The form of Dr. Holmes’s best known books, the set concerned with the breakfast-table and “Over the Teacups,” is not very fortunate.  Much conversation at breakfast is a weariness of the flesh.  We want to eat what is necessary, and then to go about our work or play.  If American citizens in a boarding-house could endure these long palavers, they must have been very unlike the hasty feeders caricatured in “Martin Chuzzlewit.”  Macaulay may have monologuised thus at his breakfast parties in the Albany; but breakfast parties are obsolete—­an unregrettable parcel of things lost.  The monologues, or dialogues, were published serially in the Atlantic Monthly, but they have had a vitality and a vogue far beyond those of the magazine causerie.  Some of their popularity they may owe to the description of the other boarders, and to the kind of novel which connects the fortunes of these personages.  But it is impossible for an Englishman to know whether these American types are exactly drawn or not.  Their fortunes do not strongly interest one, though the “Sculpin”—­the patriotic, deformed Bostonian, with his great-great-grandmother’s ring (she was hanged for a witch)—­is a very original and singular creation.  The real interest lies in the wit, wisdom, and learning.  The wit, now and then, seems to-day rather in the nature of a “goak.”  One might give examples, but to do so seems ill-natured and ungrateful.

There are some very perishable puns.  The learning is not so recherche as it appeared when we knew nothing of Cotton Mather and Robert Calef, the author of a book against the persecution of witches.  Calef, of course, was in the right, but I cannot forgive him for refusing to see a lady, known to Mr. Mather, who floated about in the air.  That she did so was no good reason for hanging or burning a number of parishioners; but, did she float, and, if so, how?  Mr. Calef said it would be a miracle, so he declined to view the performance.  His logic was thin, though of a familiar description.  Of all old things, at all events, Dr. Holmes was fond.  He found America scarcely aired, new and raw, devoid of history and of associations.  “The Tiber has a voice for me, as it whispers to the piers of the Pons AElius, even more full of meaning than my well-beloved Charles, eddying round the piles of West Boston Bridge.”  No doubt this is a common sentiment among Americans.

Occasionally, like Hawthorne, they sigh for an historical atmosphere, and then, when they come to Europe and get it, they do not like it, and think Schenectady, New York, “a better place.”  It is not easy to understand what ailed Hawthorne with Europe; he was extremely caustic in his writings about that continent, and discontented.  Our matrons were so stout and placid that they irritated him.  Indeed, they are a little heavy in hand, still there are examples of agreeable slimness, even in this poor old country.  Fond as he was of the historical