of distance, the man has positively no choice between a theatre and a
graveyard. I met him this morning dashing up to the portals of Trinity
Church with a bridal party, and this afternoon, as I was crossing
Cambridge Bridge, I saw him creeping along next to the hearse, on his
way to Mount Auburn. The wedding afforded him no pleasure, and the
funeral gave him no grief; yet he was a factor in both. It is his odd
destiny to be wholly detached from the vital part of his own acts. If
the carriage itself could speak! The autobiography of a public hack
written without reservation would be dramatic reading.

IN this blotted memorandum-book are a score or two of suggestions for
essays, sketches, and poems, which I have not written, and never shall
write. The instant I jot down an idea the desire to utilize it leaves
me, and I turn away to do something unpremeditated. The shabby volume
has become a sort of Potter's Field where I bury my literary intentions,
good and bad, without any belief in their final resurrection.

A STAGE DIRECTION: _exit time; enter Eternity--with a soliloquy._




ASIDES




TOM FOLIO

IN my early Boston days a gentle soul was often to be met with about