It appears to be a peculiarly American weakness.  The French republicans of the earlier period thought the term citizen was good enough for anybody.  At a later period, “Roi Citoyen”—­the citizen king was a common title given to Louis Philippe.  But nothing is too grand for the American, in the way of titles.  The proudest of them all signify absolutely nothing.  They do not stand for ability, for public service, for social importance, for large possessions; but, on the contrary, are oftenest found in connection with personalities to which they are supremely inapplicable.  We can hardly afford to quarrel with a national habit which, if lightly handled, may involve us in serious domestic difficulties.  The “Right Worshipful” functionary whose equipage stops at my back gate, and whose services are indispensable to the health and comfort of my household, is a dignitary whom I must not offend.  I must speak with proper deference to the lady who is scrubbing my floors, when I remember that her husband, who saws my wood, carries a string of high-sounding titles which would satisfy a Spanish nobleman.

After all, every people must have its own forms of ostentation, pretence, and vulgarity.  The ancient Romans had theirs, the English and the French have theirs as well,—­why should not we Americans have ours?  Educated and refined persons must recognize frequent internal conflicts between the “Homo sum” of Terence and the “Odi profanum vulgus” of Horace.  The nobler sentiment should be that of every true American, and it is in that direction that our best civilization is constantly tending.

We were waited on by a new girl, the other evening.  Our pretty maiden had left us for a visit to some relative,—­so the Mistress said.  I do sincerely hope she will soon come back, for we all like to see her flitting round the table.

I don’t know what to make of it.  I had it all laid out in my mind.  With such a company there must be a love-story.  Perhaps there will be, but there may be new combinations of the elements which are to make it up, and here is a bud among the full-blown flowers to which I must devote a little space.

Delilah.

I must call her by the name we gave her after she had trimmed the Samson locks of our Professor.  Delilah is a puzzle to most of us.  A pretty creature, dangerously pretty to be in a station not guarded by all the protective arrangements which surround the maidens of a higher social order.  It takes a strong cage to keep in a tiger or a grizzly bear, but what iron bars, what barbed wires, can keep out the smooth and subtle enemy that finds out the cage where beauty is imprisoned?  Our young Doctor is evidently attracted by the charming maiden who serves him and us so modestly and so gracefully.  Fortunately, the Mistress never loses sight of her.  If she were her own daughter, she could not be more watchful of all her movements.  And yet I do not believe that Delilah needs all this overlooking.  If I