absolute nonsense at times,
but nonsense is greatly needed in this world, and exquisitely droll
nonsensical nonsense is as uncommon as common sense. The titles of his
various books are inviting and informing, as _Seaweed and What We
Seed_. He wrote several parodies on sensational novels of his time.
_Griffith Gaunt_, he made fun of as "Liffith Lank"; _St. Elmo_, as
"St. Twelmo." _A Wicked Woman_ was another absurd tale. But I like
best a large volume, "_John Paul's Book_, moral and instructive,
travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications, with several portraits
of the author and other spirited engravings." This book was dedicated,
"To the Bald-Headed, that noble and shining army of martyrs." When you
turn to look at his portrait, and the illuminated title page, you find
them not. The Frontispiece picture is upside down. The very
ridiculosity of his easy daring to do or say anything is taking. He
once wrote, in one of those trying books, with which we used to be
bored stiff, with questions such as "What is your favourite hour of
the day? He wrote dinner hour; what book not sacred would you part
with last? My pocket-book. Your favourite motto? When you must,--you
better." I especially liked the poem, "The Outside Dog in the Fight."
Here are two specimens of his prose:

The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he
never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales
them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is
pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last
Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and
Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at
that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not
seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises
pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for
sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he
hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a
Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately.)
Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails
away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with
either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is
reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you?
Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my
point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air.
Sympathi