The Contributors' Club

THERE is a curious form of semi-religious — perhaps I should say irreligious — speech whose genesis it would be interesting to trace. When you resolve upon any act or course of conduct which appears to your friends particularly venturesome and unsafe, are you not sure to be met with the intelligence that you are “tempting Providence”? If you stop to consider the phrase as an expression of piety, it strikes you that the piety is most perilously involved, and that the rôle which it assigns to Providence is far from creditable to the patronized deity. This Providence, you are persuaded, must have a close relationship with the old-fashioned Ate, who used to wander about invisible, and bring to pass all the unguarded prayers and imprecations of mortals; or you think of the mischievous Scandinavian god Loki, or of any other impish spirit ever held in fearful esteem, and represented as hovering or prowling, on the lookout for an opportunity to do despite to the helpless human race. Providence, the current warning seems to say, will do you a bad turn as often as possible, and is never so gratified as when occasion offers in which to “ come up ” with you for your unbecoming display of pride or bravery. Beware of Providence. Do not, in the thunderstorm, stand under a tall tree, lest Providence perceive you, and mow you down with a crooked lightning sharpened for that purpose. Do not walk under the precipice, for Providence is just above, waiting to drop a stone to crush your foolhardy little person. Do not pitch your tent on that low, malarious ground ; for Providence, having to make some disposition of the gifts in his left hand, will quarter with you fever and ague, and megrims unnumbered. Providence may have had affairs which took him to the remotest parts of the universe; but on your offering him a pleasing chance to torment you, he returns in a trice, and has in working order his engines of torture and devastation. It would not require a very sagacious eye to see behind such Providence a “ smiling face,” though not the smile which devout Cowper saw, but one of sardonic malice and triumphant cruelty. Nevertheless, since this bad Providence is dependent upon our indiscretion for his opportunity, being otherwise inoperative and harmless, whom but ourselves can we reasonably blame for the ills that befall us? Indeed, some such plea might be made in his behalf as mediæval apologists offered for the arch-adversary, when they declared him to be not so culpable as the meddlesome mortals (witches, magicians, and the like) who invited him to acts of malevolence. Perhaps the phrase in question owes its origin to a strategic disposition in mankind to “ get on the right side ” of the prime mischief-worker, by conferring upon him the title of “ Providence ; ” for cleverness, this ruse would compare favorably with that employed by the seaman, who addressed his prayers to the “ good Lord, or good devil.” Or the phrase may have originated with some scrupulous but shortsighted individual, who, fearing he might be thought atheistical if he spoke of “tempting fate,” hit upon the plan of substituting for the objectionable substantive a word whose orthodoxy could not be questioned. Certain philosophers would have us believe that in every instance the idea of God is drawn in the likeness of the believer. It would be uncharitable to apply this theory in the case of the many good people who speak of “ tempting Providence.” Happily, they do not resemble the sly, disingenuous deity, of whose dangerous character they are so prompt to give warning.

— Is there not some comfort to be derived from studying the etymological affinities of the word fault? It appears that nothing of criminal activity and stubborn evil-mindedness is implied in this word, but rather an unlucky failing to be or to do something prescribed, — a mere passive falling from the plane of ideal perfectness. Among the involuntary faults of our human nature are, weakness, the failing of strength ; age, the failing of youth ; and, grand fault of all, death, the failing of life. There is also, I think, a euphemistic way of treating the more voluntary faults of our nature, as to say that procrastination is a failing to be prompt; babbling, a failing to be discreet; mendacity, a failing to be truthful; and so on through the list of mortality’s failings and fallings. Perhaps I put up with my own faults, if not with others’, a little more easily for having indulged in the foregoing sophistries. So much in the field of etymology ; if there is any comfort in analogy, I have that also. I am pleased to learn from geologists that the innocent and irresponsible old earth has her faults, namely, upheavals in the geologic column and dislocations of strata. Very like these are our faults, — unexpected juxtapositions in the column of character, more or less regrettable departures from balance and symmetry. Our very faults, it sometimes seems, might be counted to us for virtues, could they be made to take their proper place in the stratification. Could we but change foibles, now and then, with some other poor wayfaring creature, the transaction might prove to be of mutual benefit. Our fault transplanted to his soil, as his to ours, might flourish as a kindly, wholesome plant, where now it is escaped from the garden, and become wild and poisonous. What a happy discovery in moral science, to find that a transfusion of qualities was possible ! Then, one by nature rash and defiant would give the overplus of his hardihood to the shrinking and irresolute ; the meek and lowly in spirit would make over to the harsh and scornful that which now tempts the oppressor to cruelty. The flush hand would bestow something upon the over-frugal hand, the over-frugal restrain the flush; a wise temperateness and a wise generosity resulting.

