ishment, but was to
be tasted and enjoyed. The first of the flavours came readily in a
sweetness, richness, a slight acidity, that it might not cloy; but the
deeper, more delicate flavour came later--if one were not crudely
impatient--and was, indeed, the very soul of the fruit. One does not
quickly arrive at souls either in apples or in friends. And I said to
Horace with solemnity, for this was an occasion not to be lightly
treated:

"I have never in my life tasted a fine apple."

"There is no finer apple," said Horace with conviction.

With that we fell to discussing the kinds and qualities of all the
apples grown this side China, and gave our more or less slighting
opinions of Ben Davises and Greenings and Russets, and especially of
trivial summer apples of all sorts, and came to the conclusion at last
that it must have been just after God created this particular "tree
yielding fruit" that he desisted from his day's work and remarked that
what he saw was good. The record is silent upon the point, and Moses is
not given to adjectives, but I have often wondered what He would have
said if He had not only seen the product of His creation, but _tasted_
it.

I forgot to say that when I would have slurred the excellence of the
Baldwin in comparison with the Bellflower, Horace began at once to
interpose objections, and defended the excellence and perfection of that
variety.

...He has fifty barrels of Baldwins in his cellar.

While we talked with much enjoyment of the lore of apples and
apple-growing, I finished the Bellflower to the very core, and said to
Horace as I reluctantly tossed aside the stem and three seeds:

"Surely this has been one of the rare moments of life."

CHAPTER IX

I GO TO THE CITY.

"Surely man is a wonderfull, vaine, divers and wavering subject:
It is very hard to * ground and directly constant and uniforme
judgement upon him."

Though I live most of the time in the country, as I love best to do,
sometimes I go to the city and find there much that is strange and
amusing. I like to watch the inward flow of the human tide in the
morning, and the ebb at evening, and sometimes in the slack tide of noon
I drift in one of the eddies where the restless life of the city pauses
a moment to refresh itself. One of the eddies I like best of all is near
the corner of Madison Square, where the flood of Twenty-third Street
swirls around the bulkhead of the Metropolitan tower to meet the
transve