o
the knowledge of the well-taught general practitioner is very largely
curious rather than important. Having exhausted all that is practical,
the specialist is naturally tempted to amuse himself with the
natural history of the organ or function he deals with; to feel as
a writing-master does when he sets a copy,--not content to shape the
letters properly, but he must add flourishes and fancy figures, to let
off his spare energy.

I am beginning to be frightened. When I began these papers, my idea was
a very simple and innocent one. Here was a mixed company, of various
conditions, as I have already told my readers, who came together
regularly, and before they were aware of it formed something like a club
or association. As I was the patriarch among them, they gave me the
name some of you may need to be reminded of; for as these reports are
published at intervals, you may not remember the fact that I am what The
Teacups have seen fit to call The Dictator.

Now, what did I expect when I began these papers, and what is it that
has begun to frighten me?

I expected to report grave conversations and light colloquial passages
of arms among the members of the circle. I expected to hear, perhaps
to read, a paper now and then. I expected to have, from time to time, a
poem from some one of The Teacups, for I felt sure there must be among
them one or more poets,--Teacups of the finer and rarer translucent kind
of porcelain, to speak metaphorically.

Out of these conversations and written contributions I thought I might
make up a readable series of papers; a not wholly unwelcome string
of recollections, anticipations, suggestions, too often perhaps
repetitions, that would be to the twilight what my earlier series had
been to the morning.

I hoped also that I should come into personal relations with my old
constituency, if I may call my nearer friends, and those more distant
ones who belong to my reading parish, by that name. It is time that
I should. I received this blessed morning--I am telling the literal
truth--a highly flattering obituary of myself in the shape of an extract
from "Le National" of the 10th of February last. This is a bi-weekly
newspaper, published in French, in the city of Plattsburg, Clinton
County, New York. I am occasionally reminded by my unknown friends that
I must hurry up their autograph, or make haste to copy that poem they
wish to have in the author's own handwriting, or it will be too late;
but