Was there ever a piece of sentiment cheaper, falser, more tawdry? Who applauds a man for not turning his old mother out of doors at the impertinent request of a meddling nobody? Look at the stormy small capitals of this oatmeal hero, who is supposed to electrify us by the mere fact of his not being an incredible ass and scoundrel! Does any sober person think for a moment that a man of genius could have made this revolting blunder? It is beyond comparison the densest bit of stupidity in dealing with the emotions I have encountered anywhere. Anybody but Mr. Crockett can see where the point of the story lies. It lies in the cool impertinence and heartlessness of his visitors. To put the emphasis on the rejection of their proposal--to make a point of _that_--is to insult the reader. Of course it was rejected. How should it possibly, by any stretch of poltroonery and baseness, be otherwise? _Ex pede Herculem_. This bedrummed and betrumpeted man of genius cannot read the A B _ab_ of the human emotions. ‘Here!’ says the subtle tempter, ‘I’ll give you twopence if you’ll put your baby on the fire!’ The god-like hero thunders: ‘No! He is my flesh and blood. He is the sacred trust of Heaven. He is innocent, he is helpless. I’ll show you to the door!’ Oh! what emotions stir within the heart when a master’s hand awakes a chord like this! There is, of course, a certain angry pleasure in this necessary work; but it does not endure, and it is followed rapidly by a reaction of pain and pity. But we have a right to ask--we have a right to insist--that undeserved reputations shall not be manufactured for us by any clique. We have a right to protest when the offence is open and flagrant. Let it be said, if it be not too late to say it, that Mr. Crockett, if left alone by his indiscreet admirers, or only puffed within the limits of the reasonable, might have been regarded as an honest workman as times go, when everybody, more or less, writes fiction.