——­I see some of the London journals have been attacking some of their literary people for lecturing, on the ground of its being a public exhibition of themselves for money.  A popular author can print his lecture; if he deliver it, it is a case of quaestum corpore, or making profit of his person.  None but “snobs” do that. Ergo, etc.  To this I reply,—­Negatur minor.  Her Most Gracious Majesty, the Queen, exhibits herself to the public as a part of the service for which she is paid.  We do not consider it low-bred in her to pronounce her own speech, and should prefer it so to hearing it from any other person or reading it.  His Grace and his Lordship exhibit themselves very often for popularity, and their houses every day for money.—­No, if a man shows himself other than he is, if he belittles himself before an audience for hire, then he acts unworthily.  But a true word, fresh from the lips of a true man, is worth paying for, at the rate of eight dollars a day, or even of fifty dollars a lecture.  The taunt must be an outbreak of jealousy against the renowned authors who have the audacity to be also orators.  The sub-lieutenants of the press stick a too popular writer and speaker with an epithet in England, instead of with a rapier, as in France.—­Poh!  All England is one great menagerie, and, all at once, the jackal, who admires the gilded cage of the royal beast, must protest against the vulgarity of the talking-bird’s and the nightingale’s being willing to become a part of the exhibition!

THE LONG PATH.

(Last of the Parentheses.)

Yes, that was my last walk with the schoolmistress.  It happened to be the end of a term; and before the next began, a very nice young woman, who had been her assistant, was announced as her successor, and she was provided for elsewhere.  So it was no longer the school-mistress that I walked with, but—­Let us not be in unseemly haste.  I shall call her the schoolmistress still; some of you love her under that name.

——­When it became known among the boarders that two of their number had joined hands to walk down the long path of life side by side, there was, as you may suppose, no small sensation.  I confess I pitied our landlady.  It took her all of a suddin,—­she said.  Had not known that we was keepin’ company, and never mistrusted anything partic’lar.  Ma’am was right to better herself.  Didn’t look very rugged to take care of a family, but could get hired haaelp, she calc’lated.—­The great maternal instinct came crowding up in her soul just then, and her eyes wandered until they settled on her daughter.

——­No, poor, dear woman,—­that could not have been.  But I am dropping one of my internal tears for you, with this pleasant smile on my face all the time.