There are faults and faults. The whole matter of their discrimination depends upon the degree of gracefulness with which they are worn, and upon the taste or distaste of the censor. You and I, who so well perceive the various imperfections of our mutual friends, would yet never agree as to which of these imperfections is the lightest, which the most serious. The faults you find venial, and even with something of amenity in them, are, likely enough, the very ones to which I can give no quarter. Do you know what are the generous faults, the lovable, the admirable faults ? They are those which come from abroad, and which, our temperament forbidding, will never be illustrated by us. Let us claim it as a strain of nobleness in ourselves that home faults are not the admirable ones, in our eyes. Such as bear this strong family likeness would better try some other tribunal, if they hope to get off with a light judgment : hereabouts, they are too well known. There is nothing piquant or engaging in that image of our little vices unconsciously thrown back by others. Yet we are invited to special sympathy with those whose imperfections have the same brand as our own, to the end that they may bear with us and we with them, — unprofitable reciprocity ! This counsel tastes insipid. Better to form our closest alliance with those who will not bear with our faults, but who will use strenuous means to bear us out of them. Lucky are we if we find one who will play Brutus to our Cassius; who stoutly persists, “ I do not love your faults.” Not improbably, we shall come across others who will assure us that our faults as well as our virtues can command their love. In truth, I fear it cannot be promised that, if we will pluck ourselves away from our besetting sin, we shall be rewarded with sweeter and warmer friendships. If our friendships be taken as the signature of our worth, not always will the worthiest enjoy the highest appraisal, since it is not always the choicest of spirits that gathers to itself the “ friends of noble touch.” History has its instances, but we need not go back of the current record for illustration of how a huge bulk of selfishness, because it happens to be traversed by a little vein of gayety, fancy, or tenderness, can manage to adorn itself with the most illustrious friendships.

Faults have their uses. If we cannot or will not part with ours, why such desperate pains to conceal them ? Let them hang aloft, exposed to the wind and weather, — a warning to all the neighbors: only in this way can we requite the similar service they have rendered us. But alas, when it is our dearest friends’ life and story that point a moral of the cautionary sort, showing what error of judgment or weakness of will we are to avoid ! This print hurts our eyes. If we must be instructed, let it be by the faults of those to whom we are indifferent.

— If other persons share the curiosity I have always had as to the origin of many familiar old sayings, they may like to have here the explanation of some such, which I found recently in an English book. The majority of these proverbial sayings are, I suppose, of old date, and come down to us from our English or Dutch forefathers. Here is the origin of the expression “ tick,” for credit, which I have always taken to be quite modern slang. It seems, on the contrary, that it is as old as the seventeenth century, and is corrupted from ticket, as a tradesman’s bill was then commonly called. On tick was on ticket.

“Humble pie” refers to the days when the English forests were stocked with deer, and venison pasty was commonly seen on the tables of the wealthy. The inferior and refuse portions of the deer, termed the “ umbles,” were generally appropriated to the poor, who made them into a pie ; hence “ umblepie ” became suggestive of poverty, and afterwards was applied to degradations of other kinds.

“ A wild-goose chase ” was a sort of racing, resembling the flying of wild geese, in which, after one horse had gotten the lead, the other was obliged to follow after. As the second horse generally exhausted himself in vain efforts to overtake the first, this mode of racing was finally discontinued.

The expression “ a feather in his cap ” did not signify merely the right to decorate one’s self with some token of success, but referred to an ancient custom among the people of Hungary, of which mention is made in the Lansdowne Manuscripts in the British Museum. None but he who had killed a Turk was permitted to adorn himself in this fashion, or to “ shew the number of his slaine enemys, by the number of fethers in his cappe.” It occurs to me to question whether the similar phrase, to “ plume himself,” has not its source in the same tradition.

