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