After all, one need not read these abominable letters.  One’s relatives (thank Heaven!) usually live in the country.  The real Critics on the Hearth are one’s personal acquaintances in town, whom one cannot escape.

‘My dear friend,’ said one to me the other day—­a most cordial and excellent fellow, by-the-bye (only too frank)—­’I like you, as you know, beyond everything, personally, but I cannot read your books.’

‘My dear Jones,’ replied I, ’I regret that exceedingly; for it is you, and men like you, whose suffrages I am most anxious to win.  Of the approbation of all intelligent and educated persons I am certain; but if I could only obtain that of the million, I should be a happy man.’

But even when I have thus demolished Jones, I still feel that I owe him a grudge.  ’What the Deuce is it to me whether Jones likes my books or not? and why does he tell me he doesn’t like them?’

Of the surpassing ignorance of these good people, I have just heard an admirable anecdote.  A friend of a justly popular author meets him in the club and congratulates him upon his last story in the Slasher [in which he has never written a line].  It is so full of farce and fun [the author is a grave writer].  ’Only I don’t see why it is not advertised under the same title in the other newspapers.’  The fact being that the story in the Slasher is a parody—­and not a very good-natured one—­upon the author’s last work, and resembles it only as a picture in Vanity Fair resembles its original.

Some Critics on the Hearth are not only good-natured, but have rather too high, or, if that is impossible, let us say too pronounced, an opinion of the abilities of their literary friends.  They wonder why they do not employ their gigantic talents in some enduring monument, such as a life of ‘Alexander the Great’ or a popular history of the Visigoths.  To them literature is literature, and they do not concern themselves with little niceties of style or differences of subject.  Others again, though extremely civil, are apt to affect more enthusiasm than they feel.  They admire one’s works without exception—­’they are all absolutely charming’—­but they would be placed in a position of great embarrassment if they were asked to name their favourite:  for, as a matter of fact, they are ignorant of the very names of them.  A novelist of my acquaintance lent his last work to a lady cousin because she ‘really could not wait till she got it from the library;’ besides, ‘she was ill, and wanted some amusing literature.’  After a month or so he got his three volumes back, with a most gushing letter.  It ’had been the comfort of many a weary hour of sleeplessness,’ etc.  The thought of having ‘smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain’ would, she felt sure, be gratifying to him.  Perhaps it would have been, only she had omitted to cut the pages even of the first volume.