upid souls
that can gaze, without the constant fretting of thought, into the fire
for hours together! Happy we, who, going down the decline of life, have
the brake put on by a merciful Providence, and the wheels move slowly,
and day blends with night, and night dawns to day, almost imperceptibly!
But thrice unhappy they in whose souls the mills of thought whirl round
and round without ceasing the wheelstones that grind together, if the
grist is not between! How often to dreaming poet and idealist has the
eternal fretting of the wheels become intolerable, and then--

"I shouldn't mind," he interjected on my reverie, "but these papers
issue such lamentable stuff! Such vapid essays, such aimless stories,
such bread-and-butter school-girl poetry,--'sing' and 'spring,' 'bird'
and 'heard,'--not an elevating idea or thought through the whole thing
from beginning to end; and then look at these: 'We consider your story
too long;' 'We regret that the style of your article is unsuited to our
pages;' 'We see some promise in your poem, but it is not quite up to the
level of our requirements;' 'Try blank verse.... We shall be glad to
hear from you again.' Did you ever hear such mockery, and these very men
printing such intolerable rubbish!"

Of course, he never thought of the poor editor, leaning over his chair
in a brown study, biting the pen-handle, and wondering how he can please
"A Constant Subscriber," who objects to the rather light nature of the
articles he is now giving to the public; or, "Sacerdos," who does not
like poetry; or, "Senex," who asks sarcastically: Is he putting himself
in rivalry with the "Edinburgh" or "Quarterly," or who the mischief
cares one brass pin about "Aristotle's Constitution of Athens;" and
wouldn't he give them something light and agreeable to help to digest
their dinners? Oh no! he only thought then and there that there should
be an _auto da fe_,--a summary crematory process of all the editors
under the sun.

"Look here, young man," said I, at last, "there is only one thing for
you to do. You must write a book."

"Look here, Father Dan," said he, "I'm not in much humor for joking. Any
priest that would attempt to write a book nowadays should have the
spirit of the martyrs, who stepped onto the sands in the Coliseum and
saw the brutal Romans in the _auditorium_ and wild beasts in the cages
beneath!"

"Well, my dear boy," I replied, "you _will_ write the book; but for
goodness' sake write it i