in argument are notoriously unsound in judgment. I should not

trust the counsel of a smart debater, any more than that of a good
chess-player. Either may of course advisewisely, but not

necessarily because he wrangles or plays well.
The old gentleman who sits opposite got his hand up, as a pointer

lifts his forefoot, at the expression, "his relations with truth,
as I understand truth," and when I had done, sniffed audibly, and

said I talked like a transcendentalist. For his part, common sense
was good enough for him.

Precisely so, my dear sir, I replied; common sense, AS YOU
UNDERSTAND IT. We all have to assume a standard of judgment in our

own minds, either of things or persons. A man who is willing to
take another's opinion has to exercise his judgment in the choice

of whom to follow, which is often as nice a matter as to judge of
things for one's self. On the whole, I had rather judge men's

minds by comparing their thoughts with my own, than judge of
thoughts by knowing who utter them. I must do one or the other.

It does not follow, of course, that I may not recognize another
man's thoughts as broader and deeper than my own; but that does not

necessarily change my opinion, otherwise this would be at the mercy
of every superior mind that held a different one. How many of our

most cherished beliefs are like those drinking-glasses of the
ancient pattern, that serve us well so long as we keep them in our

hand, but spill all if we attempt to set them down! I have
sometimes compared conversation to the Italian game of MORA, in

which one player lifts his hand with so many fingers extended, and
the other gives the number if he can. I show my thought, another

his; if they agree, well; if they differ, we find the largest
common factor, if we can, but at any rate avoid disputing about

remainders and fractions, which is to real talk what tuning an
instrument is to playing on it.

- What if, instead of talking this morning, I should read you a
copy of verses, with critical remarks by the author? Any of the

company can retire that like.
ALBUM VERSES.

When Eve had led her lord away,
And Cain had killed his brother,

The stars and flowers, the poets say,
Agreed with one another

To cheat the cunning tempter's art,
And teach the race its duty,

By keeping on its wicked heart
Their eyes of light and beauty.

A million sleepless lids, they say,
Will be at least a warning;

And so the flowers would watch by day,
The stars from eve to morning.

On hill and prairie, field and lawn,
Their dewy eyes upturning,

The flowers still watch from reddening dawn
Till western skies are burning.

Alas! each hour of daylight tells
A tale of shame so crushing,

That some turn white as sea-bleached shells,
And some are always blushing.

But when the patient stars look down
On all their light discovers,

The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown,
The lips of lying lovers,

They try to shut their saddening eyes,
And in the vain endeavour

We see them twinkling in the skies,
And so they wink forever.

What do YOU think of these verses my friends? - Is that piece an
impromptu? said my landlady's daughter. (Aet. 19 +. Tender-eyed

blonde. Long ringlets. Cameo pin. Gold pencil-case on a chain.
Locket. Bracelet. Album. Autograph book. Accordeon. Reads

Byron, Tupper, and Sylvanus Cobb, junior, while her mother makes
the puddings. Says "Yes?" when you tell her anything.) - OUI ET

NON, MA PETITE, - Yes and no, my child. Five of the seven verses
were written off-hand; the other two took a week, - that is, were

hanging round the desk in a ragged, forlorn, unrhymed condition as
long as that. All poets will tell you just such stories. C'EST LE

DERNIER PAS QUI COUTE. Don't you know how hard it is for some
people to get out of a room after their visit is really over? They

want to be off, and you want to have them off, but they don't know
how to manage it. One would think they had been built in your

parlour or study, and were waiting to be launched. I have
contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane for such visitors,

which being lubricated with certain smooth phrases, I back them
down, metaphorically speaking, stern-foremost, into their "native

element," the great ocean of out-doors. Well, now, there are poems
as hard to get rid of as these rural visitors. They come in

glibly, use up all the serviceable rhymes, DAY, RAY, BEAUTY, DUTY,
SKIES, EYES, OTHER, BROTHER, MOUNTAIN, FOUNTAIN, and the like; and

so they go on until you think it is time for the wind-up, and the
wind-up won't come on any terms. So they lie about until you get

sick of the sight of them, and end by thrusting some cold scrap of
a final couplet upon them, and turning them out of doors. I

suspect a good many "impromptus" could tell just such a story as
the above. - Here turning to our landlady, I used an illustration

which pleased the company much at the time, and has since been
highly commanded. "Madam," I said, "you can pour three gills and

three quarters of honey from that pint jug, if it is full, in less
than one minute; but, Madam, you could not empty that last quarter

of a gill, though you were turned into a marble Hebe, and held the
vessel upside down for a thousand years.

One gets tired to death of the old, old rhymes, such as you see in
that copy of verses, - which I don't mean to abuse, or to praise

either. I always feel as if I were a cobbler, putting new top-
leathers to an old pair of boot-soles and bodies, when I am fitting

sentiments to these venerable jingles.
. . . . youth

. . . . . morning
. . . . . truth

. . . . . warning
Nine tenths of the "Juvenile Poems" written spring out of the above

musical and suggestive coincidences.
"Yes?" said our landlady's daughter.

I did not address the following remark to her, and I trust, from
her limited range of reading, she will never see it; I said it

softly to my next neighbour.
When a young female wears a flat circular side - curl, gummed on

each temple, - when she walks with a male, not arm in arm, but his
arm against the back of hers, - and when she says "Yes?" with the

note of interrogation, you are generally safe in asking her what
wages she gets, and who the "feller" was you saw her with.

"What were you whispering?" said the daughter of the house,
moistening her lips, as she spoke, in a very engaging manner.

"I was only laying down a principle of social diagnosis."
"Yes?"

- It is curious to see how the same wants and tastes find the same
implements and modes of expression in all times and places. The

young ladies of Otaheite, as you may see in Cook's Voyages, had a
sort of crinoline arrangement fully equal in radius to the largest