'He copied from Snooks, whose immortal work, "The Loves of the Linendraper," is a comfort and a joy to our generation.' "Two.

'He has none of the culture, the spontaneity, the suavity, the reticence, the _abandon_, the heating power, the cooling power, the light, the shade, or any of the other ingredients referred to by the great Small in his noble work on poesy,' "Three.

'This man doesn't know how to write his own language.' "As I am a poet, fancy my state of mind! I am horribly cast down; don't like to go out to dinner; am sure my butler, having read these reviews, despises me as an impostor; but while I sit sulking, in comes a dear friend and brother-poet.

'How do you know,' says he, 'that Snooks didn't write number one himself?
Or perhaps one of his clique did, for whom he is to do the same thing.' I immediately shake hands with him.

This is evidently his candid opinion, and I love candour in a friend; besides, we both hate Snooks.