“Mr. Roundabout,” says a lady sitting by me, “how comes it that in your books there is a certain class (it may be of men, or it may be of women, but that is not the question in point)—­how comes it, dear sir, there is a certain class of persons whom you always attack in your writings, and savagely rush at, goad, poke, toss up in the air, kick, and trample on?”

I couldn’t help myself.  I knew I ought not to do it.  I told her the whole story, between the entrees and the roast.  The wound began to bleed again.  The horrid pang was there, as keen and as fresh as ever.  If I live half as long as Tithonus,* that crack across my heart can never be cured.  There are wrongs and griefs that can’t be mended.  It is all very well of you, my dear Mrs. G., to say that this spirit is unchristian, and that we ought to forgive and forget, and so forth.  How can I forget at will?  How forgive?  I can forgive the occasional waiter who broke my beautiful old decanter at that very dinner.  I am not going to do him any injury.  But all the powers on earth can’t make that claret-jug whole.

     * “Tithonus,” by Tennyson, had appeared in the preceding
     (the 2nd) number of the Cornhill Magazine.

So, you see, I told the lady the inevitable story.  I was egotistical.  I was selfish, no doubt; but I was natural, and was telling the truth.  You say you are angry with a man for talking about himself.  It is because you yourself are selfish, that that other person’s Self does not interest you.  Be interested by other people and with their affairs.  Let them prattle and talk to you, as I do my dear old egotists just mentioned.  When you have had enough of them, and sudden hazes come over your eyes, lay down the volume; pop out the candle, and dormez bien.  I should like to write a nightcap book—­a book that you can muse over, that you can smile over, that you can yawn over—­a book of which you can say, “Well, this man is so and so and so and so; but he has a friendly heart (although some wiseacres have painted him as black as bogey), and you may trust what he says.”  I should like to touch you sometimes with a reminiscence that shall waken your sympathy, and make you say, Io anche have so thought, felt, smiled, suffered.  Now, how is this to be done except by egotism?  Linea recta brevissima.  That right line “I” is the very shortest, simplest, straightforwardest means of communication between us, and stands for what it is worth and no more.  Sometimes authors say, “The present writer has often remarked;” or “The undersigned has observed;” or “Mr. Roundabout presents his compliments to the gentle reader, and begs to state,” &c.:  but “I” is better and straighter than all these grimaces of modesty:  and although these are Roundabout Papers, and may wander who knows whither, I shall ask leave to maintain the upright and simple perpendicular.  When this bundle of egotisms is bound up together, as they may be one day, if no accident