at they had made a mistake,
that I was not the author of the obnoxious work.

But the only effect his letter had on their minds was a pained uprootal
of their respect and long affection for him. And they both died some
years later, and (presumably) went up to heaven, convinced of my guilt,
in spite of the unscrupulous parental ruridiaconal effort to whitewash
me.

Long afterwards I mentioned this incident to Mrs. Clifford, but it did
not cause her surprise. She had had her own experiences. She told me
that when "Aunt Anne" appeared, she had many letters from persons with
whom she was unacquainted, reproaching her for having portrayed their
aunt.

The reverse of the medal ought perhaps to be mentioned. So primitive was
the circle in which my youth was passed that an adverse review, if seen
by one of the community, was at once put down to a disaffected and
totally uneducated person in our village.

A witty but unfavourable criticism in _Punch_ of my first story was
always believed by two ladies in the parish to have been penned by one
of the village tradesmen. It was in vain I assured them that the person
in question could not by any possibility be on the staff of _Punch_.
They only shook their heads, and repeated mysteriously that they "had
reasons for _knowing_ he had written it."

When we moved to London, I hoped I might fare better. But evidently I
had been born under an unlucky star. The "Aunt Anne" incident proved to
be only the first playful ripple which heralded the incoming of the

Breakers of the boundless deep.

After the publication of "Red Pottage" a storm burst respecting one of
the characters--Mr. Gresley--which even now I have not forgotten. The
personal note was struck once more with vigour, but this time by the
clerical arm. I was denounced by name from a London pulpit. A Church
newspaper which shall be nameless suggested that my portrait of Mr.
Gresley was merely a piece of spite on my part, as I had probably been
jilted by a clergyman. I will not pretend that the turmoil gave me
unmixed pain. If it had, I should have been without literary vanity. But
when a witty bishop wrote to me that he had enjoined on his clergy the
study of Mr. Gresley as a Lenten penance, it was not possible for me to
remain permanently depressed.

The character was the outcome of long, close observation of large
numbers of clergymen, but not of one particular parson. Why, then, was
it so exactly like individual cle