I here interrupted the flow of his conversation to say: “Your experience is not unlike that of the reviewer who criticized ‘Silas Lapham,’ and who had a sort of hazy notion from the similarity of titles that it was by the author of ‘Silas Marner.’ You may remember, it created a good deal of amusement at the time. He said that it was a mistake for George Eliot to try to write a novel of American life; that the vital essence--American humor--was lacking; that Silas Lapham was a dull Englishman transplanted bodily into a very British Boston; that his daughters were mere puppets, and the attempts at Americanisms doleful in the extreme. He concluded by saying that her ‘Romola’ had shown that she was best on British soil, and that she would better keep to the snug little isle in the future.” “Yes,” said he, with a grin; “I remember that. It was my first criticism. Most people supposed it was a humorous skit, even the editors who accepted it, but I never was more in earnest. I was young then.” _Q._ If you received a book to review with the name of Hardy on the title-page, would you give it a good send-off? _A._ I certainly should, for I am a great admirer of Hardy; but I should prefer to wait until some one else had done so, for fear it might be another put-up job and turn out to be the work of some fifth-rate English author. I then brought him out of his trance. He sat silent for a moment. I picked up the “Saturday Review” from the table and said, “Criticism is a very noble calling.” “It is indeed,” he responded earnestly. “It is one that requires great insight into human nature, absolute independence, and not a little charity.” With which beautiful sentiments he rose and, bowing, left the room. XXVI HOW ’RASMUS PAID THE MORTGAGE A DIALECT STORY I Oh, de wolf an’ de har’ dey had a great fight. (Down on de ribber de wil’ geese is callin’.) De har’ pulled de wolf’s teeth so’s he couldn’ bite. (A-callin’ me to my long home!) Said de wolf to de har’, “Don’ hit so hard.” (De dew on de hollyhock’s all a-dryin’!) An’ he killed de har’ w’en he co’t him oaf his guard. (Ah’ll dry up an’ go home!) Up the vista formed by a narrow, tortuous Virginia lane, came Uncle ’Rasmus, an aged darky, singing one of the songs of his race that never grow old--because they die young, it may be. As he hobbled along the path, he talked to himself, as was his wont: “Golly! Ah mus’ hurry up, o’ de fo’kses won’ hab no dinnah; for, be jabers, ’tis mesilf that has got to git riddy dthat same. Och, worra! worra! but ’tis no synekewer Oi’m havin’, an’ dthat’s dther trut’.” Just then his watch struck five minutes to six, and he ran off toward the homestead of Squire Lamar, saying, as he did so, in his quaint way: “Veepin’ Rachel! der boss will kick der live out mit me.”