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 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?' 'Sabina, ain't you ashamed to laugh?'--'poor thing--won't stay--gallows'--then silence, and in a few minutes one after another of the visitors passed by under the window on tip-toe, and almost immediately a soft knock and a pause. I thought * * * and acted. 'Come in,' said I, in one of those gentle and subdued voices that no one but a passionate man can possess. The door gradually opened, and there stood Susan, the devoted aunt.