Ah me! we wound where we never intended to strike; we create anger where we never meant harm; and these thoughts are the thorns in our Cushion.  Out of mere malignity, I suppose, there is no man who would like to make enemies.  But here, in this editorial business, you can’t do otherwise:  and a queer, sad, strange, bitter thought it is, that must cross the mind of many a public man:  “Do what I will, be innocent or spiteful, be generous or cruel, there are A and B, and C and D, who will hate me to the end of the chapter—­to the chapter’s end—­to the Finis of the page—­when hate, and envy, and fortune, and disappointment shall be over.”

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.  I have 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