"But that I have _none_," he interrupted; his kind glance blunting the edge of his words. "We shall understand each other better by and by. You spoke of James a while ago; do you like him?" "No. He has two defects which spoil everything he writes, at least to me--verbosity and affectation." "Not to mention self-plagiarism; but that is a common fault. When an author has exhausted his capital, he had better suspend honorably and wait until he has funds in hands to recommence operations, than drag on, 'shinning it,' in mercantile phrase, until the reading world dishonors his notes. Instead of this, James, and a score more of our popular writers are palming off upon us, duplicates and re-duplicates of their earliest productions. We encounter continually some old acquaintance in a different attire, and under an 'alias.' Warmed-over dinners are good enough in their place, but when we pay the same price, we have a right to be dainty. Dickens, himself, is not free from this charge." "Oh! do not say so! I will not hear a word against him. He says much that seems irrelevant, and occasionally a thing that is provokingly absurd; but it is grand to see how, in the denouement, he catches up these floating, apparently useless threads, and weaves them into the fabric. He works with less waste than any light author of the day; all is smooth and firm; no ragged edges or dropped stitches. And if his charming creations are set before us more than once, they can well bear a renewal of acquaintanceship." "But not in a disguise which is less becoming than the dress in which we first knew them. When we cry 'encore,' we ask for a repetition, not an imitation--too often a burlesque." "But," persisted Ida, warm in defence of her favorite Boz, "where shall we discover new phases of human nature? The fault is that so many men are copies of others; we must not censure the painter for lack of originality, who writes above his sketches, 'taken from life.' Who ever reads a new love story? and love is not the only passion which is the same the world over." Charley leaned forward to brush a fly from his horse's ear. "Are there no peculiarities in your lot?" he inquired. "Perhaps so," she replied, startled by the home-thrust. "Your character is not the reflected image of another's; you have never seen one who felt, thought, and acted exactly as you do; or who would have been your prototype, had your outward circumstances been alike. The Great Original is not a servile copyist." The sun's rim was below the horizon, as they passed Lynn's birth-place; but a parting ray shot through the western gap upon the knoll--the solitary bright spot in the landscape. They went rapidly by; but Ida was grateful that his recollection of it should be linked with that fragrant eve, and gleaming farewell smile. "It is singular that in our rides we should not have taken this road before," said Charley. "It is, just here, a mere bridle path, but I thought we had scoured the country."