d some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and
that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet
or wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them,
whatever that may mean, till my head ached. I can't quite understand
all this now, but it seemed a very picturesque, impressionist
description when I wrote it. Then I went for a walk down Main Street.
I think it is about 400 miles long, for I got nowhere near the end,
but this was perhaps owing to my uncertainty as to which side was
the pleasanter to walk on. At last I gave it up, and sat down on the
side-walk. Now, the wisdom of Vermont, not being at all times equal
to grasping all the problems of everybody else's life with delicacy,
sometimes makes pathetic mistakes, and it did so in my ease. I
explained to the policeman that I had been sitting up half the night
on a wild horse in New Zealand, and had only just come over for the
day, but it was all in vain.

The cell at Vermont was horribly uncomfortable. I dreamt that I was
trying to boil snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and to swim on
my head in deep water, with a life-belt tied to my ankles. There was
another man there, and in the early morning he told me about Mastodons
and Plesiosauri in a wood near the town, and how he caught them by the
tails and photographed them; and also that Ringandknock, a mountain
near, was mentioned by EMERSON in a verse, which I remembered,
because he made "co-eval" rhyme with "extended." Only a truly great
Philosopher could have done that.

It was all new and delightful; and it must have been true, because my
informant was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who refrained from
laughing at me. I have met very few people who could do that. Next day
all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends conveyed
me back to New York.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON A DYER.

This Dyer with a dire liver tried
To earn a living dyeing, and he died.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. VIII.--THE DUFFER AS A HOST.

Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and
anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like
to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's
acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite
them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them.
But suppose that