“ Chouse ” is a Persian word, spelt properly kiaus or chiaus, meaning intelligent, astute, and as applied to public agents an honorary title. In 1609, a certain Sir Robert Shirley sent before him to England a messenger, or chiaus, as his agent from the Grand Signior and the Sophy, he himself following at his leisure. The agent chiaused the Persian and Turkish merchants in England of four thousand pounds, and fled before Sir Robert arrived.

These sayings I have never heard the origin of before. There are some others which I remember to have learned, and afterwards forgotten, and which I may as well give here for the benefit of those who may not have been able to trace them out.

A “ baker’s dozen ” was originally the devil’s dozen, thirteen being the number of witches supposed to sit down together at their great meetings or sabbaths. Hence the superstition about sitting thirteen at table. The baker was an unpopular character, and became substitute for the devil. (Query, Why was the baker unpopular ?)

The explanation of the proverbial saying about “ Hobson’s choice ” is given by Steele in the Spectator, No. 509. Hobson kept a livery stable, his stalls being ranged one behind another, counting from the door: each customer was obliged to take the horse which happened to be in the stall nearest the door, this chance fashion of serving being thought to secure perfect impartiality.

— Who can tell why the working of tapestry has gone out of fashion ? It would be so much more satisfactory than the endless procession of tidies and pincushions and sofa-pillows, each with its little design, if some fair needlewoman would give her spare time and thought to a larger piece of work. It might be done in small separate squares, so that there would be no objection to the clumsy roll of canvas, which could not be moved about or looked upon as fancy-work; and it would be so picturesque and full of the spirit of romance to see a lovely lady with her colored crewels and her quaint designs, and know that she was stitch by stitch achieving a great work which would keep her memory bright for years to come. Nobody cares what becomes of the smaller pieces of needle-work after their bloom is, so to speak, worn off, but let us picture to ourselves the religious care with which we should guard the handiwork of our great-grandmothers, if it were of this sort. We venerate the needle-books and work-bags and samplers almost absurdly, and this is an index to our capacity for appreciating a more important treasure.

Besides, it is a great loss both to art and literature that our stitches tend to such petty ends. An embroidery frame is a charming addition to a portrait, and nothing could make a more delightful and suggestive background than the blurred figures and indistinct design of a tapestried wall. And in a story, what aid a writer could give his reader by his suggestions of the work the heroine’s slender fingers toyed with idly, or called into existence skillfully in a busier hour! What light, indeed, the description of the design would throw upon the character of the maiden! We could make up our minds instantly to many certainties when we knew whom she had taken for her hero in a battle piece, or if it were only a quiet landscape which she deftly wove when her lover met her first.

We have long lost the fashion of commemorating historical events in this manner, and we are contented to cover our walls with gilt and shining papers instead of these splendid hangings, though I happened to find the last of the tapestry-makers some time ago, — a plain little countrywoman, whose worsted works were the admiration of her village neighbors. The fountain of inspiration as to composition and artistic excellence had nearly run dry, but her patience was superhuman, and she had covered her walls with huge pictures in cross-stitch, — portraits of illustrious men of her time, and one or two large groups, like the surrender of Cornwallis and Washington crossing the Delaware, where there had been a long and severe and most monotonous season of embroidering the raging waves of the river. The likenesses, as a rule, were not satisfactory, but who could resent that unimportant defect ? The colors were brave and chosen for their brightness. There was one great undertaking nearly finished, — a view of the Capitol at Washington in shaded grays and white, with a splendid blue sky and green grass. It really was most imposing. But one could not help remembering that it must be an inherited gift from some Flemish or French ancestress, who had sat among her maidens in a high stone tower, and sung the songs of the troubadours as she bent over her work. There were brave knights gone afield while she drew in her threads and plied her busy needle in their honor, as she sat at home.

