originally appeared—that obscure journal at the time being, as it is to this day, one of the most successful of all our weeklies. In his case the _motif_ of the ill-natured criticism was very obvious. In some cases one can only impute a review of an unfavourable character to what the Americans call “pure cussedness.” For instance, I had written a book called “British Senators,” of which _The Pall Mall Gazette_ had spoken in the highest terms. It fell into the hands of the _Saturday_ reviewer when _The Saturday Review_ was in its palmy days, always piquant and never dull. It was a fine opportunity for the reviewer, and he wielded his tomahawk with all the vigour of the Red Indian. I was an unknown man with no friends. It was a grand opportunity, though he was kind enough to admit that I was a literary gent of the Sala and Edmund Yates type (it was the time when George Augustus Sala was at the bottom—the _Saturday_ took to praising him when he had won his position), a favourable specimen if I remember aright. So far so good, but the aim of the superfine reviewer was of course to make “the literary gent” look like a fool. As an illustration of the way in which we all contract our ideas from living in a little world of our own, I said that I had heard the late Mr. Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, say at a peace meeting at Edinburgh that there were more tears shed on the occasion of the death of Mr. Bradshaw of the Railway Guide than when the Duke of Wellington died. The _Saturday_ reviewer exultingly wrote “Here is a blunder of Ritchie’s; what Mr. Sturge said, and what Ritchie should have said, was that there were more tears shed when Mr. Braidwood of the Fire Brigade died, than when the Duke of Wellington died.” No doubt many a reader of the _Saturday_ chuckled over the blunder of “the literary gent” thus held up to derision. But unfortunately for the _Saturday_ reviewer, Mr. Sturge died before Mr. Braidwood, and thus it was impossible that he could have referred to the tears shed on the occasion of the death of the latter. The laugh really ought to have been the other way. But the mischief was done, “the literary gent” snubbed, and that was all the _Saturday_ superfine reviewer cared about. CHAPTER IX. CARDIFF AND THE WELSH.