will continue to be read, and even to be a favorite with some of its
readers. Non omnis moriar is a pleasant thought to one who has loved his
poor little planet, and will, I trust, retain kindly recollections of it
through whatever wilderness of worlds he may be called to wander in his
future pilgrimages. I say "poor little planet." Ever since I had a
ten cent look at the transit of Venus, a few years ago, through the
telescope in the Mall, the earth has been wholly different to me
from what it used to be. I knew from books what a speck it is in the
universe, but nothing ever brought the fact home like the sight of the
sister planet sailing across the sun's disk, about large enough for
a buckshot, not large enough for a full-sized bullet. Yes, I love the
little globule where I have spent more than fourscore years, and I
like to think that some of my thoughts and some of my emotions may live
themselves over again when I am sleeping. I cannot thank all the
kind readers of the "Autocrat" who are constantly sending me their
acknowledgments. If they see this printed page, let them be assured that
a writer is always rendered happier by being told that he has made
a fellow-being wiser or better, or even contributed to his harmless
entertainment. This a correspondent may take for granted, even if his
letter of grateful recognition receives no reply. It becomes more and
more difficult for me to keep up with my correspondents, and I must soon
give it up as impossible.

"The Professor at the Breakfast Table" followed immediately on the
heels of the "Autocrat." The Professor was the alter ego of the first
personage. In the earlier series he had played a secondary part, and in
this second series no great effort was made to create a character
wholly unlike the first. The Professor was more outspoken, however, on
religious subjects, and brought down a good deal of hard language on
himself and the author to whom he owed his existence. I suppose he
may have used some irritating expressions, unconsciously, but not
unconscientiously, I am sure. There is nothing harder to forgive than
the sting of an epigram. Some of the old doctors, I fear, never pardoned
me for saying that if a ship, loaded with an assorted cargo of the drugs
which used to be considered the natural food of sick people, went to the
bottom of the sea, it would be "all the better for mankind and all the
worse for the fishes." If I had not put that snapper on the end of
my w