a moment.  With your gray goose-quill you sit, O Rhadamanthus, and to your waiting audience pleasantly enough affirm that I have “taken Benlomond for my model.”  But when I happen to remember that the larger part of my book was written and printed not only before I had ever met Benlomond, but before he had ever been heard of in this country at least, what faith can I have in your sagacity?  And when, remembering those remarkable coincidences which sometimes surprise and baffle us, which in science make Adams and Le Verrier discover the same planet at the same time without knowing anything of each other’s calculations, and which in any department seem to indicate that a great tide sweeps over humanity, bearing us on its bosom whithersoever it will, so that

        “God’s puppets, best and worst,
    Are we; there is no last nor first,”—­

I institute an examination of Benlomond to discover those generic or specific peculiarities which are supposed to have made their mark on me, why, I find for resemblance, that the situations, look you, is both alike.  There is a river in Macedon; there is also, moreover, a river in Monmouth:  ’tis as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is salmons in both!

Have I taken Benlomond for my model?  But why not Josephus and Ricardo and Francois and Michel, any and all who have poured their fancies and feelings into this mould?  Why select the last disciple and ignore the first apostle?  Many prophets have been in Israel whom I resemble as much, to say the least, as this Benlomond.  Is it not, my friend, that, in the multitude of your words and ways, you have not found time to renew your acquaintance with these ancient worthies, and so their features have somewhat faded from your memory? but Benlomond came in but yesterday, and because he is a newspaper-topic, him you know; and because at the first blush you running can read that there is a river in Monmouth and also a river in Macedon, and salmons in both,—­’tis as like as my fingers to my fingers, and Monmouth was built on the model of Macedon!  Ah, my eagle-eyes, Judea, too, had its Jordan, and Damascus its Abana and Pharpar, and little Massachusetts its Merrimac, which,

    “poet-tuned,
    Goes singing down his meadows.”

But Judea did not type Damascus.  The Merrimac bears not the sign of Abana, nor was Abana born of Jordan:  all, obedient to the word of the Lord, trickled forth from their springs among the hills, and wander down, one through his vine-land, one through his olive-groves, and one to meet the roaring of the mill-wheel’s rage.

I lay no claim to originality.  Uttering feebly, but only

    “The thoughts that arise in me,”