In The Art of the Personal Essay (1994), Phillip Lopate argues that Max Beerbohm "represents the best possible case for the determinedly minor writer. . . . He exercises stunning control of a persona that veered between modesty and impudence, tenderness and spite. He was above all a master of scale, not making any piece bigger or louder than it needed to be."

"Arise, Sir!--"--Beerbohm's satire on popular novelists--was originally published in June 1897 and reprinted in More (1899), the follow-up to his first book of essays, The Works of Max Beerbohm (1896). Forty years later, Beerbohm was knighted by King George VI. "I shouldn't have liked it when I was younger," he wrote to a friend, "for it would have cramped my style. Now it's all right."

Arise, Sir --!

by Max Beerbohm

Knighthood is a cheap commodity in these days. It is modern Royalty's substitute for largesse, and it is scattered broadcast. Though all sneer at it, there are few whose hands would not gladly grasp the dingy patent. After all, a title is still a title. The provincial Mayor delights to think that, into whatsoever house he enter, his name will be announced with the same prefix as would be the name of the best-emblazoned baronet and that his wife will be as good, colloquially, as a Marchioness. Even now, the number of those who are not knighted exceeds the number of those who are. Time, doubtless, will reverse these figures. It is quite possible that, in the next century, forms of application for knighthood will be sent out annually to every householder and be thrown with other circulars into the waste-paper basket. Further still in the future, knighthood may be one of the lighter punishments of the Law. "Forty shillings or a knighthood" sounds quite possible.

At present, there is no class more covetous of knighthood than that new class of writers which has come in on the wave of popular education. Well! they are an interesting class, these writers, and I should like them to be officially recognised. They are an honest, harmless crew, and I, for one, should like to see them made happy. By all means let them be knighted and their craft be stamped as a Profession. When Sir Walter Besant prattles to the fair readers of The Queen about the recognition of Literature as a Profession, he does not, of course, talk what is called sense; but these writers, whom I have named, have nothing to do with Literature--they are simply the first instalment of those who will supply a new commercial demand by giving the mob such stuff as it can appreciate. Writing, as practised by them, is at any rate a Trade, though no one save Sir Walter would call it a Profession. Mr. Flimflam, the popular novelist, is frankly of the moment, and, when he dies, another will take his place and will supply the same kind of stuff, with such variations as the superficial changes of the market may require. Being a man of average intelligence, he fully realises his transient position. He has no illusions that his works will outlive him, and his only hope is that they may continue to sell well up to the date of his death. He is in much the same position as is a great singer, who has to live his immortality in his life-time: he must needs make up in expansion what he cannot hope for in extent. Nor, indeed, is he coy of the necessity. He pushes his joints all round the market-place and basks in every available search-light. Some hours of the day he is bound to consecrate to his private life, in which, however, he keeps his readers very well posted, lest they forget, lest they forget. Probably, as the necessity for advertisement increases with the number of his rivals, he will have his house entirely rebuilt by a glazier, or he will pitch his writing-table in Trafalgar Square and sleep on the Embankment. But even now his must be a sadly arduous life. He must be the guest of the evening at the Inkslingers' Annual Dinner in the Holborn Restaurant, and there he must make an impromptu speech full of quaintly characteristic sayings. He must be the observed of all the observers at the soiree given by the Institute of Second-Rate Lady-Journalists, and be seen at Private Views, bronzed and vigorous after his recent cruise on the Norfolk Broads. He must supply one of the most attractive items at the Concert in aid of the "Gunners' Orphanage" by giving a reading of two chapters from his military novel, The Fifty-Second (fiftieth thousandth), and be the victim of what might have proved a serious cab-accident, while he is being driven to the studio of Mr. Botch, R. A., who is painting him seated at a writing-table in the uniform of the North-Wilts Yeomanry (of which the popular author is an honorary captain). No one must know of the thousand-and-one little acts of delicate generosity with which Mr. Flimflam, not letting his right hand know what his left doeth, alleviates the lot of those old schoolmates who have been less successful than he in the struggle for life. After his lecturing-tour through the States, he must be off either to Venice, of which he is very fond, for a well-earned rest, or to Stoke Pogis, in order that he may put the finishing touches to his new mediaeval novel, in which (it is an open secret) the love of Dante for Beatrice will be treated in a new and startling manner, though with all that reverence and wealth of local colour for which Mr. Flimflam's name is guarantee. Interviewed (or his name is not Flimflam) he must perpetually be, and for every interview he must be specially photographed with his favourite pipe, or with his cat and dog--Mr. Flimflam is a great lover of animals--or playing parlour-golf with his only child, or riding on a "sociable" with his wife, a charming brunette, very proud of her lord and master. It must be known that he does a bit of gardening, now and again, "just to brush away the cobwebs," and that he laughingly confesses to being something of a philatelist. A far-away look must come into his eyes--those grey, deep-set eyes!--as, slowly, quietly, he tells the interviewer the story of his early struggles in the old, old days. The twilight must come creeping slowly into the little room; the needle-work must fall from Mrs. Flimflam's hands, as she too becomes absorbed in the oft-told tale. At length, Mr. Flimflam must say, almost abruptly, "But all that's over now! Come! You have yet to see my bits of old oak. Yes, oak is quite a hobby with me. My wife here tells me I ought to have been a Druid!" Before the interviewer is sent on his way, with a cordial handshake and a hope that he will return, it must have been elicited that Mr. Flimflam has contracts which will keep him at work well into the twentieth century, and that in politics he is a Radical, though a firm believer in the future of our Colonies, but that, as to entering Parliament, that is not in his life-program--"at least," he may add significantly, "not yet awhile!"

Poor fellow! Why should he not receive his heart's desire? What shoulders are more appropriate than Mr. Flimflam's to the touch of the royal sword? Disappointment may embitter him, and, if he were to be bitter, what would become of his books? If, on the other hand, his Sovereign summon him, I shall be at Paddington when, with elastic tread and boundless smile, he passes down the platform to the Windsor train. It will do my heart good to see him. For my own part, I should like him to have a life-peerage. We have our Law-Lords--why not our Novel-Lords? It matters not what title he receive, so it be one which will perish, like his twaddle, with him.

More Essays by Max Beerbohm

• Going Out for a Walk
  "I never go out of my way, as it were, to avoid exercise."
• How Shall I Word It?
  "The not perfect reader begins to crave some little outburst of wrath."
• Pretending
  "Every human creature weaves for himself and wears an elaborate vesture of illusion. All of us pretend."
• A Relic
  "It had occurred to me that I might be a writer."