— There is an effect of natural beauty which I am apt to name to myself musical. Some persons would perhaps call it poetic, and certainly music and poetry have enough affinity to make it seem proper in some connections to use the words interchangeably. Still, there is a difference between the poetic effect of certain beautiful days and that impression they make which I call musical. Any fine summer day has a variety of sounds belonging to it which with but little license of language we speak of as nature’s music, the preluding strains waking at dawn from a hundred bird throats, with sweet clamor and rivalry of theme and counter-theme, short motifs broken off, and again resumed, while interrupting notes fill up the pauses and complete the choric harmony. When the overture ceases the singers still have their parts to sustain in the day’s long concerto, some clear voice ever and anon making itself heard, loud and bold, in a brief, brilliant strain far up in the airy distance, or trickling down in light liquid melody from the elm bough close at hand. At midsummer the crickets, performing on their curious little instruments, keep up a continuous bourdonnement, or humming accompaniment. The winds bring with them their own music: warm and caressing from the soft south, wooing to sweet do-nothingness, or freshly blowing from the west, with stir and movement of rustling leaves and waving grasses. Bird songs, insect murmurs, breezy whisperings and agitations, — it is natural to speak of them as music; and is not the play of lights and shades, that melt and pass and change position, like an exquisite modulation of sweetly subdued musical tones? The analogy between musical and color tones was remarked before Mr. Whistler began to paint nocturnes and symphonies. Mr. Haweis, in his oddly-entitled book, Music and Morals, prophesied a good many years ago that the science of color-harmony would ultimately be wrought out into as complete a system as that of musical intonations. However that may be, the analogy once pointed out is clear enough to any one, and I often please myself with noting these correspondences in nature. In the light-and-shadow dance of sunlit gray and silver clouds over blue hill slopes, green meadows, and golden grain fields, one finds the rhythm, the movement, as well as the blent tones of a delicate Mendelssohnian melody. Days are set in different keys. Some neutral-tinted ones start in the melancholy minor, and breathe from first to last but pensive or plaintive strains. Others strike the first chord in the bold and cheerful major. What a full and rounded music comes with certain days of glowing midsummer ! From crimson sunrise to purple sunset, what a depth of color-tone ! The opening movement is an all too brief and sparkling allegro of dewdrop glittering and floating silver cloud-fragments, which ceases as the sun takes possession of the heaven. There it hangs, a ball of golden fire, in a blue so intense as to look solid, the atmosphere a molten-golden vapor, the whole affecting one like some over-rich, bewildering strain, charged as full of the spirit of sensuous beauty and delight as a damask rose of perfume. After such a magnificent andante is like enough to follow the wild-measured scherzo of a sudden thunder-storm, with mutterings and growlings as of deep bass-viols, a tumult of claps, rattlings and rollings of the drums and trombones, and gusty sweepings up the scale of reed instruments and violins. Then a momentary silence till the sun flashes out again like the startling of a sudden clarion. But the superbest harmonies are reserved for the triumphant finale of the sunset. Sometimes this movement is brief and rapid ; the crimson ball drops down, and the horizon flames up broadly with one sustained trumpetblare, fiery red. At other times, the instrumentation is more complex, the harmonies most subtle and intricate, golden tones passing into red and purple, barred and streaked with lines of fire, with modulations into related chords of orange and indigo, with interventions of clear green and primrose yellow ; all changing, fusing, gradually sinking down into the quiet of the dusk, till after a brief recurrence of the day’s opening notes of rose, pearl-gray, and faint gold, there falls at last the silence of the dark. There are days, however, composed in another manner than the sumptuous, imperious strains to which we are commonly treated during the glowing heats of July and August. To follow out our fancy, we may say that some of our fine calm days of midwinter have the austere beauty of style that we find in Glück, and Bach, and Spohr. The cool midsummer of the present year was remarkable for still another musical mode; a manner partaking largely of the admirable simplicity of the earlier masters, yet warmed with a touch of the complex modern spirit: at midday the liquid-golden sunlight streamed down from a pure, sapphire sky; the sun towards its decline became a sphere of silver, so intensely burnished that its rays flashed through the trees with a diamond-like brilliancy, but, once dropped below the horizon, the music took on a softer strain, a slower measure, and died away in long-drawn, tranquil chords of amber and silver and pale gold. From color-symphonies like these one may gather an emotion of undefined, yet poignant delight, similar in kind and almost equal in degree to that received from fine music. One’s habitation ought to be placed, if possible, where freedom of daily audience may be had to these skyey orchestral performances.

