the carnaby correspondence.

there is no estimate more ludicrous than that which is formed by unthinking persons of the powers of authors. thus when a gentleman has once written a book, say, on domestic medicine, it is popularly supposed that he is competent to compose a work on any subject whatever, from transcendental philosophy down to five minutes’ advice on the teeth. something of the kind is observable in the autobiography of brasbridge, the silversmith, of fleet street, who tells us that after the publication of his memoirs, he was hailed by a fellow-citizen with “so you have written a book!—why, for the future i shall call you shakspeare!” as if the recorder of a set of

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“fiddle-headed” anecdotes became, ipso facto, on a par with the creator of othello. for another instance i can refer to my own humble experience. the anti-antiquarian nature of my literary researches is sufficiently well known; yet it did not prevent a grave retrospective-looking gentleman from one day concluding an account of some inedited architectural remains near whitehall, with—“i wonder now that you, as a writer, have never taken up the subject!” the worthy f.a.s. might as well have suggested a plot for a farce to sylvanus urban;—but such is the general opinion of the universality of a genius that prints. bearing this tendency in mind, it will not seem so extraordinary that the following correspondence should be placed in the hands of the editor of the comic annual by a respectable tradesman, who affirmed with tears in his eyes, that “it was a grave subject, worthy of the serious consideration of the public.”