guiltless of any design of giving offence to these eminent individuals.  There was a great monarch, who, when any little cross-accident befell him, was wont to fling himself upon the floor, and there to kick and scream and tear his hair.  And around him, meanwhile, stood his awe-stricken attendants:  all doubtless ready to assure him that there was something noble and graceful in his kicking and screaming, and that no human being had ever before with such dignity and magnanimity torn his hair.  My friend Mr. Smith tells me that in his early youth he had a (very slight) acquaintance with a great prince, of elevated rank and of vast estates.  That great prince came very early to his greatness; and no one had ever ventured, since he could remember, to tell him he had ever said or done wrong.  Accordingly, the prince had never learned to control himself, nor grown accustomed to bear quietly what he did not like.  And when any one, in conversation, related to him something which he disapproved, he used to start from his chair, and rush up and down the apartment, furiously flapping his hands together, till he had thus blown off the steam produced by the irritation of his nervous system.  That prince was a good man:  and so aware was he of his infirmity, that, when in these fits of passion, he never suffered himself to say a single word:  being aware that he might say what he would afterwards regret.  And though he could not wholly restrain himself, the entire wrath he felt passed off in flapping.  And after flapping for a few minutes, he sat down again, a reasonable man once more.  All honor to him!  For my friend Smith tells me that that prince was surrounded by toadies, who were ready to praise everything he might do, even to his flapping.  And in particular, there was one humble retainer, who, whenever his master flapped, was wont to hold up his hands in an ecstasy of admiration, exclaiming, “It is the flapping of a god, and not of a man!”

Now all this lack of Resignation on the part of princes and kings comes of the fact, that they are so far like children that they have not become accustomed to be resisted, and to be obliged to forego what they would like.  Resignation comes by the habit of being disappointed, and of finding things go against you.  It is, in the case of ordinary human beings, just what they expect.  Of course, you remember the adage, “Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.”  I have a good deal to say about that adage.  Reasonableness of expectation is a great and good thing:  despondency is a thing to be discouraged and put down as far as may be.  But meanwhile let me say, that the corollary drawn from that dismal beatitude seems to me unfounded in fact.  I should say just the contrary.  I should say, “Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he will very likely be disappointed.”  You know, my reader, whether things do not generally happen the opposite way from that which you expected.  Did you ever try to keep off an evil you dreaded by