appellations of youthful progenitors, and HIC LIBER EST MEUS on the
title-page. A set of Hogarth's original plates. Pope, original

edition, 15 volumes, London, 1717. Barrow on the lower shelves, in
folio. Tillotson on the upper, in a little dark platoon of octo-

decimos.
Some family silver; a string of wedding and funeral rings; the arms

of the family curiously blazoned; the same in worsted, by a maiden
aunt.

If the man of family has an old place to keep these things in,
furnished with claw-footed chairs and black mahogany tables, and

tall bevel-edged mirrors, and statelyupright cabinets, his outfit
is complete.

No, my friends, I go (always, other things being equal) for the man
who inherits family traditions and the cumulative humanities of at

least four or five generations. Above all things, as a child, he
should have tumbled about in a library. All men are afraid of

books, who have not handled them from infancy. Do you suppose our
dear DIDASCALOS over there ever read POLI SYNOPSIS, or consulted

CASTELLI LEXICON, while he was growing up to their stature? Not
he; but virtue passed through the hem of their parchment and

leather garments whenever he touched them, as the precious drugs
sweated through the bat's handle in the Arabian story. I tell you

he is at home wherever he smells the invigorating fragrance of
Russia leather. No self-made man feels so. One may, it is true,

have all the antecedents I have spoken of, and yet be a boor or a
shabby fellow. One may have none of them, and yet be fit for

councils and courts. Then let them change places. Our social
arrangement has this great beauty, that its strata shift up and

down as they change specificgravity, without being clogged by
layers of prescription. But I still insist on my democratic

liberty of choice, and I go for the man with the gallery of family
portraits against the one with the twenty-five-cent daguerreotype,

unless I find out that the last is the better of the two.
- I should have felt more nervous about the late comet, if I had

thought the world was ripe. But it is very green yet, if I am not
mistaken; and besides, there is a great deal of coal to use up,

which I cannot bring myself to think was made for nothing. If
certain things, which seem to me essential to a millennium, had

come to pass, I should have been frightened; but they haven't.
Perhaps you would like to hear my

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS.
When legislators keep the law,

When banks dispense with bolts and locks,
When berries, whortle - rasp - and straw -

Grow bigger DOWNWARDS through the box, -
When he that selleth house or land

Shows leak in roof or flaw in right, -
When haberdashers choose the stand

Whose window hath the broadest light, -
When preachers tell us all they think,

And party leaders all they mean, -
When what we pay for, that we drink,

From real grape and coffee-bean, -
When lawyers take what they would give,

And doctors give what they would take, -
When city fathers eat to live,

Save when they fast for conscience' sake, -
When one that hath a horse on sale

Shall bring his merit to the proof,
Without a lie for every nail

That holds the iron on the hoof, -
When in the usual place for rips

Our gloves are stitched with special care,
And guarded well the whalebone tips

Where first umbrellas need repair, -
When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot

The power of suction to resist,
And claret-bottles harber not

Such dimples as would hold your fist, -
When publishers no longer steal,

And pay for what they stole before, -
When the first locomotive's wheel

Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore; -
TILL then let Cumming a blaze away,

And Miller's saints blow up the globe;
But when you see that blessed day,

THEN order your ascension robe!
The company seemed to like the verses, and I promised them to read

others occasionally, if they had a mind to hear them. Of course
they would not expect it every morning. Neither must the reader

suppose that all these things I have reported were said at any one
breakfast-time. I have not taken the trouble to date them, as

Raspail, PERE, used to date every proof he sent to the printer; but
they were scattered over several breakfasts; and I have said a good

many more things since, which I shall very possibly print some time
or other, if I am urged to do it by judicious friends.

I finished off with reading some verses of my friend the Professor,
of whom you may perhaps hear more by and by. The Professor read

them, he told me, at a farewell meeting, where the youngest of our
great Historians met a few of his many friends at their invitation.

YES, we knew we must lose him, - though friendship may claim
To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame;

Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,
'Tis the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel, -
As the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel, -

As the archer that stands with his shaft on the string,
He stoops from his toil to the garland we bring.

What pictures yet slumberunborn in his loom
Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom,

While the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes
That caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies!

In the alcoves of death, in the charnels of time,
Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime,

There are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung,
There are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue!

Let us hear the proud story which time has bequeathed
From lips that are warm with the freedom they breathed!

Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom,
Though he sweep the black past like Van Tromp with his broom!

* * * * *
The dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake

On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake,
To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine,

With incense they stole from the rose and the pine.
So fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed

When the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed:
THE TRUE KNIGHT OF LEARNING, - the world holds him dear, -

Love bless him, Joy crown him, God speed his career!
CHAPTER II.

I REALLY believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being
too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring

friend said the other day to one that was talking good things, -
good enough to print? "Why," said he, "you are wasting

mechantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I
can tell, of fifty dollars an hour." The talker took him to the

window and asked him to look out and tell what he saw.
"Nothing but a very dusty street," he said, "and a man driving a

sprinkling-machine through it."
"Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would

be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our
THOUGHT-SPRINKLERS through them with the valves open, sometimes?

"Besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you