y of this Roundabout Series, describing the griefs and
miseries of the editorial chair, was written, as the kind reader will
acknowledge, in a mild and gentle, not in a warlike or satirical spirit.
I showed how cudgels were applied; but surely, the meek object of
persecution hit no blows in return. The beating did not hurt much, and
the person assaulted could afford to keep his good-humor; indeed, I
admired that brave though illogical little actress, of the T. R. D-bl-n,
for her fiery vindication of her profession's honor. I assure her I
had no intention to tell l--s--well, let us say monosyllables--about my
superiors: and I wish her nothing but well, and when Macmahon (or shall
it be Mulligan?) Roi d'Irlande ascends his throne, I hope she may be
appointed professor of English to the princesses of the royal house.
Nuper--in former days--I too have militated; sometimes, as I now think,
unjustly; but always, I vow, without personal rancor. Which of us has
not idle words to recall, flippant jokes to regret? Have you never
committed an imprudence? Have you never had a dispute, and found out
that you were wrong? So much the worse for you. Woe be to the man qui
croit toujours avoir raison. His anger is not a brief madness, but
a permanent mania. His rage is not a fever-fit, but a black poison
inflaming him, distorting his judgment, disturbing his rest, embittering
his cup, gnawing at his pleasures, causing him more cruel suffering than
ever he can inflict on his enemy. O la belle morale! As I write it,
I think about one or two little affairs of my own. There is old Dr.
Squaretoso (he certainly was very rude to me, and that's the fact);
there is Madame Pomposa (and certainly her ladyship's behavior was
about as cool as cool could be). Never mind, old Squaretoso: never mind,
Madame Pomposa! Here is a hand. Let us be friends as we once were, and
have no more of this rancor.

I had hardly sent that last Roundabout Paper to the printer (which, I
submit, was written in a pacable and not unchristian frame of mind),
when Saturday came, and with it, of course, my Saturday Review. I
remember at New York coming down to breakfast at the hotel one morning,
after a criticism had appeared in the New York Herald, in which an Irish
writer had given me a dressing for a certain lecture on Swift. Ah my
dear little enemy of the T. R, D., what were the cudgels in YOUR little
billet-doux compared to those noble New York shillelaghs? All through
the