ON SCREENS IN DINING-ROOMS.
A grandson of the late Rev.Dr.Primrose (of Wakefield, vicar) wrote me a little note from his country living this morning, and the kind fellow had the precaution to write "No thorn" upon the envelope, so that, ere I broke the seal, my mind might be relieved of any anxiety lest the letter should contain one of those lurking stabs which are so painful to the present gentle writer.Your epigraph, my dear P., shows your kind and artless nature; but don't you see it is of no use? People who are bent upon assassinating you in the manner mentioned will write "No thorn" upon their envelopes too; and you open the case, and presently out flies a poisoned stiletto, which springs into a man's bosom, and makes the wretch howl with anguish.
When the bailiffs are after a man, they adopt all sorts of disguises, pop out on him from all conceivable corners, and tap his miserable shoulders.His wife is taken ill; his sweetheart, who remarked his brilliant, too brilliant appearance at the Hyde Park review, will meet him at Cremorne, or where you will.The old friend who has owed him that money these five years will meet him at so-and-so and pay.By one bait or other the victim is hooked, netted, landed, and down goes the basket-lid.It is not your wife, your sweetheart, your friend who is going to pay you.It is Mr.Nab the bailiff.
YOU know--you are caught.You are off in a cab to Chancery Lane.
You know, I say? WHY should you know? I make no manner of doubt you never were taken by a bailiff in your life.I never was.Ihave been in two or three debtors' prisons, but not on my own account.Goodness be praised! I mean you can't escape your lot;and Nab only stands here metaphorically as the watchful, certain, and untiring officer of Mr.Sheriff Fate.Why, my dear Primrose, this morning along with your letter comes another, bearing the well-known superscription of another old friend, which I open without the least suspicion, and what do I find? A few lines from my friend Johnson, it is true, but they are written on a page covered with feminine handwriting."Dear Mr.Johnson," says the writer, "I have just been perusing with delight a most charming tale by the Archbishop of Cambray.It is called 'Telemachus;' and I think it would be admirably suited to the Cornhill Magazine.As you know the Editor, will you have the great kindness, dear Mr.Johnson, to communicate with him PERSONALLY (as that is much better than writing in a roundabout way to the Publishers, and waiting goodness knows how long for an answer), and state my readiness to translate this excellent and instructive story.I do not wish to breathe A WORDagainst 'Lovel Parsonage,' 'Framley the Widower,' or any of the novels which have appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, but I AM SURE'Telemachus' is as good as new to English readers, and in point of interest and morality far," &c.&c.&c.
There it is.I am stabbed through Johnson.He has lent himself to this attack on me.He is weak about women.Other strong men are.
He submits to the common lot, poor fellow.In my reply I do not use a word of unkindness.I write him back gently, that I fear "Telemachus" won't suit us.He can send the letter on to his fair correspondent.But however soft the answer, I question whether the wrath will be turned away.Will there not be a coolness between him and the lady? and is it not possible that henceforth her fine eyes will look with darkling glances upon the pretty orange cover of our Magazine?
Certain writers, they say, have a bad opinion of women.Now am Ivery whimsical in supposing that this disappointed candidate will be hurt at her rejection, and angry or cast down according to her nature? "Angry, indeed!" says Juno, gathering up her purple robes and royal raiment."Sorry, indeed!" cries Minerva, lacing on her corselet again, and scowling under her helmet.(I imagine the well-known Apple case has just been argued and decided.) "Hurt, forsooth! Do you suppose WE care for the opinion of that hobnailed lout of a Paris? Do you suppose that I, the Goddess of Wisdom, can't make allowances for mortal ignorance, and am so base as to bear malice against a poor creature who knows no better? You little know the goddess nature when you dare to insinuate that our divine minds are actuated by motives so base.A love of justice influences US.We are above mean revenge.We are too magnanimous to be angry at the award of such a judge in favor of such a creature." And rustling out their skirts, the ladies walk away together.This is all very well.You are bound to believe them.They are actuated by no hostility: not they.They bear no malice--of course not.But when the Trojan war occurs presently, which side will they take?
Many brave souls will be sent to Hades.Hector will perish.Poor old Priam's bald numskull will be cracked, and Troy town will burn, because Paris prefers golden-haired Venus to ox-eyed Juno and gray-eyed Minerva.
