any man.
Their intimacy with me would of course prevent any person from speaking
to them on the subject in an insulting manner; for it is not usual here,
whatever your unknown informant may do, for a gentleman who does not
wish to be kicked downstairs to reply to a man who mentions another as
his particular friend, "Do you mean the blackguard or the novel-reader?"
But I am fully convinced that had the charge prevailed to any extent it
must have reached the ears of one of those whom I interrogated. At all
events I have the consolation of not being thought a novel-reader by
three or four who are entitled to judge upon the subject, and whether
their opinion be of equal value with that of this John-a-Nokes against
whom I have to plead I leave you to decide.

But stronger evidence, it seems, is behind. This gentleman was in
company with me. Alas that I should never have found out how accurate
an observer was measuring my sentiments, numbering the novels which I
criticised, and speculating on the probability of my being plucked. "I
was familiar with all the novels whose names he had ever heard." If so
frightful an accusation did not stun me at once, I might perhaps hint
at the possibility that this was to be attributed almost as much to
the narrowness of his reading on this subject as to the extent of mine.
There are men here who are mere mathematical blocks; who plod on their
eight hours a day to the honours of the Senate House; who leave the
groves which witnessed the musings of Milton, of Bacon, and of Gray,
without one liberal idea or elegant image, and carry with them into the
world minds contracted by unmingled attention to one part of science,
and memories stored only with technicalities. How often have I seen
such men go forth into society for people to stare at them, and ask each
other how it comes that beings so stupid in conversation, so uninformed
on every subject of history, of letters, and of taste, could gain such
distinction at Cambridge!

It is in such circles, which, I am happy to say, I hardly know but by
report, that knowledge of modern literature is called novel-reading; a
commodious name, invented by ignorance and applied by envy, in the same
manner as men without learning call a scholar a pedant, and men without
principle call a Christian a Methodist. To me the attacks of such men
are valuable as compliments. The man whose friend tells him that he is
known to be extensively acquainted with elegant lite