a nurse for it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-dust colored
chamberlains, or some of the tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses at
court, who never had children themselves, who cried out, "Faugh! the
horrid little squalling wretch!" and knew he would never come to good;
and said, "Didn't I tell you so?" when he assaulted the Egyptian.

Never mind then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, because a critic pooh-poohs
your work of art--your Moses--your child--your foundling. Why, did not
a wiseacre in Blackwood's Magazine lately fall foul of "Tom Jones?"
O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. Richardson, who could
write novels himself--but you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear sir, agree
in giving our respect, and wonder, and admiration, to the brave old
master.

In these last words I am supposing the respected reader to be endowed
with a sense of humor, which he may or may not possess; indeed, don't
we know many an honest man who can no more comprehend a joke than he can
turn a tune. But I take for granted, my dear sir, that you are brimming
over with fun--you mayn't make jokes, but you could if you would--you
know you could: and in your quiet way you enjoy them extremely. Now many
people neither make them, nor understand them when made, nor like them
when understood, and are suspicious, testy, and angry with jokers. Have
you ever watched an elderly male or female--an elderly "party," so to
speak, who begins to find out that some young wag of the company is
"chaffing" him? Have you ever tried the sarcastic or Socratic method
with a child? Little simple he or she, in the innocence of the simple
heart, plays some silly freak, or makes some absurd remark, which you
turn to ridicule. The little creature dimly perceives that you
are making fun of him, writhes, blushes, grows uneasy, bursts into
tears,--upon my word it is not fair to try the weapon of ridicule