But they rallied--a revolt was imminent. I had lived in the family one
year, with my sister as housekeeper, and had never made a remark to the
servants, it being my habit in life to submit to what was not my
business, or clear out. But now--_now_, with Imprimatur on my forehead,
a clutch in my mental fingers, and a hungry longing to rule free: ha!
ha!--Let us see. This was a trying moment--The vessel had been
signalled, and my colors were to be shown--so here they go--the flag of
the little brig 'one-man-power,' with the motto 'Anvil or hammar answer
hammar,' is unfurled.

Hemmed in by swelling indignation, whisperings and sullen looks, I
jumped up and yelled in stentorian voice:

'Leave my room! How dare you answer the waiter's bell? Send me the
waiter and clear out, every one of you!' and, with a sweeping wave of my
hand, I stalked towards the door. Reader, did you ever see the sun chase
a big cloud right off a green field, and, with no respite, drive it
headlong away over beyond the horizon? Such was the rapid departure of
my stupefied retainers. On reaching the door, I slammed it to with a
violence that echoed through the hushed and palsied house.

Oh the benefit of a good slam--not a push--nor a quick shut--nor even a
bump, all of which show still a want of firmness and decision--but a
good old-fashioned 'bang' as though it had got into your throat and you
could'nt breathe--that life depended on shutting out a flash of
lightning and you hadn't time to wait--that the harder you impelled it
against the doorway the sooner would end fast fleeting agony--that the
nearer you got to what might be called an _explosive shut_: the more
complete would be your safety, that if all your concentrated passion
could be, not flung, (that is too weak) but hurled at that one partition