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writes Horace, - rather a soft gentleman himself, but his philosophy is sound.

I have been reading this letter, and I fancy I can hear you saying: “Take me back to the quarries!” You see, you are my congregation now, and, like the Swiss hero, you receive all the lances in your one bosom.

I have been reading Stevenson's Life, by Balfour, Green — of the Short History of the English People — by Leslie Stephen, and not so far away as it seems

" Don Quixote.” Strange that there should still be superficial fools who think “Don Quixote" is a satire upon knight-errantry. It is invigorating to know of such men as Stevenson and Green — both invalids, both pushing death on one side with a smile, that they might work a little longer; both accomplishing great tasks that it would stagger most strong men to contemplate. My poor old back gets a bit straighter as I read, and it is borne in upon me that I am a puling thing to whimper or complain. But they never had a taste of the physical fulness of life as I had. It is the memory of my

freedom that at times makes me restless in this physical slavery. The pen seems a poor plaything after one has held a gun, a whip, a sword. But no more of me. Indeed, I beg pardon for so much of me. What about you? What became of the myopic gentleman's surtout? Is it the water-lily, or the spouse of him with the cephalic damp doughnut? How is the whiskey in the land of the Seminoles? When are you coming back? When are you writing me again? soon, I trust. We are all well. Bob and Katharine are now in their town house, and I see them when they run out here for a Sunday. I miss the children. I am off to Spain presently with Sancho. Au revoir!




Your defence of the New Englander is convincing, but it does not interest me; at present nothing interests me except myself, but your three most desirable attributes of women made me roar. Why, man, I expect to find them “sober;" I should hate to find them "silent” and « fertile." That's as you like. My idea is beauty, tenderness, and sterility. I will not disappoint you — I admit I have a longing to go back to the quarries."

"I walk down de street
Wif ma gun in ma han’
Nobody knows how bad I am.
I look out de window and I look on de shelf-
I'm so bad I'm a-skeered of myself.”

That's my condition exactly, so no words of wisdom from you or any one else will keep me from enjoying to the full this one wee holiday.

I was out walking this morning, and I heard a negro wench singing; here is the refrain:

What do I care for your words of wisdom?
What do I care for your house and lan'?
What do I care for your gold and silver ?

What I want is a han’some man." There's philosophy for you; change the sex of the wished-for one, and

my sentiments.

Do you know Jno. J. Ingalls's “Opportunity?" Here it is:


you have

I penetrate

• Master of human destinies am I !

Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk.
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate !

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