but he has a good many friends there.' Another writes: 'Of course we all
recognised Uncle George in your Mr. Flibbertigibbet; but we try not to
laugh; indeed our sense of loss is too recent. Seriously, I think you
might have waited till the poor old man--who was always kind to you,
Dick--was cold in his grave.'

Some of these excellent creatures send incidents of real life which they
are sure will be useful to 'dear Dick' for his next book--narratives of
accidents in a hansom cab, of missing the train by the Underground, and
of Mr. Jones being late for his own wedding, 'which, though nothing in
themselves, actually did happen, you know, and which, properly dressed
up, as you so well know how to do,' will, they are sure, obtain for him
a marked success. 'There is nothing like reality,' they say, he may
depend upon it, 'for coming home to people.'

After all, one need not read these abominable letters. One's relatives
(thank Heaven!) usually live in the country. The real Critics on the
Hearth are one's personal acquaintances in town, whom one cannot
escape.

'My dear friend,' said one to me the other day--a most cordial and
excellent fellow, by-the-bye (only too frank)--'I like you, as you
know, beyond everything, personally, but I cannot read your books.'

'My dear Jones,' replied I, 'I regret that exceedingly; for it is you,
and men like you, whose suffrages I am most anxious to win. Of the
approbation of all intelligent and educated persons I am certain; but
if I could only obtain that of the million, I should be a happy man.'

But even when I have thus demolished Jones, I still feel that I owe him