te how, like the Lady of Shalott, when I first began
to gaze upon the world of realities "the curse" came upon me. It was in
this wise:

I lived in my youth an almost cloistral life of seclusion and
self-absorption, from which I was suddenly shaken by circumstances, and
forced to mingle in the busy world; to which, after the first shock, I
was not at all averse, but found very interesting, and also--and there
was the weight that pulled me down--tolerably amusing. For I met some
curious people, and saw and heard some remarkable things; and as I went
among my friends I often used to give an account of my observations,
until at last I discovered that wherever I went, and under whatever
circumstances (except, of course, at the funeral of a member of the
family), I was expected to be amusing! I found myself in the same
relation to society that the clown bears to the circus-master who has
engaged him--he must either be funny or leave the troupe.

Now, I am unfortunate in having no particular accomplishments. I cannot
sing either the old songs or the new; neither am I a performer on divers
instruments. I can paint a little, but my paintings do not seem to rouse
any enthusiasm in the beholder, nor do they add an inspiring strain to
conversation. I can, indeed, make gingerbread and six different kinds of
pudding, but I hesitate to mention it, because the cook is far in
advance of me in all these particulars, not to mention numerous other
ways in which she excels. I have thus but one resource in life; and when
I give one or two instances of the humiliation and distress of mind to
which I have been subjected on its account I am sure I shall win a
sympathizing thought even from those who are more favored by nature, and
possibly save a few young spirits from the pain of treading in my
footsteps.

In the first place, I am not naturally witty. Epigrams do not rise
spontaneously to my lips, and it sometimes takes days and even weeks of
consideration after an opportunity of making one has occurred before the
appropriate words finally dawn upon me. By that time, of course, the
retort is what the Catholics call "a work of supererogation." I perhaps
possess a slight "sense of the humorous," which has undoubtedly given
rise to the fatal demand upon me, but I do not remember ever having been
very funny. There never was any danger of my experiencing difficulties
like Dr. Holmes on that famous occasion when he was as funny as he could
be. I