“My dear Snooks,—­I am on the look-out here for materials for original comedies such as those lately produced at your theatre; and, in the course of my studies, I have found something, my dear Snooks, which I think will suit your book.  You are bringing, I see, your admirable novel, ‘The Mysteries of May Fair,’ to an end—­(by the way, the scene, in the 200th number, between the Duke, his Grandmother, and the Jesuit Butler, is one of the most harrowing and exciting I ever read)—­and, of course, you must turn your real genius to some other channel; and we may expect that your pen shall not be idle.

“The original plan I have to propose to you, then, is taken from the French, just like the original dramas above mentioned; and, indeed, I found it in the law report of the National newspaper, and a French literary gentleman, M. Emanuel Gonzales, has the credit of the invention.  He and an advertisement agent fell out about a question of money, the affair was brought before the courts, and the little plot so got wind.  But there is no reason why you should not take the plot and act on it yourself.  You are a known man; the public relishes your works; anything bearing the name of Snooks is eagerly read by the masses; and though Messrs. Hookey, of Holywell Street, pay you handsomely, I make no doubt you would like to be rewarded at a still higher figure.

“Unless he writes with a purpose, you know, a novelist in our days is good for nothing.  This one writes with a socialist purpose; that with a conservative purpose:  this author or authoress with the most delicate skill insinuates Catholicism into you, and you find yourself all but a Papist in the third volume:  another doctors you with Low Church remedies to work inwardly upon you, and which you swallow down unsuspiciously, as children do calomel in jelly.  Fiction advocates all sorts of truth and causes—­doesn’t the delightful bard of the Minories find Moses in everything?  M. Gonzales’s plan, and the one which I recommend to my dear Snooks, simply was to write an advertisement novel.  Look over The Times or the ‘Directory,’ walk down Regent Street or Fleet Street any day—­see what houses advertise most, and put yourself into communication with their proprietors.  With your rings, your chains, your studs, and the tip on your chin, I don’t know any greater swell than Bob Snooks.  Walk into the shops, I say, ask for the principal, and introduce yourself, saying, ’I am the great Snooks; I am the author of the “Mysteries of May Fair;” my weekly sale is 281,000; I am about to produce a new work called “The Palaces of Pimlico, or the Curse of the Court,” describing and lashing fearlessly the vices of the aristocracy; this book will have a sale of at least 530,000; it will be on every table—­in the boudoir of the pampered duke, as in the chamber of the honest artisan.  The myriads of foreigners who are coming to London, and are anxious to know about our national manners, will purchase my book, and carry it to their distant homes.  So, Mr. Taylor, or Mr. Haberdasher, or Mr. Jeweller, how much will you stand if I recommend you in my forthcoming novel?’ You may make a noble income in this way, Snooks.