Sometimes I become disgusted with myself. Not very often, it is true, for I don't understand the self-abhorrence that I occasionally see long drawn out in the strictly private printed diaries of good dead people. A man's self-knowledge, as regards his Maker, is a matter that lies only between his Maker and himself, of which no printed or written (scarcely even spoken) words can give, or ought to give, a true transcript; but in respect of our relations to other people I suppose we may take tolerably accurate views, and state them without wickedness, if it comes in the way; and since the general trend of opinion seems to be towards excessive modesty, I will sacrifice myself to the good of society, and say that, in the main, I think I am a rather "nice" sort of person. Of course I do a great many things, and say a great many things, and think a great many things, that I ought not; but when I think of the sins that I don't commit,--the many times when I feel cross enough to "bite a ten-penny nail in two," and only bite my lips,--the sacrifices I make for other people, and don't mention it, and they themselves never know it,--the quiet cheerfulness I maintain when the fire goes out, or unexpected guests arrive and there is no bread in the house, or my manuscript is respectfully declined by that infatuated editor,--when I reflect upon these things, and a thousand others like unto them, I must say, I am lost in admiration of my own virtues. You may not like me, but that is a mere difference of taste. At any rate, I like myself very well, and find myself very good company. Many a laugh, and "lots" or "heaps" (according as you are a Northern or a Southern provincial) of conversation we have all alone, and are usually on exceeding good terms, which is a pleasure, even when other people like me, and an immense consolation when they don't. But as I was saying, I do sometimes fall out with myself, and with human nature in general (and, in fact, I rather think the secret of self-complacence lurks somewhere hereabouts,--in a mental assumption that our virtues are our own, but our faults belong to the race). But to think that we were so puny and puerile that we could not stand the beauty that breathed around us! I do not mean that it killed us, but it drained us. It did not cease to be beautiful, but we ceased to be overpowered. When the day began, eye and soul were filled with the light that never was on sea or shore. We spoke low and little, gazing with throbbing hearts, breathless, receptive, solemn, and before twelve o'clock we flatted out and made jests. This is humiliation,--that our dullard souls cannot keep up to the pitch of sublimity for two hours; that we could sail through Glory and Beauty, through Past and Present, and laugh. Low as I sank with the rest, though, I do believe I held out the longest: but what can one frail pebble do against a river? "How pretty cows look in a