his bad one, to be sure; but as for coaxing a compliment, or wheedling him into good-humor, or stopping his angry mouth with a good dinner, or accepting his contributions for a certain Magazine, for fear of his barking or snapping elsewhere—­allons donc!  These shall not be our acts.  Bow-wow, Cerberus!  Here shall be no sop for thee, unless—­unless Cerberus is an uncommonly good dog, when we shall bear no malice because he flew at us from our neighbor’s gate.

What, then, is the main grief you spoke of as annoying you—­the toothache in the Lord Mayor’s jaw, the thorn in the cushion of the editorial chair?  It is there.  Ah! it stings me now as I write.  It comes with almost every morning’s post.  At night I come home and take my letters up to bed (not daring to open them), and in the morning I find one, two, three thorns on my pillow.  Three I extracted yesterday; two I found this morning.  They don’t sting quite so sharply as they did; but a skin is a skin, and they bite, after all, most wickedly.  It is all very fine to advertise on the Magazine, “Contributions are only to be sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., and not to the Editor’s private residence.”  My dear sir, how little you know man- or woman-kind, if you fancy they will take that sort of warning!  How am I to know, (though, to be sure, I begin to know now,) as I take the letters off the tray, which of those envelopes contains a real bona fide letter, and which a thorn?  One of the best invitations this year I mistook for a thorn-letter, and kept it without opening.  This is what I call a thorn-letter:—­

“Camberwell, June 4.

“Sir—­May I hope, may I entreat, that you will favor me by perusing the enclosed lines, and that they may be found worthy of insertion in the Cornhill Magazine.  We have known better days, sir.  I have a sick and widowed mother to maintain, and little brothers and sisters who look to me.  I do my utmost as a governess to support them.  I toil at night when they are at rest, and my own hand and brain are alike tired.  If I could add but a little to our means by my pen, many of my poor invalid’s wants might be supplied, and I could procure for her comforts to which she is now a stranger.  Heaven knows it is not for want of will or for want of energy on my part, that she is now in ill-health, and our little household almost without bread.  Do—­do cast a kind glance over my poem, and if you can help us, the widow, the orphans will bless you!  I remain, sir, in anxious expectancy,

“Your faithful servant,

“S.  S. S.”

And enclosed is a little poem or two, and an envelope with its penny stamp—­heaven help us!—­and the writer’s name and address.