10 Contemporary reviews

1. Baron de B.W. & Co. “Our Booking Office,” Punch, 103 (23 June 1892)

And, by the way, à propos of Weedon, the Baron has to congratulate the Brothers Grossmith on their Diary of a Nobody, republished from Mr. Punch’s pages, but with considerable additions. The Diary is very funny, not a page of it but affords matter for a good laugh; and yet the story is not without a touch of pathos, as it is impossible not to pity the steady, prim, old-fashioned, jog-trot Nobody, whose son, but just one remove above a regular ’Arry,[1] treats him with such unfilial rudeness. (34)

2. From The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science, and Art, 74 (23 June 1892)

This study of lower middle-class life is admirable, and in some of its touches it goes near to genius. It is the diary, extending over about a year and a half, of a highly respectable clerk in the City, one Mr Charles Pooter, who seems to be verging on fifty years of age, although he still preserves a considerable vivacity of spirits. He has a wife, Carrie, the devoted partner of his joys and sorrows, and a son, William Lupin Pooter, commonly known as Willie. Mr and Mrs Pooter have recently come into possession of a new house, The Laurels, Brickfield Terrace, Holloway, from which Mr Pooter goes up every morning to the establishment of Mr Perkupp in the City, where there are many other clerks, but where, as time goes on, the reader observes the diarist to be more and more highly respected. Mr Pooter’s great ambition is to get Willie, who is now twenty years of age, appointed to a clerkship at Perkupp & Co.’s; but we gather that Willie has been something of a trial, and that his father has been very fortunate in getting a place for him in a bank at Oldham. The incidents recorded in the Diary are not merely exceedingly natural in themselves, but they are precisely those which such a person as Mr Pooter might be expected to think worth recording. In that part of Holloway in which The Laurels is situated two or three friends of the Pooters have already settled, and this seems to have decided the latter in choosing a residence. Accordingly a sort of small society immediately forms itself around them. We are made to feel that the Pooters, with all their poverty and ineptitude, are essentially hospitable, and the little visits of their friends, and Carrie’s ingenious artifices for entertaining them, occupy a great deal of Mr Pooter’s thoughts, and therefore of his Diary. He launches out further and further, and at last they have a party, with a paid waiter and several guests in evening dress, to which they even go to the length of inviting Mr Perkupp. This, however, is going too far, and ambition o’erleaps itself.[2]

In process of time they are surprised by the advent of Willie, who announces that he has dropped his first name, and must be henceforth addressed as “Lupin.” The indignation of Mr Pooter, and his struggles to prevent the innovation, are pathetically useless. But worse is behind. When the Bank Holiday is over, and it is time to catch the train for Oldham, Lupin mentions that he has “resigned” his place in the bank, and, under pressure, that “if you want the good old truth, he’s got the chuck.” This dreadful news, and the presence of the ardent Lupin at home, are endured with great philosophy; but Lupin now becomes an integral part of the story. Like onion’s atom in Sydney Smith’s salad, he animates the whole.[3] He is a perfect specimen of the ordinary sensual clerklet. But we think that Messrs Grossmith treat this very unpleasant outcome of our “so-called nineteenth century” with uncommon skill. Lupin is brutal, but he stops short of absolutely disgusting us; he is vapid and ignorant, but he has a certain smartness and adventurous humour which force us to follow his history with attention. At the end of the story no harm has been done by him, and comes off well enough, yet not exasperatingly well.

Such is the story of The Diary of a Nobody, reduced to its simplest elements; but the charm and the skill of it reside in little touches which it must be left to the reader to discover for himself. When Mr Pooter tells the company of the dreadful dream he has had—that he saw some huge blocks of ice in a shop, with a bright glare behind them, and found that the blocks of ice were on fire—the reader rises up and calls the unfilial Lupin blessed for remarking, “What utter rot!” After the Franchings’ party, the Pooters very nearly miss the train, “through Carrie having mislaid the little cloth cricket-cap which she wears when we go out.” When they have the fearful blow of Lupin’s losing his second engagement:—

We all ate our breakfast in deep silence.

