And it appears to me that there is really something in these arguments.
As regards the latter part of them, by-the-bye, I had the pleasure of
seeing my own last immortal story spoken of in an American
magazine--the _Atlantic Monthly_--as the work of 'a bright and
prosperous young author.' The critic (Heaven bless his young heart, and
give him a happy Whitsuntide) evidently imagined it to be my first
production. In another Transatlantic organ, a critic, speaking of the
last work of that literary veteran, the late Mr. Le Fanu, observes: 'If
this young writer would only model himself upon the works of Mr.
William Black in his best days, we foresee a great future before him.'

There is one thing that I think should be set down to the credit of the
literary profession--that for the most part they take their 'slatings'
(which is the professional term for them) with at least outward
equanimity. I have read things of late, written of an old and popular
writer, ten times more virulent than anything Mr. Ruskin wrote of Mr.
Whistler: yet neither he, nor any other man of letters, thinks of
flying to his mother's apron-string, or of setting in motion old Father
Antic, the Law. Perhaps it is that we have no money, or perhaps, like
the judicious author of whom I have spoken, we abstain from reading
unpleasant things. I wish to goodness we could abstain from hearing of
them; but the 'd----d good-natured friend' is an eternal creation. He
has altered, however, since Sheridan's time in his method of
proceeding. He does not say, 'There is a very unpleasant notice of you
in the _Scorpion_, my dear fellow, which I deplore.' The scoundrel now
affects a more light-hearted style. 'There is a review of your last
book in the _Scorpion_', he says, 'which will amuse you. It is very
malicious, and evidently the offspring of personal spite, but it is
very clever.' Then you go down to your club, and take the thing up with