s for his backgrounds? For
myself, being also du metier, I confess I would often like to have a
competent, respectable, and rapid clerk for the business part of my
novels; and on his arrival, at eleven o'clock, would say, "Mr. Jones,
if you please, the archbishop must die this morning in about five pages.
Turn to article 'Dropsy' (or what you will) in Encyclopaedia. Take
care there are no medical blunders in his death. Group his daughters,
physicians, and chaplains round him. In Wales's 'London,' letter B,
third shelf, you will find an account of Lambeth, and some prints of the
place. Color in with local coloring. The daughter will come down, and
speak to her lover in his wherry at Lambeth Stairs," &c., &c. Jones (an
intelligent young man) examines the medical, historical, topographical
books necessary; his chief points out to him in Jeremy Taylor (fol.,
London, M.DCLV.) a few remarks, such as might befit a dear old
archbishop departing this life. When I come back to dress for dinner,
the archbishop is dead on my table in five pages; medicine, topography,
theology, all right, and Jones has gone home to his family some hours.
Sir Christopher is the architect of St. Paul's. He has not laid the
stones or carried up the mortar. There is a great deal of carpenter's
and joiner's work in novels which surely a smart professional hand might
supply. A smart professional hand? I give you my word, there seem to me
parts of novels--let us say the love-making, the "business," the villain
in the cupboard, and so forth, which I should like to order John Footman
to take in hand, as I desire him to bring the coals and polish the
boots. Ask ME indeed to pop a robber under a bed, to hide a will which
shall be forthcoming in due season, or at my time of life to write a
namby-pamby love conversation between Emily and Lord Arthur! I feel
ashamed of myself, and especially when my business obliges me to do
the love-passages, I blush so, though quite alone in my study, that
you would fancy I was going off in an apoplexy. Are authors affected
by their own works? I don't know about other gentlemen, but if I make a
joke myself I cry; if I write a pathetic scene I am laughing wildly all
the time--at least Tomkins thinks so. You know I am such a cynic!

The editor of the Cornhill Magazine (no soft and yielding character like
his predecessor, but a man of stern resolution) will only allow these
harmless papers to run to a certain length. But for this v