23, 1770. Maltby, the friend of Rogers, who says: 'Dr.
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