— Usually I fall in with the common error of human-kind, and look upon the so-called dumb creation as wholly free, careless, and jubilant. In some moods I would fain challenge the impertinently happy tribes of nature to change places with me for a while, to see whether they would be able to keep their good spirits and optimistic notions regarding the universe in general, and their own fortunes in particular. But it happened, the other day, that my eyes were opened to a different view of their case, and I saw, as I had not done before, the afflictions, dilemmas, and petty mortifications to which these sometimes envied creatures are subject. Starting on my morning walk with an impression that everything, and I in everything, enjoyed the good-will of the delicious hour, I had the bad luck to be contradicted at the very outset. A white butterfly had been caught in a spider’s web. Its wings were torn, and its powdery plumage was half rubbed off. “ Careless thing,” was my comment, “ to get yourself into this predicament, spoiling your own pleasure, and that of a superior being as well! ” But I was unable to proceed with my walk until I had helped the butterfly out of its trouble, adding it, I hoped, to the company of the morning-glad. Before I left the garden, it happened to a bumble-bee to be devoured by a snapdragon, into whose throat he had ventured too far. Nothing of him remained visible but his hind legs, which protruded from the mouth of the humorous flower like a couple of extra-long stamens. Deep and wrathy were his threats, and soon the dragon disgorged its unquiet morsel.

Farther on, I stopped to admire a tall milkweed, whose blossoms simulated ornaments of ivory and pink coral. But here was a moving calamity! This plant, which is very attractive to bees, has a treacherous way of detaining them for hours together, frequently to their death. While at work on the flower, the bee is liable to have its foot caught in one of the deep crevices containing the pollinia ; even if it succeed in pulling its foot out of the crevice, its embarrassment is not over, for it also pulls out the two pollen masses (resembling a pair of saddle-bags), and is compelled to carry them, until some lucky chance sets it free. On this particular occasion, I found two bees and a black ant, each suspended by one of its feet from a blossom ; dead, after probable hours of torturous struggle to escape. Other bees were still alive, but caught at some point, or dragging about one or more pairs of gluey saddle-bags, — much in the situation of convicts wearing the ball and chain. It appeared to me that the career of a honey-gatherer was not one of unalloyed sweetness.

Next, coming to the creek, which in the dry season takes the “ footpath way,” and lets the grass grow far into its bed, I observed that it had cruelly shirked its responsibilities, in leaving near its margin a helpless and panic-stricken school of minnows. These were living in a pool scarcely wider than a hoof span. Clearly, it was a question of but a few hours with them in their drop of an oasis surrounded by a burning Sahara. Here was a true distress-siege, which neither the wisdom nor the valor of the besieged could avail to solve. From a minnow point of view, it seemed that life must look “ more doubtful than certain.”

I was still thinking of the minnows, when I met a venerable mud-turtle, the initials of an unknown cut in its shell. The turtle, unfortunately, was not traveling alone, but in the company of a boy, who held it suspended by a cord. I asked the boy what he would do with his capture, and received this answer : “ Take him home, put him in the swillbar’l, an’ fat him up ; then, eat him. There ’s seven kinds of meat in a turtle,” — this last with an air of experience and relish. Filled with pity at thought of the degradation in store for the turtle (I doubtless overestimated its sense of refinement), I tried to bring the boy to accept a ransom and leave his prize with me. But either he disapproved my interference as a display of morbid humanity, or his sybaritic anticipation of the “ seven kinds of meat ” was stronger than his pecuniary craving, for he rejected all my offers.

Going home, I passed a flock of hens, which were in great consternation, caused by the movements of a hawk. So free and beautiful was its aerial geometrizing, that I found it difficult to charge the hawk with any mean or bloodthirsty motive. Yet, in a future age, when military expeditions are embarked in balloons, some Napoleonic invader in his hovering warship may terrify the inhabitants of a country much as the hawk terrified those poor fowls of the earth.

As though I had not already seen enough of the straits and misfortunes which happen to those whom Nature is supposed to have under direct protection. I must listen to the plaints of a mother that had lately been deprived of her offspring, — a young, graceful, fawnlike creature I had often admired. The mother did not tell me in so many words of the ache in her heart, of the pretty and apt ways her darling had, or of her fears for its safety ; but her large, mournful eyes (so beautiful that Juno need not have resented the comparison) expressed more of sorrow than did even the deep melancholy of her tones. She was already somewhat comforted by my sympathy and caresses, and I reflected that time and the good pasture would steal away her sense of the affliction. This, however, I did not say aloud, since to me their light forgetting of grief seems the most pathetic thing in the life of animals.

