The last Essay of this Roundabout Series, describing the griefs and miseries of the editorial chair, was written, as the kind reader will acknowledge, in a mild and gentle, not in a warlike or satirical spirit.I showed how cudgels were applied; but surely, the meek object of persecution hit no blows in return.The beating did not hurt much, and the person assaulted could afford to keep his good-humor; indeed, I admired that brave though illogical little actress, of the T.R.D-bl-n, for her fiery vindication of her profession's honor.I assure her I had no intention to tell l--s--well, let us say monosyllables--about my superiors: and I wish her nothing but well, and when Macmahon (or shall it be Mulligan?) Roi d'Irlande ascends his throne, I hope she may be appointed professor of English to the princesses of the royal house.Nuper--in former days--I too have militated; sometimes, as I now think, unjustly; but always, I vow, without personal rancor.Which of us has not idle words to recall, flippant jokes to regret? Have you never committed an imprudence? Have you never had a dispute, and found out that you were wrong? So much the worse for you.Woe be to the man qui croit toujours avoir raison.His anger is not a brief madness, but a permanent mania.His rage is not a fever-fit, but a black poison inflaming him, distorting his judgment, disturbing his rest, embittering his cup, gnawing at his pleasures, causing him more cruel suffering than ever he can inflict on his enemy.O la belle morale! As I write it, I think about one or two little affairs of my own.There is old Dr.Squaretoso (he certainly was very rude to me, and that's the fact); there is Madame Pomposa (and certainly her ladyship's behavior was about as cool as cool could be).Never mind, old Squaretoso: never mind, Madame Pomposa! Here is a hand.
Let us be friends as we once were, and have no more of this rancor.
I had hardly sent that last Roundabout Paper to the printer (which, I submit, was written in a pacable and not unchristian frame of mind), when Saturday came, and with it, of course, my Saturday Review.I remember at New York coming down to breakfast at the hotel one morning, after a criticism had appeared in the New York Herald, in which an Irish writer had given me a dressing for a certain lecture on Swift.Ah my dear little enemy of the T.R, D., what were the cudgels in YOUR little billet-doux compared to those noble New York shillelaghs? All through the Union, the literary sons of Erin have marched alpeen-stock in hand, and in every city of the States they call each other and everybody else the finest names.
Having come to breakfast, then, in the public room, I sit down, and see--that the nine people opposite have all got New York Heralds in their hands.One dear little lady, whom I knew, and who sat opposite, gave a pretty blush, and popped her paper under the tablecloth.I told her I had had my whipping already in my own private room, and begged her to continue her reading.I may have undergone agonies, you see, but every man who has been bred at an English public school comes away from a private interview with Dr.
Birch with a calm, even a smiling face.And this is not impossible, when you are prepared.You screw your courage up--you go through the business.You come back and take your seat on the form, showing not the least symptom of uneasiness or of previous unpleasantries.
But to be caught suddenly up, and whipped in the bosom of your family--to sit down to breakfast, and cast your innocent eye on a paper, and find, before you are aware, that the Saturday Monitor or Black Monday Instructor has hoisted you and is laying on--that is indeed a trial.Or perhaps the family has looked at the dreadful paper beforehand, and weakly tries to hide it."Where is the Instructor, or the Monitor?" say you."Where is that paper?" says mamma to one of the young ladies.Lucy hasn't it.Fanny hasn't seen it.Emily thinks that the governess has it.At last, out it is brought, that awful paper! Papa is amazingly tickled with the article on Thomson; thinks that show up of Johnson is very lively;and now--heaven be good to us!--he has come to the critique on himself:--"Of all the rubbish which we have had from Mr.Tomkins, we do protest and vow that this last cartload is" &c.Ah, poor Tomkins!--but most of all, ah! poor Mrs.Tomkins, and poor Emily, and Fanny, and Lucy, who have to sit by and see paterfamilias put to the torture!
