“Madam,” said I, (she and the century were in their teens together,) “all men are bores, except when we want them.  There never was but one man whom I would trust with my latch-key.”

“Who might that favored person be?”

“Zimmermann.”

—­The men of genius that I fancy most have erectile heads like the cobra-di-capello.  You remember what they tell of William Pinkney, the great pleader; how in his eloquent paroxysms the veins of his neck would swell and his face flush and his eyes glitter, until he seemed on the verge of apoplexy.  The hydraulic arrangements for supplying the brain with blood are only second in importance to its own organization.  The bulbous-headed fellows that steam well when they are at work are the men that draw big audiences and give us marrowy books and pictures.  It is a good sign to have one’s feet grow cold when he is writing.  A great writer and speaker once told me that he often wrote with his feet in hot water; but for this, all his blood would have run into his head, as the mercury sometimes withdraws into the ball of a thermometer.

—­You don’t suppose that my remarks made at this table are like so many postage-stamps, do you,—­each to be only once uttered?  If you do, you are mistaken.  He must be a poor creature that does not often repeat himself.  Imagine the author of the excellent piece of advice, “Know thyself,” never alluding to that sentiment again during the course of a protracted existence!  Why, the truths a man carries about with him are his tools; and do you think a carpenter is bound to use the same plane but once to smooth a knotty board with, or to hang up his hammer after it has driven its first nail?  I shall never repeat a conversation, but an idea often.  I shall use the same types when I like, but not commonly the same stereotypes.  A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times.  It has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of associations.

Sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same speech twice over, and yet be held blameless.  Thus, a certain lecturer, after performing in an inland city, where dwells a Litteratrice of note, was invited to meet her and others over the social teacup.  She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his new occupation.  “Yes,” he replied, “I am like the Huma, the bird that never lights, being always in the cars, as he is always on the wing.”—­Years elapsed.  The lecturer visited the same place once more for the same purpose.  Another social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting with the distinguished lady.  “You are constantly going from place to place,” she said.—­“Yes,” he answered, “I am like the Huma,”—­and finished the sentence as before.