goes the basket-lid. It is not your wife, your sweetheart, your friend
who is going to pay you. It is Mr. Nab the bailiff. YOU know--you are
caught. You are off in a cab to Chancery Lane.

You know, I say? WHY should you know? I make no manner of doubt you
never were taken by a bailiff in your life. I never was. I have been in
two or three debtors' prisons, but not on my own account. Goodness be
praised! I mean you can't escape your lot; and Nab only stands here
metaphorically as the watchful, certain, and untiring officer of Mr.
Sheriff Fate. Why, my dear Primrose, this morning along with your letter
comes another, bearing the well-known superscription of another old
friend, which I open without the least suspicion, and what do I find? A
few lines from my friend Johnson, it is true, but they are written on
a page covered with feminine handwriting. "Dear Mr. Johnson," says the
writer, "I have just been perusing with delight a most charming tale
by the Archbishop of Cambray. It is called 'Telemachus;' and I think
it would be admirably suited to the Cornhill Magazine. As you know
the Editor, will you have the great kindness, dear Mr. Johnson, to
communicate with him PERSONALLY (as that is much better than writing in
a roundabout way to the Publishers, and waiting goodness knows how long
for an answer), and state my readiness to translate this excellent
and instructive story. I do not wish to breathe A WORD against 'Lovel
Parsonage,' 'Framley the Widower,' or any of the novels which have
appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, but I AM SURE 'Telemachus' is as good
as new to English readers, and in point of interest and morality far,"
&c. &c. &c.

There it is. I am stabbed through Johnson. He has lent himself to this
attack on me. He is weak about women. Other strong men are. He submits
to the common lot, poor fellow. In my reply I do not use a word of