ul mind, stanch heart, noble character. Why, there
must have been nearly a dozen such girls born into the world since its
creation. You would be only wasting your time loving her."

They criticised the birds for their hackneyed style of singing, and the
flowers for their hackneyed scents and colors. They complained of the
weather that it lacked originality--(true, they had not lived out an
English spring)--and found fault with the Sun because of the sameness of
his methods.

They criticised the babies. When a fresh infant was published in a
house, the critics would call in a body to pass their judgment upon it,
and the young mother would bring it down for them to sample.

"Did you ever see a child anything like that in this world before?" she
would say, holding it out to them. "Isn't it a wonderful baby? _You_
never saw a child with legs like that, I know. Nurse says he's the most
extraordinary baby she ever attended. Bless him!"

But the critics did not think anything of it.

"Tut, tut," they would reply, "there is nothing extraordinary about
that child--no originality whatever. Why, it's exactly like every other
baby--bald head, red face, big mouth, and stumpy nose. Why, that's only
a weak imitation of the baby next door. It's a plagiarism, that's what
that child is. You've been wasting your time, madam. If you can't do
anything more original than that, we should advise you to give up the
business altogether."

That was the end of criticism in that strange land.

"Oh! look here, we've had enough of you and your originality," said the
people to the critics, after that. "Why, _you_ are not original, when
one comes to think of it, and your criticisms are not original. You've
all of you been saying exactly the same thing ever since the time of
Solomon. We are going to drown you and have a little peace."

"What, drown a critic!" cried the critics, "never heard of such a
monstrous proceeding in our lives!"

"No, we flatter ourselves it is an original idea," replied the public,
brutally. "You ought to be charmed with it. Out you come!"

So they took the critics out and drowned them, and then passed a short
act, making criticism a capital offense.

After that, the art and literature of the country followed,
somewhat, the methods of the quaint and curious school, but the land,
notwithstanding, was a much more cheerful place to live in, I dreamed.

But I never finished telling you about the dream in which I thought