I was actually hailed
as "a writer and critic of the first force."
To say that I returned home elated would not be exactly true. Bewildered
would more accurately describe my state of mind. I had genuinely
believed that my attempt to give the final word of criticism upon
_Gulliver's Travels_--that is what a young man always thinks, and
ought to think, he is doing in the matter of literary criticism--had
been a total failure. Surely I couldn't be wrong about my own work. Yet
_The Spectator_ editors were evidently not mad or pulling my leg or
even flattering me! It was a violent mystery.
Of course I was pleased at heart, but I tried to unload some of my
liabilities to Nemesis by the thought that my new patrons would probably
get tired of my manner of writing before very long. What had captured
them for the moment was merely a certain novelty of style. They would
very soon see through it, as I had done in my poignant self-criticism.
But this prudent view was before long, in a couple of days, to be exact,
knocked on the head by a delightful letter which Mr. Townsend wrote to
my father. In it he expressed himself even more strongly in regard to
the review than he had done in speaking to me.
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