in particular.  When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a buyer of other men’s verses, to be printed as his own; thus he bought two modernisations of Chaucer—­’Ugolino’ and another story from Leigh Hunt—­and one, ‘Sir Thopas’ from Horne, and printed them as his own, as I learned only last week.  He paid me extravagant court and, seeing no harm in the mere folly of the man, I was on good terms with him, till ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of mine who had written an article for the Review—­(which is as good as his, he being a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing the voices of his co-mates in council)—­well, he insulted my friend, who had written that article at my special solicitation, and did all he could to avoid paying the price of it—­Why?—­Because the poor creature had actually taken the article to the Editor as one by his friend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell the aforesaid,—­cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes of Printer and Publisher!  Now I was away all this time in Italy or he would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence.  And my friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of ‘practice,’ in the American sense, held his peace and went without his ‘honorarium.’  But on my return, I enquired, and made him make a proper application, which Mr. Powell treated with all the insolence in the world—­because, as the event showed, the having to write a cheque for ’the Author of the Article’—­that author’s name not being Talfourd’s ... there was certain disgrace!  Since then (ten months ago) I have never seen him—­and he accuses himself, observe, of ’sucking my plots while I drink his tea’—­one as much as the other!  And now why do I tell you this, all of it?  Ah,—­now you shall hear!  Because, it has often been in my mind to ask you what you know of this Mr. Powell, or ever knew.  For he, (being profoundly versed in every sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me, and the rest of his acquaintance) he told me long ago, ’he used to correspond with you, and that he quarrelled with you’—­which I supposed to mean that he began by sending you his books (as with one and everybody) and that, in return to your note of acknowledgment, he had chosen to write again, and perhaps, again—­is it so?  Do not write one word in answer to me—­the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought not to have a place in your letters—­and that way he would get near to me again; near indeed this time!—­So tell me, in a word—­or do not tell me.

How I never say what I sit down to say!  How saying the little makes me want to say the more!  How the least of little things, once taken up as a thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and commentaries; all is of importance to me—­every breath you breathe, every little fact (like this) you are to know!