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cousins, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and the rest, say about that fine poem you have written, but send it (postage-paid) to the editors, if there are any, of the “ Atlantic,”—which, by the way, is not so called because it is a notion, as some dull wits wish they ha i said, but are too late.

-Scientific knowledge, even in the most modest persons, has mingled with it a something which partakes of insolence Absolute, peremptory facts are bullies, and those who keep company with them are apt to get a bullying habit of mind ;-not of manners, perhaps; they may be soft and smooth, but the smile they carry has a quiet assertion in it, such as the Champion of the Heavy Weights, commonly the best-natured, but not the most diffident of men, wears upon what he very inelegantly calls his “mug.” Take the man, for instance, who deals in the mathematical sciences. There is no elasticity in a mathematical fact; if you bring up against it, it never yields a hair’s breadth ; everything must go to pieces that comes in collision with it. What the mathematician knows being absolute, unconditional, incapable of suffering question, it should tend, in the nature of things, to breed a despotic way of thinking. So of those who deal with the palpable and often unmistakable facts of external nature; only in a less degree. Every probability—and most of our common, working beliefs are probabilities—is provided with buffers at both ends, which break the

force of opposite opinions clashing against it; but scientific certainty has no spring in it, no courtesy, no possibility of yielding. All this must react on the minds which handle these forms of truth.

Oh, you need not tell me that Messrs. A. and B. are the most gracious, unassuming people in the world, and yet preëminent in the ranges of science I am referring to. I know that as well as you. But mark this which I am going to say once for all: If I had not force enough to project a principle full in the face of the half dozen most obvious facts which seem to contradict it, I would think only in single file from this day forward. A rash man, once visiting a certain noted institution at South Boston, ventured to express the sentiment, that man is a rational being. An old woman who was an attendant in the Idiot School contradicted the statement, and appealed to the facts before the speaker to disprove it. The rash man stuck to his hasty generalization, notwithstanding.

[-It is my desire to be useful to those with whom I am associated in my daily relations. I not unfrequently practise the divine art of music in com. pany with our landlady's daughter, who, as I men tioned before, is the owner of an accordion. Having

a well-marked barytone voice of more than half an octave in compass, I sometimes add my vocal powers to her execution of

“ Thou, thou reign'st in this I osom,

not, however, unless her mother or some other dam
creet female is present, to prevent misinterpretation
or remark. I have also taken a good deal of interest
in Benjamin Franklin, before referred to, sometimes
called B. F., or more frequently Frank, in imitation
of that felicitous abbreviation, combining dignity
and convenience, adopted by some of his betters.
My acquaintance with the French language is very
imperfect, I having never studied it anywhere but in
Paris, which is awkward, as B. F. devotes himself to
it with the peculiar advantage of an Alsacian teacher.
The boy, I think, is doing well, between us, notwith-
standing. The following is an uncorrected French
exercise, written by this young gentleman. His
mother thinks it very creditable to his abilities;
though, being unacquainted with the French lan-
guage, her judgment cannot be considered final.

CE rat çi est un animal fort singulier. Il a deux pattes de der.
rière sur lesquelles il marche, et deux pattes de devant dont il fait
usage pour tenir les journaux. Cet animal a la


noire pour le
plupart, et porte un cercle blanchâtre autour de son cou. On le
trouve tous les jours aux dits salons, ou il demeure, digere, s'il y a
de quoi dans son interieur, respire, tousse, eternue, dort, et roofle
quelquefois, ayant toujours le semblant de lire.

On ne sait pas
s'il a une autre gite que çelà. Il a l'air d'une bête très stupide.
mais il est d'une sagacité et d'une vitesse extraordinaire quand il
s'agit de saisir un journal nouveau. On ne sait pas pourquoi il
lit, parcequ'il ne parait pas avoir des idées. Il vocalise rarement,
mais en revanche, il fait des bruits nasaux divers. Il porte no

Erayoa dans une de ses poches pectorales, avec lequel il fait des marques sur les bords des journaux et des livres, semblable aux suivans: !!!--Bah! Pooh! Il ne faut pas cependant les prendro pour des signes d'intelligence. Il ne vole pas, ordinairement; il fait rarement même des echanges de parapluie, et jamais de chapeau, parceque son chapeau a toujours un caractère specifique. On Le sait pas au juste ce dont il se nourrit. Feu Cuvier était d'avis que c'etait de l'odeur du cuir des reliures; ce qu'on dit d'être une nourriture animale fort saine, et peu chère. Il vit bien longtems. Enfin il meure, en laissant à ses héritiers une carte du Salon à Lecture ou il avait existé pendant sa vie. On pretend qu'il revient toutes les nuits, après la mort, visiter le Salon. On peut le voir, dit on, à minuit, dans sa place habituelle, tenant le journal du soir, et ayant à sa main un crayon de charbon. Le lendemain on trouve des caractères inconnus sur les bords du journal Ce qui prouve que le spiritualisme est vrai, et que Messieurs les Professeurs de Cambridge sont des imbeciles qui ne savent rien du tout, du tout.

I think this exercise, which I have not corrected, or allowed to be touched in any way, is not discreditable to B. F. You observe that he is acquiring a knowledge of zoology at the same time that he is learning French. Fathers of families in moderate circumstances will find it profitable to their children, and an economical mode of instruction, to set them to revising and amending this boy's exercise. The pas. sage was originally taken from the “ Histoire Na. turelle des Bêtes Ruminans et Rongeurs, Bipèdes et Autres,” lately published in Paris. This was transated into English and published in London. It was republished at Great Pellington, with notes and

additions by the American editor. The notes con sist of an interrogation-mark on page 53d, and a reference (p. 127th) to another book “edited” by the same hand. The additions consist of the editor's name on the title-page and back, with a complete and authentic list of said editor's honorary titles in the first of these localities. Our boy translated the translation back into French. This


be compared with the original, to be found on Shelf 13, Di. vision X, of the Public Library of this metropolis.]

-Some of you boarders ask me from time to time why I don't write a story, or a novel, or something of that kind. Instead of answering each one of you separately, I will thank you to step up into the wholesale department for a few moments, where I deal in answers by the piece and by the bale.

That every articulately-speaking human being has in him stuff for one novel in three volumes duodecimo has long been with me a cherished belief. It has been maintained, on the other hand, that many persons cannot write more than one novel,—that all after that are likely to be failures.—Life is so much more tremendous a thing in its heights and depths than any transcript of it can be, that all records of human experience are as so many bound herbaria to the innumerable glowing, glistening, rustling, breathing, fragrance-laden, poison-sucking, life-giving, death-distilling leaves and flowers of the forest and the prairies. All we can do with books of human

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