Don’t you perceive the sonorousness of these old dead Latin phrases?  Now I tell you that, every word fresh from the dictionary brings with it a certain succulence; and though I cannot expect the sheets of the “Pactolian,” in which, as I told you, I sometimes print my verses, to get so dry as the crisp papyrus that held those words of Horatius Flaccus, yet you may be sure, that, while the sheets are damp, and while the lines hold their sap, you can’t fairly judge of my performances, and that, if made of the true stuff, they will ring better after a while.

[There was silence for a brief space, after my somewhat elaborate exposition of these self-evident analogies.  Presently A person turned towards me—­I do not choose to designate the individual—­and said that he rather expected my pieces had given pretty good “sahtisfahction.”—­I had, up to this moment, considered this complimentary phrase as sacred to the use of secretaries of lyceums, and, as it has been usually accompanied by a small pecuniary testimonial, have acquired a certain relish for this moderately tepid and unstimulating expression of enthusiasm.  But as a reward for gratuitous services, I confess I thought it a little below that blood-heat standard which a man’s breath ought to have, whether silent, or vocal and articulate.  I waited for a favorable opportunity, however, before making the remarks which follow.]

—­There are single expressions, as I have told you already, that fix a man’s position for you before you have done shaking hands with him.  Allow me to expand a little.  There are several things, very slight in themselves, yet implying other things not so unimportant.  Thus, your French servant has devalise your premises and got caught.  Excusez, says the sergent-de-ville, as he politely relieves him of his upper garments and displays his bust in the full daylight.  Good shoulders enough,—­a little marked,—­traces of smallpox, perhaps,--but white. . . . .  Crac! from the sergent-de-ville’s broad palm on the white shoulder!  Now look!  Vogue la galere!  Out comes the big red V—­mark of the hot iron;—­he had blistered it out pretty nearly,—­hadn’t he?—­the old rascal VOLEUR, branded in the galleys at Marseilles! [Don’t!  What if he has got something like this?—­nobody supposes I invented such a story.]

My man John, who used to drive two of those six equine females which I told you I had owned,—­for, look you, my friends, simple though I stand here, I am one that has been driven in his “kerridge,”—­not using that term, as liberal shepherds do, for any battered old shabby-genteel go-cart which has more than one wheel, but meaning thereby a four-wheeled vehicle with A pole,—­my man John, I say, was a retired soldier.  He retired unostentatiously, as many of Her Majesty’s modest servants have done before and since.  John told me, that when an officer thinks he recognizes one of these retiring heroes, and would know if he has really been in the service, that he may restore him, if possible, to a grateful country, he comes suddenly upon him, and says, sharply, “Strap!” If he has ever worn the shoulder-strap, he has learned the reprimand for its ill adjustment.  The old word of command flashes through his muscles, and his hand goes up in an instant to the place where the strap used to be.