One gets tired to death of the old, old rhymes, such as you see in that copy of verses,—­which I don’t mean to abuse, or to praise either.  I always feel as if I were a cobbler, putting new top-leathers to an old pair of boot-soles and bodies, when I am fitting sentiments to these venerable jingles.

.    .    .    .    youth
.    .    .    .    .    morning
.    .    .    .    .    truth
.    .    .    .    .    warning

Nine tenths of the “Juvenile Poems” written spring out of the above musical and suggestive coincidences.

“Yes?” said our landlady’s daughter.

I did not address the following remark to her, and I trust, from her limited range of reading, she will never see it; I said it softly to my next neighbour.

When a young female wears a flat circular side—­curl, gummed on each temple,—­when she walks with a male, not arm in arm, but his arm against the back of hers,—­and when she says “Yes?” with the note of interrogation, you are generally safe in asking her what wages she gets, and who the “feller” was you saw her with.

“What were you whispering?” said the daughter of the house, moistening her lips, as she spoke, in a very engaging manner.

“I was only laying down a principle of social diagnosis.”

“Yes?”

—­It is curious to see how the same wants and tastes find the same implements and modes of expression in all times and places.  The young ladies of Otaheite, as you may see in Cook’s Voyages, had a sort of crinoline arrangement fully equal in radius to the largest spread of our own lady-baskets.  When I fling a Bay-State shawl over my shoulders, I am only taking a lesson from the climate that the Indian had learned before me.  A blanket-shawl we call it, and not a plaid; and we wear it like the aborigines, and not like the Highlanders.

—­We are the Romans of the modern world,—­the great assimilating people.  Conflicts and conquests are of course necessary accidents with us, as with our prototypes.  And so we come to their style of weapon.  Our army sword is the short, stiff, pointed gladius of the Romans; and the American bowie-knife is the same tool, modified to meet the daily wants of civil society.  I announce at this table an axiom not to be found in Montesquieu or the journals of Congress:-

The race that shortens its weapons lengthens its boundaries.

Corollary.  It was the Polish lance that left Poland at last with nothing of her own to bound.

“Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear!”

What business had Sarmatia to be fighting for liberty with a fifteen-foot pole between her and the breasts of her enemies?  If she had but clutched the old Roman and young American weapon, and come to close quarters, there might have been a chance for her; but it would have spoiled the best passage in “The Pleasures of Hope.”