“Distinctly,” I answered; “I’ve got the taste of it in my mouth now.” “Did it upset you?” he asked. “It annoyed me at the time,” I answered; “but that’s all over now.” He seemed thoughtful. “You were quite correct,” he answered; “it _was_ snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India.” “I can’t say I liked it,” I replied. “A stupid mistake of mine,” he went on—“I must have mixed up the packets!” “Oh, accidents will happen,” I said, “and you won’t make another mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am concerned.” We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving an old gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, and excellent legal advice he always gave. In common with most men who know the law, he had little respect for it. I have heard him say to a would-be litigant— “My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of me my watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to him. If he thereupon said, ‘Then I shall take it from you by brute force,’ I should, old as I am, I feel convinced, reply to him, ‘Come on.’ But if, on the other hand, he were to say to me, ‘Very well, then I shall take proceedings against you in the Court of Queen’s Bench to compel you to give it up to me,’ I should at once take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was getting off cheaply.” Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn’t worth sixpence to anybody, and spent from first to last a hundred pounds, if he spent a penny. “I know I’m a fool,” he confessed. “I have no positive proof that it _was_ his cat; but I’ll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey Attorney, hanged if I don’t!” We all know how the pudding _ought_ to be made. We do not profess to be able to make it: that is not our business. Our business is to criticize the cook. It seems our business to criticize so many things that it is not our business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have my opinion of you, Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion of me. I do not seek to know it; personally, I prefer the man who says what he has to say of me behind my back. I remember, when on a lecturing tour, the ground-plan of the hall often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody in front of me whisper to his or her companion—“Take care, he’s just behind you.” I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man. A fellow-member, joining us, said to the Novelist, “I have just finished that last book of yours; I’ll tell you my candid opinion of it.” Promptly replied the Novelist, “I give you fair warning—if you do, I shall punch your head.” We never heard that candid opinion.