rivate character, and told monstrous stories of
his immoralities in every direction, the volume was shut up and
consigned to the dark pockets of a travelling bag. I listened in wonder
and astonishment, behind my newspaper, to stories of myself, which if
they had been true would have consigned any man to a prison for life.
After my fictitious biographer had occupied himself for nearly an hour
with the eloquent recital of my delinquencies and crimes, I very quietly
joined in the conversation. Of course I began by modestly doubting some
statements which I had just heard, touching the author of 'Bleak House,'
and other unimportant works of a similar character. The man stared at
me, and evidently considered my appearance on the conversational stage
an intrusion and an impertinence. 'You seem to speak,' I said, 'from
personal knowledge of Mr. Dickens. Are you acquainted with him?' He
rather evaded the question, but, following him up closely, I compelled
him to say that he had been talking, not from his own knowledge of the
author in question; but he said he knew for a certainty that every
statement he had made was a true one. I then became more earnest in my
inquiries for proofs, which he arrogantly declined giving. The ladies
sat by in silence, listening intently to what was going forward. An
author they had been accustomed to read for amusement had been traduced
for the first time in their hearing, and they were waiting to learn
what I had to say in refutation of the clergyman's charges. I was taking
up his vile stories, one by one, and stamping them as false in every
particular, when the man grew furious, and asked me if I knew Dickens
personally. I replied, 'Perfectly well; no man knows him better than I
do; and all your stories about him from beginning to end, to these
ladies, are unmitigated lies.' The man became livid with rage, and asked
for my card. 'You shall have it,' I said, and, coolly taking out
one, I presented it to him without bowing. We were just then nearing the
station in London, so that I was spared a longer interview with my
_truthful_ companion; but, if I were to live a hundred years, I should
not forget the abject condition into which the narrator of my crimes was
instantly plunged. His face turned white as his cravat, and his lips
refused to utter words. He seemed like a wilted vegetable, and as if his
legs belonged to somebody else. The ladies became aware of the situation
at once, and, bidding them 'g