gathered before the 'writing on the wall,' and unable to read the
characters or make known the interpretation. We have a right to
rejoice when a true seer comes at last, some man in whom is an
excellent spirit, to whom have been given light, wisdom, and
understanding; who can accurately read the 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,
Upharsin' of an original mind (however unripe, however
inefficiently cultured and partially expanded that mind may be);
and who can say with confidence, 'This is the interpretation
thereof.

Yet even the writer to whom I allude shares the mistake about the
authorship, and does me the injustice to suppose that there was
equivoque in my former rejection of this honour (as an honour I
regard it). May I assure him that I would scorn in this and in
every other case to deal in equivoque; I believe language to have
been given us to make our meaning clear, and not to wrap it in
dishonest doubt?

'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' by Acton Bell, had likewise an
unfavourable reception. At this I cannot wonder. The choice of
subject was an entire mistake. Nothing less congruous with the
writer's nature could be conceived. The motives which dictated
this choice were pure, but, I think, slightly morbid. She had, in
the course of her life, been called on to contemplate, near at
hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused
and faculties abused: hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved,
and dejected nature; what she saw sank very deeply into her mind;
it did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a
duty to reproduce every detail (of course with fictitious
characters, incidents, and situations), as a warning to others.