ese pages. This remark is put forward in no apologetic spirit. As
years go by and the number of pages grows steadily, the feeling grows
upon one, too, that one can write only for friends. Then why should one
put them to the necessity of protesting (as a friend would do) that no
apology is necessary, or put, perchance, into their heads the doubt of
one's discretion? So much as to the care due to those friends whom a
word here, a line there, a fortunate page of just feeling in the right
place, some happy simplicity, or even some lucky subtlety, has drawn
from the great multitude of fellow beings even as a fish is drawn from
the depths of the sea. Fishing is notoriously (I am talking now of the
deep sea) a matter of luck. As to one's enemies, they will take care of
themselves.

There is a gentleman, for instance, who, metaphorically speaking, jumps
upon me with both feet. This image has no grace, but it is exceedingly
apt to the occasion--to the several occasions. I don't know precisely
how long he has been indulging in that intermittent exercise, whose
seasons are ruled by the custom of the publishing trade. Somebody
pointed him out (in printed shape, of course) to my attention some time
ago, and straightway I experienced a sort of reluctant affection for
that robust man. He leaves not a shred of my substance untrodden: for
the writer's substance is his writing; the rest of him is but a vain
shadow, cherished or hated on uncritical grounds. Not a shred! Yet the
sentiment owned to is not a freak of affectation or perversity. It has
a deeper, and, I venture to think, a more estimable origin than the
caprice of emotional lawlessness. It is, indeed, lawful, in so much
that it is given (reluctantly) for a consideration, for several
considerations. There is that robustness, for instance, so often the
sign of good moral balance. That's a consideration. It is not, indeed,
pleasant to be stamped upon, but the very thoroughness of the operation,
implying not only a careful reading, but some real insight into work
whose qualities and defects, whatever they may be, are not so much on
the surface, is something to be thankful for in view of the fact that it
may happen to one's work to be condemned without being read at all. This
is the most fatuous adventure that can well happen to a writer venturing
his soul among criticisms. It can do one no harm, of course, but it
is disagreeable. It is disagreeable in the same way as discovering
a