A kindly Christian act--wasn't it, to send a stranger word that you were glad that he had been abused by a religious editor?
I wrote him a gentle letter, telling him that I hoped he'd have a long and happy life preaching a gospel of friendliness and neighbourliness and good-will, and that I cared nothing about "excoriations." Why should he, then, forsake his calling and take delight in disseminating personal abuse?
And why do you not write me about things that I really care for in the good old country--the budding trees, the pleasant weather, news of old friends, gossip of good people--cheerful things?
I pray you, don't be concerned about what any poor whining soul may write about me.

I don't care for myself: I care only for him; for the writer of personal abuse always suffers from it--never the man abused.
I haven't read what my kindly clerical correspondent calls an "excoriation" for ten years, and I never shall read one if I know what it is beforehand.

Why should I or anybody read such stuff?
I can't find time to do half the positive things that I should like to do for the broadening of my own character and for the encouragement of others.

Why should I waste a single minute in such a negative and cheerless way as reading anybody's personal abuse of anybody else--least of all myself?
These silly outbursts never reach me and they never can; and they, therefore, utterly fail, and always will fail, of their aim; yet, my dear friend, there is nevertheless a serious side to such folly.
For it shows the need of education, education, education.

The religious editor and the preacher who took joy in his abuse of me have such a starved view of life that they cannot themselves, perhaps, ever be educated into kindliness and dignity of thought.
But their children may be--must be.