a grudge. 'What the Deuce is it to me whether Jones likes my books or
not? and why does he tell me he doesn't like them?'

Of the surpassing ignorance of these good people, I have just heard an
admirable anecdote. A friend of a justly popular author meets him in
the club and congratulates him upon his last story in the _Slasher_ [in
which he has never written a line]. It is so full of farce and fun [the
author is a grave writer]. 'Only I don't see why it is not advertised
under the same title in the other newspapers.' The fact being that the
story in the _Slasher_ is a parody--and not a very good-natured
one--upon the author's last work, and resembles it only as a picture in
_Vanity Fair_ resembles its original.

Some Critics on the Hearth are not only good-natured, but have rather
too high, or, if that is impossible, let us say too pronounced, an
opinion of the abilities of their literary friends. They wonder why
they do not employ their gigantic talents in some enduring monument,
such as a life of 'Alexander the Great' or a popular history of the
Visigoths. To them literature is literature, and they do not concern
themselves with little niceties of style or differences of subject.
Others again, though extremely civil, are apt to affect more enthusiasm
than they feel. They admire one's works without exception--'they are
all absolutely charming'--but they would be placed in a position of
great embarrassment if they were asked to name their favourite: for, as
a matter of fact, they are ignorant of the very names of them. A
novelist of my acquaintance lent his last work to a lady cousin because
she 'really could not wait till she got it from the library;' besides,
'she was ill, and wanted some amusing literature.' After a month or so
he got his three volumes back, with a most gushing letter. It 'had been
the comfort of many a weary hour of sleeplessness,' etc. The thought of