narrow-margined page look other than shabby and mean.  This inalienable right of the broad margin to our esteem is significant.  It lies deep.  The broad margin means something which is not measured by inches, has nothing to do with fashions of shape.  It means room for notes, queries, added by any man’s hand who reads.  Meaning this, it means also much more than this,—­far more than the mere letter of “right of way.”  It is a fine courtesy of recognition that no one page shall ever say the whole of its own message; be exhaustive, or ultimate, even of its own topic; determine or enforce its own opinion, to the shutting out of others.  No matter if the book live and grow old, without so much as an interrogation point or a line of enthusiastic admiration drawn in it by human hand, still the gracious import and suggestion of its broad white spaces are the same.  Each thought invites its neighbor, stands fairly to right or left of its opponent, and wooes its friend.

Thinking on this, we presently discover that margin means a species of freedom.  No wonder the word, and the thing it represents, wherever we find them, delight us.

We use the word constantly in senses which, speaking carelessly, we should have called secondary and borrowed.  Now we see that its application to pages, or pictures, or decorations, and so forth, was the borrowed and secondary use; and that primarily its meaning is spiritual.

We must have margin, or be uncomfortable in every thing in life.  Our plan for a day, for a week, for our lifetime, must have it,—­margin for change of purpose, margin for interruption, margin for accident.  Making no allowance for these, we are fettered, we are disturbed, we are thwarted.

Is there a greater misery than to be hurried?  If we leave ourselves proper margin, we never need to be hurried.  We always shall be, if we crowd our plan.  People pant, groan, and complain as if hurry were a thing outside of themselves,—­an enemy, a monster, a disease which overtook them, and against which they had no shelter.  It is hard to be patient with such nonsense.  Hurry is almost the only known misery which it is impossible to have brought upon one by other people’s fault.

If our plan of action for an hour or a day be so fatally spoiled by lack of margin, what shall we say of the mistake of the man who leaves himself no margin in matters of belief?  No room for a wholesome, healthy doubt?  No provision for an added enlightenment?  No calculation for the inevitable progress of human knowledge?  This is, in our eyes, the crying sin and danger of elaborate creeds, rigid formulas of exact statement on difficult and hidden mysteries.

The man who is ready to give pledge that the opinion he will hold to-morrow will be precisely the opinion he holds to-day has either thought very little, or to little purpose, or has resolved to quit thinking altogether.

The Fine Art of Smiling.