Suppose a man writes something, call it anything you please--call it a lecture if you like--say that it is partly political, and that it is published by request; and suppose further that somebody, name unknown, writes an interesting account of its scope and general merits, and it is put into some periodical--you can call it anything you please--say a county paper, for instance.

The author is set in the best light, and the reviewer brings forward also some of his own views, which is quite fair----" As he seemed to be appealing to Laura, Laura said, "Yes; perfectly fair." "His own views--on--on the currency or anything else you like to mention." Here John Mortimer asked Mrs.Melcombe if she would take some more wine, Valentine proceeding gravely: "Now do you or do you not think that if that review had been signed by the lecturer's father, brother, or friend almost as intimate as a brother, it would have carried more weight or less in consequence ?" As several of them smiled, Mrs.Melcombe immediately felt uncomfortable again.
"If what he said was true," she said, "I cannot exactly see----" and here she paused.
"Well," said John Mortimer, observing that the attention of his keen-witted little daughter was excited, and being desirous, it seemed, to give a plainer example of what it all meant, "let us say now, for once, that I am a poet.

I send out a new book, and sit quaking.

The first three reviews appear.

Given in little they read thus:-- "One.