CHAPTER IV.
EXCUSATORY.
It really may be numbered among doubts whether it is possible to exaggerate the dangers into which a fictionist may fall.

My marvel is, that any go unstabbed.

How on earth did Cervantes continue to grow old, after having pointed the finger of derision at all grave Spain?
There is Boccaccio, too; he lived to turn threescore, in spite of the thousand husbands and wives, who might pretty well imagine that he spoke of them.
Only consider how many villains, drawn to the life, Walter Scott created.

What! were there no heads found to fit his many caps, hats, helmets, and other capillary properties?
What! are we so blind, so few of friends, that we cannot each pick out of our social circles Mrs.
Gore's Dowager, Mrs.Grey's Flirt, Mrs.Trollope's Widow, and Boz's Mrs.
Nickleby?
Who can help thinking of his lawyer, when he makes acquaintance with those immortal firms Dodson and Fogg, or Quirk, Snap, and Gammon?
Is not Wrexhill libellous, and Dr.Hookwell personal?
Arise! avenge them both, ye zealous congregations! Why slumber pistols that, should damage Bulwer?
Why are the clasp-knives sheathed, which should have drunk the blood of James?
Hath every "[dash] good-natured friend" forgotten to be officious, and neglected to demonstrate to relations and acquaintances that this white villain is Mr.A., and that old virgin poor Miss B.?
Speak, Plumer Ward, courageous veteran, Have the critics yet forgiven Mr.John Paragraph--forgotten, is impossible?
and how is it no house-keeper has arsenicked my soup, O rash recruit, for the mysteries of perquisite divulged in Mrs.Quarles?
A dangerous craft is the tale-wright's, and difficult as dangerous.
Human nature goes in casts, as garden-pots do.

Lo, you! the crowd of thumb-pots; mean little tiny minds in multitudes, as near alike as possible.