But really some of us cowards are diverting persons.  The lady who directed me against the cow is a most delightful woman with whom I hope I shall again sit at dinner.  A witty lady of my acquaintance shivers when a cat walks in the room.  A man with whom I pass the time pleasantly and profitably, although he will not admit a fear of ghosts, still will not sleep in an empty house because of possible noises.  I would rather spend a Saturday evening in the company of the cowardly Falstaff than of the bold Hotspur.  If it were not for sack, villainous sack, and a few spots upon his front, you would go far to find a better companion than the fat old Knight.  Bob Acres was not much for valor and he made an ass of himself when he went to fight a duel, yet one could have sat agreeably at mutton with him.

But these things are slight.  It matters little whether or not one can mount a ladder comfortably.  Now that motors have come in, horses stand remotely in our lives.  Nor is it of great moment whether or not we fear to be out of fashion—­whether we halt in the wearing of a wrong-shaped hat, or glance fearfully around when we choose from a line of forks.  Superstitions rest mostly on the surface and are not deadly in themselves.  A man can be true of heart even if he will not sit thirteen at table.  But there is a kind of fear that is disastrous to them that have it.  It is the fear of the material universe in all its manifestations.  There are persons, stout both of chest and limb, who fear drafts and wet feet.  A man who is an elephant of valor and who has been feeling this long while a gentle contempt for such as myself, will cry out if a soft breeze strikes against his neck.  If a foot slips to the gutter and becomes wet, he will dose himself.  Achilles did not more carefully nurse his heel.  For him the lofty dome of air is packed with malignant germs.  The round world is bottled with contagion.  A strong man who, in his time, might have slain the Sofi, is as fearful of his health as though the plague were up the street.  Calamities beset him.  The slightest sniffling in his nose is the trumpet for a deep disorder.  Existence is but a moving hazard.  Life for him, poor fellow, is but a room with a window on the night and a storm beating on the casement.  God knows, it is better to grow giddy on a ladder than to think that this majestic earth is such an universal pestilence.

The Asperities of the Early British Reviewers

Book reviewers nowadays direct their attention, for the most part, to the worthy books and they habitually neglect those that seem beneath their regard.  On a rare occasion they assail an unprofitable book, but even this is often but a bit of practice.  They swish a bludgeon to try their hand.  They only take their anger, as it were, upon an outing, lest with too close housing it grow pallid and shrink in girth.  Or maybe they indulge themselves in humor.  Perhaps they think that their pages grow