What a bore it is to have a troublesome contributor. “Mr. Moonshine, it’s absolutely impossible for me to insert your ode.” “My ode! oh! dock it, and dress it, and alter it; I leave it quite to your judgment; you’ll oblige me--really now!” “I have made a few corrections here, Mr. Moonshine. I hope you approve.” “Approve! why zounds! Courtenay, I won’t swear, but you’ve cut out the sting, the point, the attraction of the whole. Look here, man, what have you done! Bless me! what have you done with Urien’s beard?” “Urien’s beard, sir! Oh! Urien’s beard was too long, a great deal too long, sir; flowed through three stanzas and a half. I have used the razor, shaved him pretty close, indeed!” “Ignorance! May you never have a beard of your own to shave, or a razor to shave with! And, murder! sir, what have you done with Ætna--my ‘ejaculated flames,’ my ‘vomit of sulphur,’ and my ‘artillery of Tellus?’” “Why, really, sir, without a joke, your Ætna was too loud--too loud, a great deal, sir; and you have put too much fire in it--oh! by far too much fire; more fire than Ætna ever vomited since she swallowed her first emetic!” “Fire, Mr. Courtenay! You have left my verses cold as the love of a blockhead, or Sir Thomas Nesbit before his morning’s draught! However, sir, I depend on my picture of Melpomene in my last strophe! Don’t you think it must strike, Mr. Editor?” “Strike, sir! I have struck it out!” “Struck it out! struck out Melpomene! What! the ‘pale blue eye,’ and the ‘gaze of wonderment,’ and the ‘long dishevelled hair,’ and the dagger, and the bowl!” “It went to my heart, sir, to strike out a bowl of any sort, but it was the most insipid bowl I ever tasted!” “Go to the devil, Mr. Courtenay!” “I am going there this minute, Mr. Moonshine; but, upon my honour, the ode can’t go with me!” What a bore it is to be pointed at! What a bore it is to be laughed at! What a bore it is to correct manuscripts! What a bore it is to correct proofs! What a bore it is to scribble all day! What a bore it is to scribble all night! What a bore it is to---- But I will stop before I work myself into a fever! _Helas!_ My trammels are indeed heavy upon me; but you have got rid of yours. Whether you have retired to your Sabine farm, or to the sacred recesses of Granta; whether you are chopping logic, or chopping cabbages; whether you are invocating Mathesis or the Muse; whether you are dreaming of problems or of proof-sheets--of the Senate House or of second editions;--assure yourself, Mr. Bookworm, that the best wishes of Peregrine Courtenay are with you; and allow him to conclude, as he began, by congratulating you most sincerely. Yours editorially, PEREGRINE COURTENAY. III. PEREGRINE COURTENAY TO THE PUBLIC. MY DEAR PUBLIC,