roundabout papers-第10部分

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　FALSEHOOD。　〃Haveing　been　brought　up　to　the　stage　from　infancy；　and　though　now　an　actress；　haveing　been　seven　years　principal　dancer　at　the　opera；　I　am　competent　to　speak　on　the　subject。　　I　am　only　surprised　that　so　vile　a　libeller　as　yourself　should　be　allowed　to　preside　at　the　Dramatic　Fund　dinner　on　the　22nd　instant。　　I　think　it　would　be　much　better　if　you　were　to　reform　your　own　life；　instead　of　telling　lies　of　those　who　are　immeasurably　your　superiors。　〃Yours　in　supreme　disgust；　〃A。　D。〃

The　signatures　of　the　respected　writers　are　altered；　and　for　the　site　of　their　Theatre　Royal　an　adjacent　place　is　named；　which　（as　I　may　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：　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　chapterto　the　chapter's　endto　the　Finis　of　the　pagewhen　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　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　knowyou　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　unkindness。　　I　write　him　back　gently；　that　I　fear　〃Telemachus〃　won't　suit　us。　　He　can　send　the　letter　on　to　his　fair　correspondent。　　But　however　soft　the　answer；　I　question　whether　the　wrath　will　be　turned　away。　　Will　there　not　be　a　coolness　between　him　and　the　lady？　and　is　it　not　possible　that　henceforth　her　fine　eyes　will　look　with　darkling　glances　upon　the　pretty　orange　cover　of　our　Magazine？　Certain　writers；　they　say；　have　a　bad　opinion　of　women。　　Now　am　I　very　whimsical　in　supposing　that　this　disappointed　candidate　will　be　hurt　at　her　rejection；　and　angry　or　cast　down　according　to　her　nature？　　〃Angry；　indeed！〃　says　Juno；　gathering　up　her　purple　robes　and　royal　raiment。　　〃Sorry；　indeed！〃　cries　Minerva；　lacing　on　her　corselet　again；　and　scowling　under　her　helmet。　　（I　imagine　the　well…　known　Apple　case　has　just　been　argued　and　decided。）　　〃Hurt；　forsooth！　　Do　you　suppose　WE　care　for　the　opinion　of　that　hobnailed　lout　of　a　Paris？　　Do　you　suppose　that　I；　the　Goddess　of　Wisdom；　can't　make　allowances　for　mortal　ignorance；　and　am　so　base　as　to　bear　malice　against　a　poor　creature　who　knows　no　better？　　You　little　know　the　goddess　nature　when　you　dare　to　insinuate　that　our　divine　minds　are　actuated　by　motives　so　base。　　A　love　of　justice　influences　US。　　We　are　above　mean　revenge。　　We　are　too　magnanimous　to　be　angry　at　the　award　of　such　a　judge　in　favor　of　such　a　creature。〃　　And　rustling　out　their　skirts；　the　ladies　walk　away　together。　　This　is　all　very　well。　　You　are　bound　to　believe　them。　　They　are　actuated　by　no　hostility：　not　they。　　They　bear　no　maliceof　course　not。　　But　when　the　Trojan　war　occurs　presently；　which　side　will　they　take？　Many　brave　souls　will　be　sent　to　Hades。　　Hector　will　perish。　　Poor　old　Priam's　bald　numskull　will　be　cracked；　and　Troy　town　will　burn；　because　Paris　prefers　golden…haired　Venus　to　ox…eyed　Juno　and　gray…　eyed　Minerva。　The　last　Essay　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　ls　well；　let　us　say　monosyllablesabout　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。　　Nuperin　former　daysI　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