only a mild-mannered man with an apologetic air, as one
who would say, "Let me look, too. I mean no harm."

It was a meek effort at appreciation, but to the gentleman who wrote the
book it was an offense. Here was a spy from "the crowd," an emissary of
"the modern." By and by the whole pack would be in full cry and the
lovely solitude would be no more. Then the author wandered off through
the olives, where under the unclouded Italian sky he could see the long
line of the Apennines, and there he meditated on the insufferable smoke
of Sheffield and Pittsburg.

The young critic was right, the author was undoubtedly "cross." In early
childhood this sort of thing is well understood, and called by its right
name. When a small person starts the day in a contradictory mood and
insists on taking everything by the wrong handle,--he is not allowed to
flatter himself that he is a superior person with a "temperament," or a
fine thinker with a gift for righteous indignation. He is simply set
down as cross. It is presumed that he got up the wrong way, and he is
advised to try again and see if he cannot do better. If he is fortunate
enough to be thrown into the society of his contemporaries, he is
subjected to a course of salutary discipline. No mercy is shown to
"cross-patch." He cannot present his personal grievances to the judgment
of his peers, for his peers refuse to listen. After a while he becomes
conscious that his wrath defeats itself, as he hears the derisive
couplet:--

"Johnny's mad.
And I am glad."

What's the use of being unpleasant any longer if it only produces such
unnatural gayety in others. At last, as a matter of self-defense, he
puts on the armor of good humor, which alone is able to protect him from
the assaults of his adversaries.

But when a person has grown up and is able to express himself in
literary language, he is freed from these wholesome restraints. He may
indulge in peevishness to his heart's content, and it will be received
as a sort of esoteric wisdom. For we are simple-minded creatures, and
prone to superstition. It is only a few thousand years since the
alphabet was invented, and the printing-press is still more recent.
There is still a certain Delphic mystery about the printed page which
imposes upon the imagination. When we sit down with a book, it is hard
to realize that we are only conversing with a fellow being who may know
little more about the subject in hand than we do,