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
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 g