instantly come to every one's mind that immortal passage in "Tristram
Shandy." Trim is discoursing upon life and death:

"Are we not here now, continued the Corporal (striking the end of his
stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health
and stability)--and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone!
in a moment!--'Twas infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood
of tears."

Canes are not absent from poetry. Into your ears already has come the
refrain of "The Last Leaf":

"And totters o'er the ground,
With his cane."

And, doubtless, floods of instances of canes that the world will not
willingly let die will occur to one upon a moment's reflection.

Canes are inseparable from art. All artists carry them; and the poorer
the artist the more attached is he to his cane. Canes are
indispensable to the simple vanity of the Bohemian. One of the most
memorable drawings of Steinlen depicts the quaint soul of a child of
the Latin Quarter: an elderly Bohemian, very much frayed, advances
wreathed in the sunshine of his boutonniere and cane. Canes are
invariably an accompaniment of learning. Sylvester Bonnard would of
course not be without his cane; nor would any other true book-worm, as
may be seen any day in the reading-room of the British Museum and of
the New York Public Library. It is, indeed, indisputable that canes,
more than any other article of dress, are peculiarly related to the
mind. There is an old book-seller on Fourth Avenue whose clothes when