In fact, I could eat nothing. I was not only too worried, but I cannot and will not eat cushion of bacon. If cannot get streaky bacon I will do without anything.

When, by a most extraordinary good fortune, the Pooters are invited to meet the Representatives of Trade and Commerce at a ball in the Mansion House, where they know nobody, Pooter fancies at last that he sees an acquaintance, and is “moving towards him,” when Carrie “seized me by the coat-tails, and said quite loudly, “Don’t leave me!” which caused an elderly gentleman in a Court suit, and a chain round him, and two ladies to burst out laughing.” When Mr Perkupp came to the party, and Frank and Lupin happened (alas!) to be personating the Blondin Donkey, he would not “come right into the room” :—

I apologized for the foolery, but Mr Perkupp said:--“Oh, it seems amusing!” I could see that he was not a bit amused.

There may be people who are like Mr Perkupp, and who, in the mad pride of intellectuality, will be not a bit amused by these and a hundred other touches in The Diary of a Nobody. We venture to believe that they will find themselves in a minority. The book is so natural that it appeals irresistibly to the natural man, and no one need be so genteel as not to confess that the troubles of Pooter touch him here or there through the carapace of his social savoir-faire. If we have anything to advance against the Diary, it is a certain air of the old-fashioned. The Messrs Grossmith have not been studying their lower middle-class quite up to date. When Mrs James tells Carrie that “smocking” is all the rage, she means that it was so several years ago.[4] We think that people in the condition of the Pooters would have their cuffs and fronts repaired at home. There seems a little excess in the drinking of champagne, even though the brand be “Jackson Frères.” But these are motes in the sunbeam, and we may ourselves be ill informed on these great subjects. What we are sure of is that The Diary of a Nobody has amused us from cover to cover. (116)

3. From The Athenaeum, 13 August 1892

The republication from Punch of The Diary of a Nobody, by G. and W. Grossmith (Arrowsmith) was hardly a happy thought, or calculated to profit anybody. A Society Clown had perhaps sufficiently shown the world that that delightful comedian Mr George Grossmith could be vulgar, if he chose;[5] but it is rather hard on Punch that these leaves from the diary of Mr. Pooter, which may have escaped unnoticed amid better jokes, should be collected and pointedly dedicated to the editor. For it must be confessed that the book has no merit to compensate for its hopeless vulgarity, not even that of being amusing. The satire—if a photographic representation of middle-class boredom and horseplay can be dignified with the name—is not only dreary, but has a cruel ring about it which is positively offensive. Half the jests in the book seem directed against the straits to which the poverty of an underpaid City clerk reduces him; as, for example, the necessity for the appearance of crambe repetita[6] at his table. Such jibes argue unpardonable bad taste in the maker thereof, and cause no hilarity to the readers except at his expense. Besides, it is all so dull. The illustrations, by Mr. Weedon Grossmith, are admirably suited to the text. (223)

4. From The Literary World, 46 (29 July 1892)

… The Diary of a Nobody strikes us as best fitted for reading in a train. It is not so funny that an occasional interruption would be resented, and such thread of story as runs through it can be grasped and followed without much strain on the attention. The writer of the Diary is a City clerk of the old school; his son is a City clerk of the new school. There is, of course, perpetual friction between the pair, the mild tastes and pleasures of the one constantly clashing with the larger ambitions of the other; but however true to life the characters may be, it is rather difficult to get really interested in the sayings and doings of either the Pooter family or their friends. (7-8)

