the author’s private character, and told monstrous stories of his immoralities in every direction, the volume was shut up and consigned to the dark pockets of a travelling bag.  I listened in wonder and astonishment, behind my newspaper, to stories of myself, which if they had been true would have consigned any man to a prison for life.  After my fictitious biographer had occupied himself for nearly an hour with the eloquent recital of my delinquencies and crimes, I very quietly joined in the conversation.  Of course I began by modestly doubting some statements which I had just heard, touching the author of ‘Bleak House,’ and other unimportant works of a similar character.  The man stared at me, and evidently considered my appearance on the conversational stage an intrusion and an impertinence.  ‘You seem to speak,’ I said, ’from personal knowledge of Mr. Dickens.  Are you acquainted with him?’ He rather evaded the question, but, following him up closely, I compelled him to say that he had been talking, not from his own knowledge of the author in question; but he said he knew for a certainty that every statement he had made was a true one.  I then became more earnest in my inquiries for proofs, which he arrogantly declined giving.  The ladies sat by in silence, listening intently to what was going forward.  An author they had been accustomed to read for amusement had been traduced for the first time in their hearing, and they were waiting to learn what I had to say in refutation of the clergyman’s charges.  I was taking up his vile stories, one by one, and stamping them as false in every particular, when the man grew furious, and asked me if I knew Dickens personally.  I replied, ’Perfectly well; no man knows him better than I do; and all your stories about him from beginning to end, to these ladies, are unmitigated lies.’  The man became livid with rage, and asked for my card.  ‘You shall have it,’ I said, and, coolly taking out one, I presented it to him without bowing.  We were just then nearing the station in London, so that I was spared a longer interview with my truthful companion; but, if I were to live a hundred years, I should not forget the abject condition into which the narrator of my crimes was instantly plunged.  His face turned white as his cravat, and his lips refused to utter words.  He seemed like a wilted vegetable, and as if his legs belonged to somebody else.  The ladies became aware of the situation at once, and, bidding them ‘good day,’ I stepped smilingly out of the carriage.  Before I could get away from the station the man had mustered up strength sufficient to follow me, and his apologies were so nauseous and craven, that I pitied him from my soul.  I left him with this caution, ’Before you make charges against the character of any man again, about whom you know nothing, and of whose works you are utterly ignorant, study to be a seeker after Truth, and avoid Lying as you would eternal perdition.’”