nd
enfeebled that, two hundred years after, my constitution is paying the
penalty, and my whole life is thereby changed and thwarted. Hence this
childless Randolph is affecting the course of several lives in the 19th
century to their grievous hurt.

But revenons a nos moutons--that is to say, to our lion and lamb--the
old brute of a Major and his long-suffering son.

While the table was being cleared, the Major took forty winks on the
sofa, and we two beat a retreat, lit up our pipes in the passage, and
were just turning out when the postman's double knock came, but no
showers of letters in the box. Derrick threw open the door, and the man
handed him a fat, stumpy-looking roll in a pink wrapper.

"I say!" he exclaimed, "PROOFS!"

And, in hot haste, he began tearing away the pink paper, till out came
the clean, folded bits of printing and the dirty and dishevelled blue
foolscap, the look of which I knew so well. It is an odd feeling, that
first seeing one's self in print, and I could guess, even then, what a
thrill shot through Derrick as he turned over the pages. But he would
not take them into the sitting-room, no doubt dreading another diatribe
against his profession; and we solemnly played euchre, and patiently
endured the Major's withering sarcasms till ten o'clock sounded our
happy release.

However, to make a long story short, a month later--that is, at the end
of November--'Lynwood's Heritage' was published in three volumes with
maroon cloth and gilt lettering. Derrick had distributed among his
friends the publishers' announcement of the day of publication; and when
it was out I besieged the libraries for it, always expressing surprise
if I did not find it in their lists. Then began the time of reviews. As
I had expected, they were extremely favourable, with the exception of
the Herald, the Stroller, and the Hour, which made it rather hot for
him, the latter in particular pitching into his views and assuring
its readers that the book was 'dangerous,' and its author a believer
in--various thing especially repugnant to Derrick, at it happened.

I was with him when he read these reviews. Over the cleverness of the
satirical attack in the Weekly Herald he laughed heartily, though
the laugh was against himself; and as to the critic who wrote in the
Stroller it was apparent to all who knew 'Lynwood' that he had not read
much of the book; but over this review in the Hour he was genuinely
angry--it hurt him person