the day succeeding that in which I
had been demolished by the elocutionist, Cousin Walter made his way to
my bedside, with a storm on his brow dark as midnight. "Is it true,
Hugh," he inquired, "that the lecturer Walsh ridiculed you and your
poems in the Council House last night?" "Oh, and what of that?" I said;
"who cares anything for the ridicule of a blockhead?" "Ay," said Walter,
"that's always your way; but _I_ care for it! Had I been there last
night, I would have sent the puppy through the window, to criticize
among the nettles in the yard. But there's no time lost: I shall wait on
him when it grows dark this evening, and give him a lesson in good
manners." "Not for your life, Walter!" I exclaimed. "Oh," said Walter,
"I shall give Walsh all manner of fair play." "Fair play!" I rejoined;
"you cannot give Walsh fair play; you are an overmatch for five Walshes.
If you meddle with him at all, you will kill the poor slim man at a
blow, and then not only will you be apprehended for manslaughter--mayhap
for murder--but it will also be said that I was mean enough to set you
on to do what I had not courage enough to do myself. You _must_ give up
all thoughts of meddling with Walsh." In short, I at length partially
succeeded in convincing Walter that he might do me a great mischief by
assaulting my critic; but so little confident was I of his seeing the
matter in its proper light, that when the lecturer, unable to get
audiences, quitted the place, and Walter had no longer opportunity of
avenging my cause, I felt a load of anxiety taken from off my mind.

There reached Cromarty shortly after, a criticism that differed
considerably from that of Walsh, and restored the shaken confidence of
some of my acquaintance. The other criticisms which had appeared in
newspapers, critical journals, and literary gazettes, had been evidently
the work of small men; and, feeble and commonplace in their style and
thinking, they carried with them no weight--for who cares anything for
the judgment, on one's writings, of men who themselves cannot write?
But here, at length, was there a critique eloquently and powerfully
written. It was, however, at least as extravagant in its praise as the
others in their censure. The friendly critic knew nothing of the author
he commended; but he had, I suppose, first seen the deprecatory
criticisms, and then glanced his eye over the volume which they
condemned; and finding it considerably better than it was sai