felt called upon to combat the common illusion that he was by nature
and temperament set apart for eternal celibacy, or even that he had
ceased to be agitated by matrimonial aspirations. I dimly felt that
there was a sort of refined cruelty in thus excluding a man from the
common lot of the race; men often have pity but seldom love for those
who either from eccentricity or peculiar excellence separate
themselves from the broad, warm current of human life, having no part
in the errors, ideals, and aspirations of their more commonplace
brethren. Even a slight deviation from the physical type of common
manhood and womanhood, as for instance, the possession of a sixth toe
or finger, would in the eyes of the multitude go far toward making a
man morally objectionable. It was, perhaps, because I wished to save
my friend Storm from this unenviable lot that I always contended that
he was yet a promising candidate for matrimony.

Edmund Storm was a Norseman by birth, but had emigrated some five or
six years before I made his acquaintance. Our first meeting was
brought about in rather a singular manner. I had written an article in
one of our leading newspapers, commenting upon the characteristics of
our Scandinavian immigrants and indulging some fine theories, highly
eulogistic of the women of my native land. A few days after the
publication of this article, my pride was seriously shocked by the
receipt of a letter which told me in almost so many words that I was a
conceited fool, with opinions worthy of a bedlam. The writer, who
professed to be better informed, added his name and address, and
invited me to call upon him at a specified hour, promising to furnish
me with valuable material for future treatises on the same subject.
My curiosity naturally piqued, and, swallowing my humiliation I
determined to obey the summons. I found some satisfaction in the
thought that my unknown critic resided in a very unfashionable
neighborhood, and mentally put him down as one of those half-civilized
boors whom the first breath of our republican air had inflated a good
deal beyond their natural dimensions. I was therefore somewhat
disconcerted when, after having climbed half a dozen long staircases,
I was confronted with a pale, thin man, of calm, gentlemanly bearing,
with the unmistakable stamp of culture upon his brow. He shook my hand
with grave politeness, and pointing to a huge arm-chair of
antediluvian make, invited me to be seated. The