and in an American paper subsequently sent to me, I light, astonished,
on an account of the dinners of my friend and publisher, which are
described as "tremendously heavy," of the conversation (which does not
take place), and of the guests assembled at the table. I am informed
that the proprietor of the Cornhill, and the host on these occasions, is
"a very good man, but totally unread;" and that on my asking him whether
Dr. Johnson was dining behind the screen, he said, "God bless my soul,
my dear sir, there's no person by the name of Johnson here, nor any
one behind the screen," and that a roar of laughter cut him short. I
am informed by the same New York correspondent that I have touched up a
contributor's article; that I once said to a literary gentleman, who was
proudly pointing to an anonymous article as his writing, "Ah! I thought
I recognized YOUR HOOF in it." I am told by the same authority that the
Cornhill Magazine "shows symptoms of being on the wane," and having sold
nearly a hundred thousand copies, he (the correspondent) "should think
forty thousand was now about the mark." Then the graceful writer passes
on to the dinners, at which it appears the Editor of the Magazine "is
the great gun, and comes out with all the geniality in his power."

Now suppose this charming intelligence is untrue? Suppose the publisher
(to recall the words of my friend the Dublin actor of last month) is a
gentleman to the full as well informed as those whom he invites to his
table? Suppose he never made the remark, beginning--"God bless my soul,
my dear sir," nor anything resembling it? Suppose nobody roared with
laughing? Suppose the Editor of the Cornhill Magazine never "touched
up" one single line of the contribution which bears "marks of his hand?"
Suppose he never said to any literary gentleman, "I recognized YOUR
HOOF" in any periodical whatever? Suppose the 40,000 subscribers, which
the writer to New York "considered to be about the mark," should be
between 90,000 and 100,000 (and as he will have figures, there they