not the philosopher's stone, the philosopher's bread, that
should turn everything into health. Henceforth the strong heroes
celebrated by Emerson, who "at rich men's tables eat but bread and
pulse," might sit at ours, arising refreshed and glorified. And was not
this also coming very near Nature? but two removes from the field, wheat
cracked, then ground. (I have since come a degree nearer on cracked
wheat at a water-cure!) It sounded altogether wholesome and primitive. I
hastened with a sample to my best friend. She, too, tasted, exulted, and
passed on the tidings to others. Now, indeed, was the golden age in
dawn. Already we saw a community purified and rejuvenated. Before our
philosopher-cakes sin and bad blood would disappear, and already the
crowns of grateful generations were pressing on our brows. But something
went wrong with all the cooks. Either they didn't scald the meal or they
didn't heat the oven,--what in one hand was light beaten gold in another
became lead. For a while it seemed that I could not go to my friend's
without meeting some one who cast scorn on our reformation cakes. All
tried them and failed; so sin remains in the world.

But now hope plumes itself anew. You at least will attempt the little
wheatens. You have a deft hand, and will succeed. The buoyancy of the
meal revives in my blood. Now the world rights itself again, and once
more we are all bounding sunward.

But to be honest. For a few weeks I and the radical cakes were as
satisfied as young lovers, but soon came temptations to progress from
the primitive,--first to add a little sugar. But I vetoed as resolutely
as Andrew Jackson himself, thus putting up the bars between the
wheat-field and cane-field, or probably by this time I should have been
pouring in spice, eggs, and milk, and at last should have committed the
crime of doing just as other people do.

If you would confess it, you have probably found in your new
captain-general a susceptibility not only to your charms, but to those
of good cooking. Always count these among the young wife's fascinations.
Remember how Miss Bremer's Fannie, of "The Neighbors," in a matrimonial
quarrel with her Bear, conquered him with fresh-baked patties aimed at
his mouth. But be not too conciliatory,--especially towards coffee. If
you could be hard-hearted enough to win H. from this bilious beverage,
would it not be worth the perils? Entertain him for a few mornings so
brilliantly that he won't kno