Perhaps I should have enjoyed all these weaknesses of my infantile
fellow-creatures without an afterthought, except that on a certain
literary anniversary when I tie the narrow blue and pink ribbons in my
button-hole and show my decorated bosom to the admiring public, I am
conscious of a certain sense of distinction and superiority in virtue of
that trifling addition to my personal adornments which reminds me that I
too have some embryonic fibres in my tolerably well-matured organism.

I hope I have not hurt your feelings, if you happen to be a High and
Mighty Grand Functionary in any illustrious Fraternity. When I tell you
that a bit of ribbon in my button-hole sets my vanity prancing, I think
you cannot be grievously offended that I smile at the resonant titles
which make you something more than human in your own eyes. I would not
for the world be mistaken for one of those literary roughs whose brass
knuckles leave their mark on the foreheads of so many inoffensive
people.

There is a human sub-species characterized by the coarseness of its
fibre and the acrid nature of its intellectual secretions. It is to a
certain extent penetrative, as all creatures are which are provided with
stings. It has an instinct which guides it to the vulnerable parts of
the victim on which it fastens. These two qualities give it a certain
degree of power which is not to be despised. It might perhaps be less
mischievous, but for the fact that the wound where it leaves its poison
opens the fountain from which it draws its nourishment.

Beings of this kind can be useful if they will only find their
appropriate sphere, which is not literature, but that circle of
rough-and-tumble political life where the fine-fibred men are at a
discount, where epithets find their subjects poison-proof, and the sting
which would be fatal to a literary debutant only wakes the eloquence
of the pachydermatous ward-room politician to a fiercer shriek of
declamation.

The Master got talking the other day about the difference between races
and families. I am reminded of what he said by what I have just been
saying myself about coarse-fibred and fine-fibred people.

--We talk about a Yankee, a New-Englander,--he said,-as if all of 'em
were just the same kind of animal. "There is knowledge and knowledge,"
said John Bunyan. There are Yankees and Yankees. Do you know two native
trees called pitch pine and white pine respectively? Of course you know
'em. Well, there