Our postman here does not deliver parcels until the afternoon--which nobody grumbles at, because of his infirmity and his long and useful career. The manuscript, therefore, of your novel, _Sunshine and Shadow_, has not yet reached me. But your letter--in which, you beg me to send an opinion upon the work, with some advice upon your chances of success in literature--I found on my breakfast-table, as well as the photograph which you desire (perhaps wisely) to face the title-page. I trust you will forgive the slight stain in the lower left-hand corner of the portrait, which I return: for it is the strawberry-season here, and in course of my reflections I had the misfortune to let the cardboard slip between my fingers and fall across the edge of the plate. I have taken the resolution to send my advice before it can be shaken by a perusal of _Sunshine and Shadow_. But it is difficult nevertheless. I might say bluntly that, unless the camera lies, your face is not one to stake against Fame over a game of hazard. You remember John Lyly's "Cupid and my Campaspe"?--and how Cupid losing, "_down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none lenows how)_ ..." --and so on, with the rest of his charms, one by one? I might assure you that when maidens play against Fame they risk all these treasures and more, without hope of leniency from their opponent, who (you will note) is the same sex. But you will answer by return of post, that this is no business of mine, and that I exhibit the usual impertinence of man when asked to consider woman's serious aspiration. You will protest that you are ready to stake all this. Very well, then: listen, if you have patience, to a little story that I came upon, a week since, about a man who spent his days at this game of hazard. It was called _The Two Monuments_. When the Headmaster of the Grammar-School came to add up the marks for the term's work and examination--which he always did without a mistake--it was discovered that in the Upper Fourth (the top form) Thompson had beaten Jenkins _major_ by sixteen. So Thompson received a copy of the _Memoirs of Eminent Etonians_, bound in tree-calf, and took it home under his arm, wondering what "Etonians" were, but too proud to ask. And Jenkins _major_ received nothing; and being too weak to punch Thompson's head (as he desired) waylaid him opposite the cemetery gate on his way home, and said-- "_Parvenu!_" --which was doubly insulting; for, in the first place, French was Thompson's weakest subject, and secondly, his father was a haberdasher in a small way, who spoke with awe of the Jenkinses as a family that had practised law in the town for six generations. Thompson himself was aware of the glamour such a lineage conferred. It was wholly due to his ignorance of French that he retorted-- "You're another!" Young Jenkins explained the term, with a wave of his hand towards the cemetery gate.