5. From The Speaker, 6 (6 August 1892)

The reminiscences of Mr Charles Pooter, of The Laurels, Brickfield Terrace, Holloway, as set forth in The Diary of a Nobody, form one of the most adequate, artistic, and impressive studies of vulgarity that have yet come under our notice. The book is throughout appalling, merciless, horribly true. As there is no historical instance of any person who believed himself, or herself, to be vulgar, we may take it for granted that all readers will delight in this study of vulgarity, and will find in it much that reminds them of their friends and inferiors. The terms, by the way, are not synonymous; your friend is, we are sure, your inferior, but your inferior cannot always hope to be your friend. We have said that the book is artistic, and we do not mean anything less than that. These authors have realised the tremendous extent of vulgarity; they have seen that to make your character talk about money and be deficient in his aspirates is an easy but hardly a convincing method. Vulgarity is too large for that; it has touched, and soiled, almost everybody; it has countless forms and manifests itself in innumerable ways. There is no attempt to give an exhaustive representation of vulgarity in The Diary of a Nobody. Its authors have only attempted to depict that particular kind of vulgarity which is suburban and clerkly; and yet most readers will feel that the book is too short. It contains, it is true, 300 pages; but the headings of the chapters are, for inscrutable reasons, repeated three times, and there also many illustrations which are somewhat humorous, although we are sorry that Mr Weedon Grossmith cannot draw. Even suburban vulgarity has its varieties. Mr Pooter is vulgar and Mrs Pooter is vulgar, but they are not vulgar in the same way. Mr Pooter’s friends and Mr Pooter’s son, Lupin, all have their distinct shades of vulgarity finely marked and excellently observed in the pages of this book. It would have been a natural mistake—a mistake that has often been made before—to have allowed this diary to become the record of a strung of blunders on the part of Mr Pooter; but it is a bad farce which shows the tragedy at the back of it, and we feel that it is, artistically, right that in the course of the story Mr Pooter succeeds, with a success that is somewhat clerkly and commercial, but still a success. In less capable hands this diary would have become monotonous; as it is, it has plenty of variety and contains an interesting story. Owing to the unfortunate refinement of English authors, any adequate study of vulgarity is rare, and we feel particularly grateful for this book. (178)

6. From The New York Times, 19 December 1892

[The Diary was published in the United States by Tait & Sons. Until the previous year British books had been pirated freely by American publishers and the authors received nothing. However, the Grossmiths were presumably in time to benefit from the limited provisions of the American/British Copyright (Chase) Act of 1891.]

It is supposedly a hit at the recent literary movement described as the memoir one. Pooter is the Nobody, who apologizes for writing his memoirs. … Pooter is a clerk living in Holloway. The vicissitudes of a little household are told. There is that kind of quiet, commonplace, everyday joking in it which we are to suppose is highly satisfactory to our cousins across the water. The Englishman doesn’t care much for the business end of the tack. Our way of manufacturing fun is different. We do not use the same material, or, if we do, we weave it in quite another way. The diary is written to be funny, and so it is, in a moderate degree. (3.2)

7. Publisher’s Note to the “new edition” of 1910 (10 October 1910)

[This note was probably composed by J.W. Arrowsmith himself, and he correctly assessed this edition as marking the start of the Diary’s enduring popularity.]

What makes a book sell? is a question often asked. It frequently happens that however good the reviews may be, and however much it may be advertised, a really good book hangs fire.

The Diary of a Nobody is a case in point. Originally published eighteen years ago, well reviewed and well advertised, it did not appear to attract much attention. There seem indications, however, that the book “is coming into its own,” and unmistakable signs that a handy Pocket Edition will prove acceptable to an increasing number of readers. The Publisher, therefore, trusts that this re-issue printed from new type and from re-engraved drawings by Weedon Grossmith, will meet with approval.

Among others who have recognised the subtle humour of the book are Lord Rosebery and the Rt. Honble. Augustine Birrell, M.P.,[7] and they have expressed their appreciation in letters which the Publisher is allowed to insert in this volume; there is also inserted (by permission) an extract from Mr. Hilaire Belloc’s essay “On People in Books.”[8]

8. From The Bookman [London], 39 (December 1910)

[This review was of the “new edition” of 1910.]

