onger, at least,
it will continue to be read, and even to be a favorite with some of its
readers. Non omnis moriar is a pleasant thought to one who has loved his
poor little planet, and will, I trust, retain kindly recollections of it
through whatever wilderness of worlds he may be called to wander in his
future pilgrimages. I say "poor little planet." Ever since I had a ten
cent look at the transit of Venus, a few years ago, through the telescope
in the Mall, the earth has been wholly different to me from what it used
to be. I knew from books what a speck it is in the universe, but nothing
ever brought the fact home like the sight of the sister planet sailing
across the sun's disk, about large enough for a buckshot, not large
enough for a full-sized bullet. Yes, I love the little globule where I
have spent more than fourscore years, and I like to think that some of my
thoughts and some of my emotions may live themselves over again when I am
sleeping. I cannot thank all the kind readers of the "Autocrat" who are
constantly sending me their acknowledgments. If they see this printed
page, let them be assured that a writer is always rendered happier by
being told that he has made a fellow-being wiser or better, or even
contributed to his harmless entertainment. This a correspondent may take
for granted, even if his letter of grateful recognition receives no
reply. It becomes more and more difficult for me to keep up with my
correspondents, and I must soon give it up as impossible.

"The Professor at the Breakfast Table" followed immediately on the heels
of the "Autocrat." The Professor was the alter ego of the first
personage. In the earlier series he had played a secondary part, and in
this second series no great effort was made to create a character wholly
unlike the first. The Professor was more outspoken, however, on
religious subjects, and brought down a good deal of hard language on
himself and the author to whom he owed his existence. I suppose he may
have used some irritating expressions, unconsciously, but not
unconscientiously, I am sure. There is nothing harder to forgive than
the sting of an epigram. Some of the old doctors, I fear, never pardoned
me for saying that if a ship, loaded with an assorted cargo of the drugs
which used to be considered the natural food of sick people, went to the
bottom of the sea, it would be "all the better for mankind and all the
worse for the fishes." If I had not put that snapper