have been falsely informed) used to be famous for quarrels, thumps, and
broken heads. But, I say, is this an easy chair to sit on, when you are
liable to have a pair of such shillelaghs flung at it? And, prithee,
what was all the quarrel about? In the little history of "Lovel the
Widower" I described, and brought to condign punishment, a certain
wretch of a ballet-dancer, who lived splendidly for a while on
ill-gotten gains, had an accident, and lost her beauty, and died poor,
deserted, ugly, and every way odious. In the same page, other little
ballet-dancers are described, wearing homely clothing, doing their duty,
and carrying their humble savings to the family at home. But nothing
will content my dear correspondents but to have me declare that the
majority of ballet-dancers have villas in the Regent's Park, and to
convict me of "deliberate falsehood." Suppose, for instance, I had
chosen to introduce a red-haired washerwoman into a story? I might get
an expostulatory letter saying, "Sir, in stating that the majority of
washerwomen are red-haired, you are a liar! and you had best not
speak of ladies who are immeasurably your superiors." Or suppose I had
ventured to describe an illiterate haberdasher? One of the craft might
write to me, "Sir, in describing haberdashers as illiterate, you utter a
wilful falsehood. Haberdashers use much better English than authors." It
is a mistake, to be sure. I have never said what my correspondents say
I say. There is the text under their noses, but what if they choose to
read it their own way? "Hurroo, lads! here's for a fight. There's a
bald head peeping out of the hut. There's a bald head! It must be Tim
Malone's." And whack! come down both the bludgeons at once.

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: