another, ever so old. But even allowing
the centre of perception to be double, I can see no good reason for
supposing this indefinite lengthening of the time, nor any analogy
that bears it out. It seems to me most likely that the coincidence of
circumstances is very partial, but that we take this partial resemblance
for identity, as we occasionally do resemblances of persons. A momentary
posture of circumstances is so far like some preceding one that
we accept it as exactly the same, just as we accost a stranger
occasionally, mistaking him for a friend. The apparent similarity may be
owing, perhaps, quite as much to the mental state at the time as to the
outward circumstances.

----Here is another of these curiously recurring remarks. I have said it
and heard it many times, and occasionally met with something like it in
books,--somewhere in Bulwer's novels, I think, and in one of the works
of Mr. Olmsted, I know.

_Memory, imagination, old sentiments and associations, are more readily
reached through the sense of SMELL than by almost any other channel._

Of course the particular odors which act upon each person's
susceptibilities differ.--O, yes! I will tell you some of mine.
The smell of _phosphorus_ is one of them. During a year or two of
adolescence I used to be dabbling in chemistry a good deal, and as about
that time I had my little aspirations and passions like another, some
of these things got mixed up with each other: orange-colored fumes
of nitrous acid, and visions as bright and transient; reddening
litmus-paper, and blushing cheeks;--_eheu!_

"Soles occidere et redire possunt,"

but there is no reagent that will redden the faded roses of eighteen
hundred and----spare them! But, as I was saying, phosphorus fires this
train of associations in an instant; its luminous vapors with their
penetrating odor throw me into a trance; it comes to me in a double
sense "trailing clouds of glory." Only the confounded Vienna matches,
_ohne phosphor-geruch_, have worn my sensibilities a little.

Then there is the _marigold_. When I was of smallest dimensions, and
wont to ride impacted between the knees of fond parental pair, we would
sometimes cross the bridge to the next village-town and stop opposite a
low, brown, "gambrel-roofed" cottage. Out of it would come one Sally,
sister of its swarthy tenant, swarthy herself, shady-lipped, sad-voiced,
and, bending over her flower-bed, would gather a "posy," as she called
i