— In the June Atlantic, attention was drawn by a member of the Club to the perfidious conduct of a certain middle-aged young person, who had intruded upon the literary privacy of the Contributor, and who had subsequently served up for the columns of The Western Reserve Bugle all her host “did n’t say upon that occasion.” The Contributor very naturally appealed to the Club for a phrase that would “ adequately characterize” the conduct of his reprehensible visitor. Not being gifted with the power of invective, we cannot furnish the phrase desired, but we can say with all sincerity that we are more than moderately interested in the case, more than mildly grieved at the overzeal and unprincipledness of the elderly young woman. It is possible that our being a native of that particular pinpoint in Western space known as the Reserve, has something to do with the exceeding interest and chagrin felt by us. We have made diligent inquiry as to a newspaper with the inspiriting name of The Western Reserve Bugle. We find no such paper ; not even an obscure country bantling, thus christened and dying immediately afterward, has been reported. Also, we have made a study of the newspaper “correspondence” done by middle-aged young ladies in this slurred quarter of the country, and we do not find it more discommendable than work of a similar character done elsewhere. In vain we try to recall having met with a person who answered to the description given by the Contributor. The Reserve is really a small area, and she ought to be found if residing therein. It now occurs to us that she may have gone abroad for the improvement of her mind, though to accomplish so considerable a journey she must be more happily circumstanced financially than the literary sisterhood in general.

To conclude: we are not so much pained by the fact that the offender is a resident of the Western Reserve (which is a kind of newer New England), but that, being so, she should by her unseemly conduct cast reflection upon the excellent race of which she is an unworthy descendant. Since she is only " middle-aged young,” it would not be surprising to learn that she first saw the light among the Berkshire hills, or even farther eastward, at some subsequent period emigrating with her parents to the West. Perhaps the untoward influences of frontier life in the Reserve should be held to account for the blunting of her sensibilities, as well as for her lack of ethical culture.

— In speaking recently of inherited tastes and preferences, I remembered something which had been forgotten for years. When I was a child I bestowed great affection upon a small copy of Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, which I chanced to find in an upper room of the house, among an uninteresting collection of old pamphlets and magazines and cast-off books which had been brought up from the shelves of my father’s library. The lower part of the house was, as is not unusual, constantly being relieved of these armfuls of miscellaneous literature, and I used to please myself by hunting and searching, I did not know exactly for what, though I sometimes read eagerly a story or two in a magazine, and always was enticed by the pictures. One day, however, I lighted upon a slender little volume, bound in boards, with pale yellow paper sides and much-frayed back, and I immediately took a great fancy to it. It was a case of love at first sight. I had no need to wait for a taste of its contents, and it seemed perfectly consistent with its instantly recognized character that I should discover, on further acquaintance, the story of the prisoner and the starling, of the happy peasants, and of poor Maria. It seemed more like a long-lost treasure brought to light than a new and unfamiliar book. It gave a certain completeness and satisfaction to my life, and from that time I always knew where this little book was. I carried it about with me, for it was not too large for even my small pocket, and no doll that ever lived and was loved could have been so great a delight to me.

One rainy afternoon I was sitting by a window with the book in my hands, and my father stood beside me, and was speaking to me laughingly and carelessly ; but suddenly, as he looked down at my lap, he reached for the book with great surprise. " Where in the world did you find this ? ” said he, and turned its pages with affection. “ I have not seen it for years, and was afraid it was lost. I have had it ever since I can remember, and when I was a child I used to insist upon taking it to bed with me and keeping it under my pillow. I suppose it was because it was small and like a plaything, at first; but when I grew old enough to read it I used to wake early in the morning and spell out the stories.”

I felt only a sense of pride and of being like my father, at that moment; but since then I have thought many times of the curious incident, and my almost superstitious feeling toward the playfellow volume has interested me very much, it was so plainly an inheritance in which my will took little part. Though I have always enjoyed a Sentimental Journey most sincerely, yet I must confess to often finding myself a little astray in modern editions, and I turn the small leaves of this beloved copy with pleasantest memories and best content.

