t steals my purse, steals stuff;
'Twas something, t'aint nothing, t'was mine,
'Tis hisen, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that hooketh from me my good name,
Grabs that which don't do him no good,
But makes me feel very bad indeed.'"

"Is that the genuine old English that Mr. Shakespeare wrote in?" says I.

"Oh, that is the beauty of it," says he. "Shakspeare was no doubt a very
respectable writer, but perfection is the watch-word of modern progress.
Of course one doesn't introduce a quotation of his without all the
modern improvements. Shakespeare--"

"_Mr_. Shakspeare," says I, determined to keep up the dignity of
authorship with my last breath.

"Well, Mr. Shakspeare would have made a very superior writer if he had
lived in this country and been fostered by an American Congress."

"An American Congress," says I. "What on earth did that ever do for
writers?"

"Why, don't it publish books for the members to give away. Isn't that
encouraging literature?"

I said nothing, never having read one of the books in my life, and never
having seen any one that had.

"Then," says he, "hasn't every man that can write the life of a
President of these United States before his election, been made an
ambassador, or counsel, or something? Didn't Pierce send Hawthorne to
Liverpool, not because of his transcendant genius, but for the reason
that he had written a paltry life of himself?"

"_Mr._ Hawthorne," says I, with expressive emphasis.

"And didn't General Grant send Colonel Badeau to London, after his life
was taken by that young man?"

"I give in," says I; "the literature of this country has been fostered
beautifully. Hawthorne was rewarded for degrading the finest genius this
country has ever known, by writing a commonplace life of a ordinary man;
and Adam Badeau was made a colonel, and is now figuring in London,
because all the talent he ever had was crowded into such a book. Yes, I
give in. But one thing is to be relied on, each of the Presidents
struggling to rule over this country next, has brains enough to write
his own life. Grant has written his out with a sword, and Greeley can
handle his own pen. He won't have any debts of that kind to pay off, and
I'm awfully mistaken if the authors of this country won't stand almost
as high with him as corporals in the army do now. In his time bayonets
will be stacked, and pens have their day. During the next four years I
shouldn't wonder if Mr.