somebody, as far back as the year 1838: whenever I think of it and have
had a couple of glasses of wine, I CANNOT help telling it. The toe is
stamped upon; the pain is just as keen as ever: I cry out, and perhaps
utter imprecatory language. I told the story only last Wednesday at
dinner:--

"Mr. Roundabout," says a lady sitting by me, "how comes it that in your
books there is a certain class (it may be of men, or it may be of women,
but that is not the question in point)--how comes it, dear sir, there is
a certain class of persons whom you always attack in your writings, and
savagely rush at, goad, poke, toss up in the air, kick, and trample on?"

I couldn't help myself. I knew I ought not to do it. I told her the
whole story, between the entrees and the roast. The wound began to bleed
again. The horrid pang was there, as keen and as fresh as ever. If I
live half as long as Tithonus,* that crack across my heart can never be
cured. There are wrongs and griefs that CAN'T be mended. It is all very
well of you, my dear Mrs. G., to say that this spirit is unchristian,
and that we ought to forgive and forget, and so forth. How can I forget
at will? How forgive? I can forgive the occasional waiter who broke my
beautiful old decanter at that very dinner. I am not going to do him any
injury. But all the powers on earth can't make that claret-jug whole.

* "Tithonus," by Tennyson, had appeared in the preceding
(the 2nd) number of the Cornhill Magazine.

So, you see, I told the lady the inevitable story. I was egotistical. I
was selfish, no doubt; but I was natural, and was telling the truth. You
say you are angry with a man for talking about himself. It is because
you yourself are selfish, that that other person's Self does not