Nearly twenty years ago The Diary of a Nobody appeared serially in Punch; in 1892 it came out between covers. It did not enjoy any prompt or noisy boom, but people who were able to recognise a good thing when they saw it knew how good it was and went about talking of it, and so in the best possible way it was talked into fame, and is now re-issued in a new edition. If you read it, you will have to go and talk about it, too; the humour of it is so quaint, so quietly rich, so delightful that you feel bound to communicate your enjoyment of it—to pass such an exquisite and unique humour on that others may share it. Mr. Belloc did not exaggerate when he said, in one of his essays, that this book is “one of the half-dozen immortal achievements of our time.” Mr. Charles Pooter, who keeps the Diary, is an authentic creation; a kindly, chivalrous, upright, very simple man; proud of his son; handy in his home, but not always reliably so; hospitable to his friends; laughing consumedly over his own feeble little jests; pathetically pleased to be patronised by his employer—just a commonplace, humdrum, highly respectable city clerk, who is the funnier for having no sense of humour, and he enters all the events of his daily life into his Diary, all his small troubles, his humble aspirations—everything that counts in his placid days as an event, and all manner of household details that give you a perfect idea of his environment. You laugh at him—at his small absurdities, his droll mishaps, his well-meaning fussiness; but he wins upon you and obtains your affection, and even your admiration, he is so transparently honest, so delightfully and ridiculously human. “I dare not tell you my view of Charles Pooter,” Mr. Birrell writes to the publisher. “I rank him with Don Quixote.”[9] And when you have read the book you will not think this is too much to say of it. (50-2)

9. From The Bookman [London], 57 (December 1919)

[This review was of Arrowsmith’s edition of November 1919.]

It is going on for thirty years since The Diary of a Nobody was first published. It had no boom: it even hung fire for a while; but it was always alive, and, from selling slowly, quickened and began to go the pace, and for the last ten years has held a secure place in the popular favour. Somehow it got itself talked about, and people have read it solely because it was worth reading. It has had many imitators,[10] and some of the imitations have met with considerable success, but not one of them has rivalled the original, and they have all faded away, and still The Diary of a Nobody has held its ground, and this Christmas appears in yet another new edition with a full and admirably-written prefatory memoir of the authors by B.W. Findon. Who can define the charm of the book? Charles Pooter, who keeps the Diary, is an absurd person, a fussy, mildly conceited, blundering figure of fun, and yet in all his follies and ridiculous simplicities he remains wonderfully human and curiously likeable. He not only amuses you and keeps you laughing at his unconscious humour, but he interests you in himself, in his wife and his friends, in all the everyday ambitions, mishaps, triumphs, and public and domestic doings of his city and suburban life. The present reviewer had just read the book for the third time, with undiminished enjoyment of its quaint drollery, its whimsical satire and delightfully quiet irony, and he strongly recommends it to all who love humour and the best sort of laughter. (96)

10. From Xanthias, Queen’s Quarterly, 27 (1920)

[This review was of a Macmillan reprint published in Canada.]

… It is not till the second or third reading—and you are bound to reread it—that the really consummate art of this artless book becomes apparent. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to exaggerate the character of this guileless, humourless city clerk, who loves pottering about his house and possesses an absurd sense of dignity; but the authors, with admirable self-restraint, have allowed him to give a rounded portrait of himself that is entirely lovable and worthy of respect. … (452)

NOTES

[1] A stereotypical youth notable for his vulgarity and coarseness, invented by E.J. Milliken in his “Arry Ballads (1877).

[2] Quoted from Macbeth: “Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself/And falls on the other.”

[3] Quoted from the poem “Receipt for a Salad” by the wit Sydney Smith (1771-1845): “Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,/And, scarce-suspected, animate the whole.”

[4] Actually the Grossmiths were as up to date as usual, as “smocking” as a noun dates only from 1888 (OED). The reviewer had not noticed that the Diary’s entries, even in the book version, date distinctly to 1888-9.

[5] George Grossmith’s partial autobiography, published in August 1888.

[6] Literally “reheated cabbage,” or more generally any dish served up again. In the Diary, the dish is question is a plate of blancmange.

[7] Lord Rosebery was Prime Minister 1894-5 and a biographer; Augustine Birrell (1850-1933) was a lawyer, politician and humorous essayist.

[8] Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), hugely prolific and eccentric Catholic historian, poet and man of letters.

[9] The deluded knight-errant in Miguel Cervantes’ novel of 1604-14, whose outdated chivalric code of conduct is affectionately mocked. George Orwell later drew the same parallel between Pooter and Don Quixote.

[10] The reviewer is probably thinking of novels that tried, in the wake of the Diary, to paint humorous pictures of young married couples establishing themselves in suburbia. Examples are included in these pages.