egorical proposition. They walk up to every statue with
their measuring-line of _Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferioque Prioris_,
and measure them off with equal solemnity, telling you severely that
this nose is far longer than the classic rule admits, and this arm has
not the swelling proportions of life,--never seeing, that, though
another statue was indeed designed for an Antinoues, this was never meant
to be anything but a broomstick dressed in your grandfather's cloak,
with a lantern in a pumpkin for a head. Oh, the dreariness of having to
explain pleasantry! of appending to your banter Artemas Ward's
parenthesis, "This is a goak"! of dealing with people who do not know
the difference between a blow and a "love-pat," between Quaker guns and
an Armstrong battery, between a granite paving-stone and the moonshine
on a mud-puddle!

Dear Public, don't begin to be tired yet. I am not. There are many books
still to come, if they can ever be brought to light. They were ready
long ago, but no publisher could be found; and now that I have found a
publisher, I cannot find the books. There is a treatise on the Curvature
of the Square,--a Dissertation on Foreign Literature,--two or three
novels,--a book on Human Life, that is going to turn the world upside
down,--a book on Theology, dull enough to be sensible, that is going to
turn it back again,--and a bandboxful of children's stories. Still, in
spite of this formidable prospect, take the consolation that an end is
sure to come. There is not a particle of reserved force or dormant power
or anything of the kind for you to dread. All there is of me is awake. I
have struck twelve, and at longest it will be but a little while before
I shall run down,--

"And silence like a poultice come
To heal the blows of sound."

And does not the exquisite sensation of departed pain almost atone for
the discomfort of its presence? How heartily, for your sake, would I be
the most profound and able writer in the world, and how gladly should
all my profundity and ability be laid at your feet! And since

"the good but wished with God is done,"

can you not find it in your heart to "yearn o'er my little good and
pardon _my_ much ill"?

Public, you must, whether you can or not. It is a case of life and
death. I am good for nothing but writing; and if you take that resource
away,--you know what the book says about mischief and Satan and idle
hands! and you certainly will take it awa