emed to me a little cautiously, 'it is not exactly Spencerian, although it squints at the Spencerian view, with a slight deflection toward Hegelianism. I should consider it an harmonious fusion of the best views of all the modern philosophers, with a strong Baxterian flavor.'
'Yes,' said Thompson, 'the charm of the chapter lies in this very quality. The style is an emanation from Baxter's own intellect, -- he has written himself into the poem. By knowing Baxter we are able to appreciate the book, and after having read the book we feel that we are so much the more intimately acquainted with Baxter, -- the real Baxter.'
Baxter had come in during this colloquy, and was standing by the fireplace smoking a pipe. I was not exactly sure whether the faint smile which marked his face was a token of pleasure or cynicism; it was Baxterian, however, and I had already learned that Baxter's opinions upon any subject were not to be gathered always from his facial expression. For instance, when the club porter'
A somewhat pretentious club of book-lovers decides to publish their own volumes to show the world what a beautiful book could be. One of their members has has written an epic poem, and they eventually convince him to allow them to publish it. The result is everything they hoped for.
A mildly funny satire on pompous art aficionados everywhere, the ending isn't too hard to guess.