her with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had just been
writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. A certain
suspicion had come into my mind that the Professor was not quite right,
which was confirmed by the way he talked; but I let him begin. This is
the way he read it:--

_Prelude_.

I'm the fellah that tole one day
The tale of the won'erful one-hoss-shay.

Wan' to hear another? Say.
--Funny, wasn'it? Made _me_ laugh,--
I'm too modest, I am, by half,--
Made me laugh 's _though I sh'd split_,--
Cahn' a fellah like fellah's own wit?
--Fellahs keep sayin',--"Well, now that's nice;
Did it once, but cahn' do it twice."--
Don' you b'lieve the'z no more fat;
Lots in the kitch'n 'z good 'z that.
Fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake,--
Han' us the props for another shake;--
Know I'll try, 'n' guess I'll win;
Here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in!

Here I thought it necessary to interpose.--Professor,--I said,--you are
inebriated. The style of what you call your "Prelude" shows that it was
written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused. You
have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that
I was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton
your heart to. You smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.--I spoke,
and paused; tender, but firm.

Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor's lids,--in
obedience to the principle of gravitation celebrated in that delicious
bit of bladdery bathos, "The very law that moulds a tear," with which
the "Edinburgh Review" attempted to put down Master George Gordon when
that young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous. One of
these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its
balance,--slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,--swelled
again,--rolled down a little further,--stopped,--moved on,--and at last
fell on the back of the Professor's hand. He held it up for me to look
at, and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine.

I couldn't stand it,--I always break down when folks cry in my
face,--so I hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him
kindly what was the matter with him, and what made him smell so
dreadfully strong of spirits.

Upset his alcohol lamp,--he said,--and spilt the alcohol on his legs.
That was it.--But what had he been doing to get his head into such a
state?--had he really committed an excess? What wa