irritations in his morning's mail, and more
often he did not wish to see it until it had been pretty carefully
sifted. So many people wrote who wanted things, so many others who made
the claim of more or less distant acquaintanceship the excuse for long
and trivial letters.

"I have stirred up three generations," he said; "first the grandparents,
then the children, and now the grandchildren; the great-grandchildren
will begin to arrive soon."

His mail was always large; but often it did not look interesting. One
could tell from the envelope and the superscription something of the
contents. Going over one assortment he burst out:

"Look at them! Look how trivial they are! Every envelope looks as if it
contained a trivial human soul."

Many letters were filled with fulsome praise and compliment, usually of
one pattern. He was sated with such things, and seldom found it possible
to bear more than a line or two of them. Yet a fresh, well-expressed
note of appreciation always pleased him.

"I can live for two months on a good compliment," he once said. Certain
persistent correspondents, too self-centered to realize their lack
of consideration, or the futility of their purpose, followed him
relentlessly. Of one such he remarked:

"That woman intends to pursue me to the grave. I wish something could be
done to appease her."

And again:

"Everybody in the world who wants something--something of no interest to
me--writes to me to get it."

These morning sessions were likely to be of great interest. Once a
letter spoke of the desirability of being an optimist. "That word
perfectly disgusts me," he said, and his features materialized the
disgust, "just as that other word, pessimist, does; and the idea that
one can, by any effort of will, be one or the other, any more than he
can change the color of his hair. The reason why a man is a pessimist or
an optimist is not because he wants to be, but because he was born so;
and this man [a minister of the Gospel who was going to explain life to
him] is going to tell me why he isn't a pessimist. Oh, he'll do it, but
he won't tell the truth; he won't make it short enough."

Yet he was always patient with any one who came with spiritual messages,
theological arguments, and consolations. He might have said to them:
"Oh, dear friends, those things of which you speak are the toys that
long ago I played with and set aside." He could have said it and spoken
the truth; but I believe h