Now, then, hand on heart, we declare that it is not the fire of adverse
critics which afflicts or frightens the editorial bosom. They may
be right; they may be rogues who have a personal spite; they may be
dullards who kick and bray as their nature is to do, and prefer thistles
to pineapples; they may be conscientious, acute, deeply learned,
delightful judges, who see your joke in a moment, and the profound
wisdom lying underneath. Wise or dull, laudatory or otherwise, we put
their opinions aside. If they applaud, we are pleased: if they shake
their quick pens, and fly off with a hiss, we resign their favors and
put on all the fortitude we can muster. I would rather have the lowest
man's good word than 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