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