Now you see what I mean by a thorn. Here is the case put with true
female logic. "I am poor; I am good; I am ill; I work hard; I have a
sick mother and hungry brothers and sisters dependent on me. You can
help us if you will." And then I look at the paper, with the thousandth
part of a faint hope that it may be suitable, and I find it won't do:
and I knew it wouldn't do: and why is this poor lady to appeal to my
pity and bring her poor little ones kneeling to my bedside, and calling
for bread which I can give them if I choose? No day passes but that
argument ad misericordiam is used. Day and night that sad voice is
crying out for help. Thrice it appealed to me yesterday. Twice this
morning it cried to me: and I have no doubt when I go to get my hat,
I shall find it with its piteous face and its pale family about it,
waiting for me in the hall. One of the immense advantages which women
have over our sex is, that they actually like to read these letters.
Like letters? O mercy on us! Before I was an editor I did not like the
postman much:--but now!

A very common way with these petitioners is to begin with a fine
flummery about the merits and eminent genius of the person whom they are
addressing. But this artifice, I state publicly, is of no avail. When
I see THAT kind of herb, I know the snake within it, and fling it away
before it has time to sting. Away, reptile, to the waste-paper basket,
and thence to the flames!

But of these disappointed people, some take their disappointment and
meekly bear it. Some hate and hold you their enemy because you could not
be their friend. Some, furious and envious, say: "Who is this man who
refuses what I offer, and how dares he, the conceited coxcomb, to deny
my merit?"