a vacuum might be made in your room towards which good impulses might be
drawn inversely. Many a good natured man who has been cornered by
injustice has slammed off his anger, and is ready to forgive, but not
give up. There is a dignity in this rapid developement of muscular power
which admits of no surrender--the gauntlet has been thrown down, the
chip has been knocked off the shoulder, the black flag is hoisted and
skull and bones stand out in bold relief. There may be a calm, the wind
may die out, but the monster waves once lashed up to a Titanic power
move on of their own accord, and wash away the very vestige of
resistance. Asking to _be_ forgiven after slamming a door is like
touching off a Rodman gun, and then calling out to the fort in front to
'look out' 'take care!' 'do get out of the way.' A first class slam is
cumulative long after the noise has ceased--the nerves go on
slamming--the valves of the heart flap to and from--the tympanum roils a
revelrie to all the shattered senses, the offender slammed at, at once
subsides from rage to fear; the mental barometer falls--and
apprehension--the requiescat--is a don't know what is coming next. A
bona fide, abandoned slam is a Domestic Earthquake.

I next sat down on my Mexican chair, and waited for the rapid hatching
of the egg. A register led up from the kitchen into my room, and though
never used, formed one of those abominable listening tubes that might be
truthfully called family tale-bearers. This time, however, I had the
pleasure of overhearing the following fragmentary evidence of a
reaction:

'He must be crazy.' 'Did he drink much after dinner?' 'I say, you have
been here longer than I have, have you ever seen him so before?' Then a
giggle, and some one saying: 'Is he married?'