sation was very shoppy; yet it interested them amazingly. They were quite busy with it when they arrived at the Temple.
"Don't hurry off," said Martin, seizing Wilford's arm; "it's not late. Come in for half-an-hour. I've a lot more to say. Come in, and smoke a cigar. I shan't go to work immediately; you won't be the least in my way. You can correct some proof for me if you like, while I see if there are any messages or letters. Come along; indeed it's not late."
So they mounted many stairs, and reached at last George Martin's chambers. These were not large, but were comfortable, and well, even handsomely furnished. One or two pictures of very creditable execution adorned walls that were in other respects nearly hidden by bookshelves. Anybody who entered the rooms, expecting to find the litter and untidiness, and discomfort, which are universally attributed to bachelors, would have been disappointed. With the exception of the writing-table in the corner, which was certainly rather in confusion, crowded with open books, and scattered sheets of paper, and which looked rather as though it had been out without an umbrella in a shower of quill pens—the room was in good order. The furniture was good and massive, and the fittings in excellent taste. "My laundress is a treasure," George would sometimes say, "with the bump of order strongly developed, and a decided passion for cleanliness. She is indulged in that particular, always with the proviso that my writing-table is to remain intact, and its papers undisturbed, no matter into what habits of déshabille they may appear to have fallen—untouched by brush or duster. It's a subject of great distress to Mrs. Cobb, I can assure you—quite a grievance—but I am peremptory on the subject. I am a peaceful man on most occasions, but I should make this a casus belli. My table touched, I should unmask my batteries, and favour Mrs. Cobb with a broadside which would, I think, rather startle her. She is aware of the fact, and, I am happy to say, conducts herself accordingly. I know where to find things while my papers are in confusion. Once put them to rights, and I'm a lost man." It was a pleasant room by daylight, looking on to the river and the gardens; and at all times—while not too much like an office on the one hand, or too nearly resembling a drawing-room on the other—asserted itself as the appropriate home of a hard-working gentleman of the Temple.
"What were we talking about?" asked Martin, reverting to some conversation that had preceded their arrival at his chambers. "O, I remember, about myself and critics generally. Well, you know the old notion isn't quite exploded. The public have a liking for well-worn ideas; they cling to them as to old clothes that fit beautifully, and it's hard to part with, though they are in tatters. The popular notion of a critic—and I am bound to say that some authors still back the opinion heavily—the popular notion has it, that the critic is still a sort of Blunderbore creature, always crying 'Fee! fo! fum!! and smelling the blood of an author. They prefer that picture to the thought of a gentleman of respectable intelligence sitting down calmly to read the book through, and then writing deliberately his opinion upon it, impartially arrived at. I allow that there's less colour and force about that view, but I submit there's more truth: or do you prefer to hold that the reviewer cuts the leaves, smells the paper-knife as Hood suggested, sells the book to buy a pint of brandy, and then proceeds to abuse the author with all the savageness possible—and not the author only, but his father and his mother, and his sister and his brother? No; those tomahawking times are over, and I don't think critics now-a-days are any fonder of brandy than churchwardens. By the way, let us have a little while we're on the subject. Hot or cold? It won't hurt you—only half a glass? Not any? Pick out a good cigar from that bundle—smoke at least. No, a critic isn't always what people think him. They must give up the idea that he is a literary Malay intoxicated with intellectual bang, running a-muck among the books, and cutting and slashing at every author in his path."
"All this is to prepare my mind for your 'letting down' my book when it comes to you for review," said Wilford, laughing.
"No, indeed," answered Martin, "there was no such stuff in my thoughts. Besides, your book won't be let down. I look upon it as quite safe—safe. I mean, for a certain measure of success. Beyond that, accident must determine—the state of the public mind—the other new books in the market—the temper of the time. It's not very difficult to beat the ruck; getting a good place in the race is another thing. But don't be depressed. I believe in the book. I'm sure it will do. I know it's honestly done; and about the ability there's no question. What does this note say? An invitation to dine with the Magazine people. I must go, I suppose—though dinners interfere with the morrow's work. Dear me! here's a load of proof. But I must begin with a cigar."
He lighted one.
"Stop," cried Wilford, "don't throw away the light." But he had not spoken in time; Martin had flung the lighted spill into the grate.
"I beg your pardon," said Martin, "but we'll soon find a scrap of paper. Not that though—that's MS., and this? By Jove, no, that will not do! A cheque."
"Thank you. I have a light now." He had drawn some papers from his pocket.
"The envelope of this letter will do." He twisted it up, and set fire to it.
"By the by, what is this letter?" he said. He opened it. It was the letter he had put into his pocket on leaving Freer Street. He gave a glance at the rather unsteady writing—the pale ink—a few brief lines only. He had hardly had time to complete his perusal, when a violent trembling seized him, and his cigar fell from his lips.
Martin was turned away, searching among his papers.
"I wanted to show you a note I had from the publisher of the . O, here it is! But, good heavens! what's the matter? You're as white as a sheet, man! What is it? Are you ill? What's the matter?"
