I always avoided literary society. Perhaps in that respect I did wrong as regards my own interest, for I find the pressmen who belong to clubs are always ready to give each other a helping hand in the way of good-natured reference, and hence so much of that mutual admiration which forms so marked a feature in the literary gossip of our day, and which is of such little interest to the general reader. When I read such stuff I am reminded of the chambermaid who said to a lady acquaintance, “I hear it is all over London already that I am going to leave my lady,” and of the footman who, being newly married, desired his comrade to tell him freely what the town thought of it. It is seldom that literary men shine in conversation, and that was one reason I cared little to belong to any of the literary clubs which existed, and I dare say exist now. Dean Swift seems to have been of a similar opinion. He tells us the worst conversation he ever remembered to have heard in his life was that at Wells’ Coffee House, where the wits, as they were termed, used formerly to assemble. They talked of their plays or prologues or Miscellanies, he tells us, as if they had been the noblest effort of human nature, and, as if the fate of kingdoms depended on them. When Greek meets Greek there comes, we are told, the tug of war. When literary men meet, as a rule, the very reverse is the case. I belonged to the Whittington Club—now, alas! extinct—for it was the best institution of the kind ever started in London, of which Douglas Jerrold was president, and where young men found a home with better society than they could get elsewhere, and where we had debates, in which many, who have since risen to fame and fortune, learned how to speak—perhaps a questionable benefit in those days of perpetual talk. One of our prominent members was Sir J. W. Russell, who still, I am happy to say, flourishes as the popular editor of _The Liverpool Daily Post_.
As a writer, unpleasant experiences have been few. I have had letters from angry correspondents, but not more than two or three of them. One of the most amusing was from a clergyman now deceased—a very great man in his own opinion—a controversialist whom none could withstand. Once upon a time he had a controversy with the late Mr. Charles Bradlaugh, a man of whom I knew a little, and for whose honesty I had a high regard. I was present at the discussion, and in my account of it intimated that, in my humble opinion, the clergyman was hardly the man to grapple with Mr. Bradlaugh. I had a letter from the clergyman thanking me in the name of all the devils in hell—of whom he informed me I should shortly be one—for the article I had written. On another occasion a distinguished Congregational minister attacked me bitterly in a journal that soon came to grief, which was intended to supersede the newspaper with which it is my pride to have been connected more than thirty-five years. I commenced an action against him for libel; the reverend divine paid damages into court, and I dropped the action. I had no wish to harm the worthy divine, for such undoubtedly he was, by getting him branded as a convicted libeller. I only wanted to teach him that while in the pulpit a man was free to say what he liked, it was quite a different thing to rush hastily and angrily into print. One letter amused me rather. My usual signature was “Christopher Crayon.” Once, as I had a paper under that signature, I had written another with a different signature, which appeared in the same issue, and immediately a correspondent wrote to complain that the latter article was but a poor imitation of “Christopher Crayon.” Once a reviewer on a leading London morning newspaper referred to me as a young lady. I refer to that soft impeachment simply as an illustration of the carelessness with which London reviewers often write. I can quite understand such blunders. A reviewer has so many books to look at, and such little time allowed him for the right discharge of his duty, that it is no wonder he often errs.