of me.  I could scarcely restrain myself from parodying Alceste’s phrase,—­“Really, Gentlemen, I did not think myself the fellow of talents I find I am!” But, of all surprises, the human heart finds this the easiest to grow accustomed to.  I soon found it perfectly natural that people should look upon me as a genius, and I ingenuously reproached myself for not having sooner made the discovery.  Everybody praised my little book as if it were a masterpiece.  I might have made a volume with the packets of praises sent to me; but I must add, for truth’s sake, that most of my panegyrists took care to slip under the envelope which covered their letter of praise a volume of their works.  I have kept several of these letters.  Here are copies of three of them.

“Sir,—­Your appearance among us is an honor in which every literary man feels he has a share.  You will regenerate criticism, as you have purified novel-writing.  One becomes better as he reads your works, and feels an irresistible desire to do better that he may be more worthy of your esteem.  The days your criticisms appear are our red-letter days, and every line you give our poor little books is worth to them the sale of a hundred copies.  I take the liberty to send you herewith a humble volume.  You may, perhaps, find in it some over-crude tones, some raw shades; but do not forbear to exercise your critical perspicuity.  I submit myself in advance to your reproaches and to your reservations; to be censured by you is even a piece of good fortune, as your reprimands themselves are adorned with courtesy and grace.”

“Sir,—­I admire you the more because our opinions are not the same; they may be said to be contrary; but extremes meet, and we join hands on a great many points:  are we not both of us vanquished?  Chateaubriand sympathized, nay, more, fraternized, with Armand Carrel.  I am not Carrel, but you may be Chateaubriand before a very long while.  I would beg to lay before you the book which goes with this note; some passages of it may, perhaps, wound your honorable regrets, your chivalrous respects, but they are sincere; and this sincerity I have never better understood and practised than when I assure you that I am your most assiduous reader and most fervent admirer.”

“Sir,—­Do not judge me, I pray you, from the newspapers in which, to my great regret, I write:  imperious circumstances, old acquaintance, and—­why shall I not confess it?—­the necessities of Parisian life, have driven me to appear to have enlisted on the side of the most numerous battalions.  But I have in the Provinces a good old mother who reads no newspaper but yours; one of my uncles is a Chevalier de Saint Louis; another served in Conde’s army; my Aunt Veronica is a pious woman, who would forever look kindly upon me, if she should ever perceive through her spectacles her nephew’s name followed by praise from your pen.  For I need not say that you are her favorite author, as,