Eminent Writer to Editor (a month later).—­I say, what’s this?  Virulent personal attack on me in your Review, signed with your name!  Pretends my article on giving up Canada, &c., was all a joke!  Am I the sort of man who would joke about anything?  Reply at once, with apology, or I skin you alive in next Number of Shortsprightly.

Editor to Eminent Writer.—­Sorry you’re offended.  I thought my Article rather a moderate one.  Quite true that I talk about falsehood, hypocrites, effrontery, demagogues, Pharisees, and so on; but expressions to be taken in strictly Pickwickian sense, and of course not intended for you.

Eminent Writer to Editor.—­Explanation unsatisfactory.  You first insert contribution, and then slate it.  Do you call yourself an Editor?

Editor to Eminent Writer.—­Rather think I do call myself Editor.  Couldn’t insert that humbug about India and Canada without reply.  By the bye, have forgotten if you spell Christian name with or without K?  Important.  Wire back.

Eminent Writer to Editor.—­Yah!  Look out for next Shortsprightly, that’s all!  Article entitled, “Editorial Horseplay.”  It’ll give you fits, or my name isn’t—­FREDERIC, without the K.

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ANOTHER’S!

(A ONCE REJECTED ADDRESS.)

  Yes!  Thou must be another’s.  Oh,
    Such anguish stands alone! 
  I’d always fancied thou wert so
    Peculiarly mine own;
  No welcome doubt my soul can free;
    A convict may not choose—­
  Yet, since another’s thou must be,
    Most kindly tell me whose?

  Is it the Lord of Shilling Thrills
    Who penned The Black that Mails—­
  That martial man who from the hills
    Excogitates his tales? 
  Is it ubiquitous A. LANG? 
    Nay, shrink not but explain
  To which of all the writing gang
    Dost properly pertain?

  Perchance to some provincial churl,
    Who blushes quite unseen? 
  Perchance to some ambitious Earl
    Or Stockbroker, I ween? 
  Such things have frequently occurred,
    And gems like thee have crowned
  The titular and moneyed herd,
    And made them nigh renowned.

  I know not, this alone is clear,
    Thou wert my sole delight;
  I pored on thee by sunshine, dear,
    I dreamed of thee at night. 
  Thou wert so good—­too splendid for
    The common critic’s praise—­
  And I was thy proprietor—­
    And all the world must gaze!

  But Punch, that autocrat, decrees
    That thou another’s art: 
  I cannot choose but bow my knees
    And lacerate my heart. 
  Thou must be someone’s else, alack! 
    The truth remains confessed—­
  For Mr. P. hath sent thee back,
    My cherished little Jest.

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