— That is an admirable as well as a venerable law which forbids the landowner to build so close upon the boundary between himself and his neighbor that his roof shall project beyond the line. The law requires that he shall leave a space for eaves, and that the discharge from the eaves (Anglo-Saxon yfesdrype) shall be upon his own territory. Thus, reference is made to a right in the air as well as in the soil, and a strip of neutral ground is left between adjacent builders. If I mistake not, these strictures hold equally good in the ethics of social life. Judicious souls everywhere accept cheerfully the law of bounds ; only the inexperienced and the unwise appeal. Well do we remember making the discovery (grievous enough, at first) that the book of our thoughts and feelings was by no means as intelligible as we hoped it would be to those with whom we entrusted it for sympathetic perusal. By a still later discovery, we found that, were it possible, we would not have our book luminous in all its passages, — would not that even the best-disposed reader should think he had penetrated quite to the heart of our mystery. Formerly, we, too, had taken pains to address a preface to the understander; but in all later editions the whimsical thing was left out, as being trivial, if not misleading. Were we now to meet one who assumed the airs of the understander, we should exhibit a singular unresponsiveness in place of the revealing spirit of our preface. It is true, the world’s cruelty has not touched us ; none has dealt with us treacherously; we are not less interested than formerly in our fellow beings : then, why so self-retiring, why so exacting of our neighbors that they shall align their walls, and have a care that their eaves shall not encroach? We may reply. We are thus self-retired, respecting also the self-retirement of others, because the things of our spiritual nature become more and more ours, and yet less ours to divulge freely and unconditionally. The heart knoweth not only its own bitterness, deep and incommunicable, but also a sweetness of joy, which it neither wishes nor is able to reveal. As delightful as sympathy may be, it must come to us only in such remittances as our conscious need demands ; we know not how to dispose of any excess. We have with ourselves alone certain confidences, the revelation of which, though to the alter ego, would be nothing less than an act of bad faith. The alter ego, we expect, will guard as jealously the neutral precinct, as promptly warn off the trespasser, though the trespasser be our dear self. I was neither hurt, nor in the least surprised, at reading the Orphic verse which my nearest and oldest neighbor had posted above his door, though I knew at once to whom alone it was addressed : —

— I believe it was Mr. Higginson who said that it has taken a hundred years to eliminate the lark from American literature; but there are several other lingering delusions which we have unlawfully inherited from our English ancestry. I have lately found myself much dissatisfied with Italy and the Mediterranean Sea, because the skies of one and the waters of the other failed to keep up their time-honored reputation for unequaled blueness. I do not need to explain that English writers have commented from century to century upon the contrast between the Italian atmosphere and their own, and have celebrated the glories of the former. The color of the waves that beat against the shores of Great Britain is apt to be a dull brown ; in many places it seems as if the London fogs were the fountains from which the sea is replenished. But we Americans go on placidly making our copy-books say over and over again that the sky is blue in Italy, as if there were not a bluer and a more brilliant one over our own heads. Soft and tender the heavens may be in Venice and above Lake Como, but there is a tenderness and a softness of clear light and of shadowed light in New England of which we should do well to sing the beauty and the glory.

Just in the same fashion we mourn over the gloominess of autumn, as if ours were the autumn of Thomson, or of Cowper, or of any poet who wrote of fogs, and darkness, and shortness of days, and general death, and soddenness, and chill despair. Here there is little dull weather until winter is fairly come, but through the long, bright months of September and October, and sometimes the whole of the condemned and dreaded November, the days — not nearly such short days as in England — are bright and invigorating. But we are brought up on English books, and our delusions of this sort are, after all, rare disadvantages, that never can counterbalance the greater mercies and delights of our inherited literature.

But I laugh when I think of some mistakes I made in my youth, as I tried to order my life in conformity to the precepts of my little books. These stories were crammed with the English traditional ideas of our duty to our poor neighbor, and I remember that I diligently sought through the thrifty New England village where I was brought up for some suffering person with whom I might share the bounty which I did my best to enjoy. There seemed to be no leaky-roofed cottages, and I myself came usually as near to the description of a ragged child as any roving young person I could meet, since my clothing was always more or less tattered and damaged by the last fence or brier-bush. But one day I happened to hear some elder member of my family speak of a neighbor compassionately, and I lay in wait for her, so to speak. That afternoon, when I chanced to be overtaken by hunger, and had brought my piece of bread and butter out-of-doors, the neighbor came by, and to her great astonishment, and not without a great struggle on my own part, I offered her the square slice, from one side of which I had taken a little round bite. She treated me very kindly, but appeared somewhat surprised ; and I felt that there was something not quite right about the whole occasion, as she walked away up the street. She had a child in her arms, to whom she gave my bread and butter. He seemed to enjoy it; but it was not the way poor persons behaved in my English story-books.