At all events, I have given him a lesson which,
whether profitable or not to him, has turned out
tolerably well for me. If ever you chance to
hear of him—his name was Podder or Pedder, I
think—pray let me know, for my curiosity is
still unslaked about him." He thence went off
to a sort of descriptive catalogue of my signs
and token, so positively insulting, that I cannot
recal it; the whole winding up: "Add to all
these, an immense pomposity of tone, with a
lisp, and a Dublin accent, and you can scarcely
mistake him." Need I say, benevolent reader,
that fouler calumnies were never uttered, nor
more unfounded slanders ever pronounced?

It is not in this age of photography that a
man need defend his appearance. By the aid of
sun and collodion, I may perhaps one day
convince you that I am not so devoid of personal
graces as this foul-mouthed priest would persuade
you. I am, possibly, in this pledge, exceeding the
exact limits which this publication may enable
me to sustain. I may be contracting an engagement
which cannot be, consistent with its
principles, fulfilled. If so, I must be your
artist; but I swear to you, that I shall not
flatter. Potts, painted by himself, shall be a
true portrait. Meanwhile, I have time to look
out for my canvas, and you will be patient
enough to wait till it be filled.

Again to this confounded letter:

"There is another reason" (wrote Dyke) "why
I should like to chance upon this fellow." ("This
fellow" meant me.) "I used to fancy myself
unequalled in the imaginative department of
conversation, by the vulgar called lying. Here, I own,
with some shame, he was my match. A more fearless,
determined, go-ahead liar, I never met. Now,
as one who deems himself no small proficient in
the art, I would really like to meet him once
more. We could approach each other like the
augurs of old, and agree to be candid and
freespoken together, exchanging our ideas on this
great topic, and frankly communicating any
secret knowledge each might deem that he
possessed. I'd go a hundred miles to pass an
evening with him alone, to hear from his own
lips the sort of early training and discipline his
mind went through: who were his first instructors,
what his original inducements. Of one
thing I feel certain: a man thus constituted
has only to put the curb upon his faculty to be
most successful in life, his perils will all lie in
the exuberance of his resources: let him simply
bend himself to believe in some of the
impositions he would force upon others. Let him
give his delusions the force acquired by
convictions, and there is no limit to what he may
become. Be on the look out, therefore, for him,
as a great psychological phenomenon, the man
who outlied

"Your sincerely attached friend,

"THOMAS DARCY DYKE.

"P.S. I have just remembered his name. It
was Potts: the villain said from the Pozzo di
Borgo family. I'm sure with this hint you
can't fail to run him to earth; and I entreat of
you spare no pains to do it."

There followed here some more impertinent
personalities as clues to my discovery, which my
indulgent reader will graciously excuse me if I
do not stop to record; enough to say they were
as unfounded as they were scurrilous.

Another and very different train of thought,
however, soon banished these considerations.
This letter had been given me by Crofton, who
had already read it; he had perused all this
insolent narrative about me before handing it to
me, and, doubtless, in so doing, had no other
intention than to convey, in the briefest and
most emphatic way to me, that I was found out.
It was simply saying, in the shortest possible
space, "Thou art the man!" Oh, the ineffable
shame and misery of that thought! Oh, the
bitterness of feeling! How my character should
now be viewed and my nature discussed!
"Only think, Mary, "I fancied I heard him say
—"only think who our friend should turn out to
be—this same Potts: the fellow that
vanquished Father Dyke in story-telling, and
outlied the priest! And here we have been lavishing
kindness and attentions upon one who, after
all, is little better than a swindler, sailing under
false colours and fictitious credentials; for who
can now credit one syllable about his having
written those verses he read for us, or
composed that tale of which he told us the
opening? What a lesson in future about
extending confidence to utter strangers! What
caution and reserve should it not teach us!
How guarded should we be not to suffer
ourselves to be fascinated by the captivations of
manner and the insinuating charms of address!
If Potts had been less prepossessing in appearance,
less gifted and agreeable—if, instead of
being a consummate man of the world, with the
breeding of a courtier and the knowledge of a
scholar, he had been a pedantic puppy with a
lisp and a Dublin accent——" Oh, ignominy
and disgrace! these were the very words of the
priest in describing me, which came so patly to
my memory, and I grew actually sick with
shame as I recalled them. I next became
angry. Was this conduct of Crofton's delicate
or considerate? Was it becoming in one who
had treated me as his friend thus abruptly to
conclude our intimacy by an insult? Handing
me such a letter was saying, "There's a
portrait, can you say any one it resembles?" How
much more generous had he said, "Tell me all
about this wager of yours with Father Dyke—I
want to hear your account of it, for old Tom is
not the most veracious of mortals nor the most
mealy-mouthed of commentators. Just give me
your version of the incident, Potts, and I am
satisfied it will be the true one." That's what
he might, that's what he ought to have said. I
can swear it is what I, Potts, would have done
by him, or by any other stranger whose graceful
manners and pleasing qualities had won my
esteem and conciliated my regard. I'd have
said, "Potts, I have seen enough of life to
know how unjust it is to measure men by one
and the same standard. The ardent, impassioned
nature cannot be ranked with the cold and