This bit of fiction calls to mind a fact which may with no impropriety be here related. It is an anecdote of a distinguished writer now no more, W. G. He had complained to me of some ungracious conduct, by which he felt hurt and insulted; he was helpless, and this made the sense of injury more acute. He spoke with bitterness, though in gentle tones. I did not echo those tones; for he was illustrious by his intellect, and venerable by his years; and, as the phrase is, I at once "rapped out"--pouring a torrent of reproach, and heaping a mountain of invectives, on the heads of those, who, to use his own words, "had dared to put an indignity upon him." He heard me, very quietly, until the full burst of indignation with which his more moderate complaint had inspired me was exhausted, and then said with an ejaculation short, sharp, and peculiar to him,--"I'm afraid you've been picking up some queer doctrines of late; the principle of them is, as far as I can understand, to be discontented with everything!" Now as _he_ had taught me just then to be discontented, and as I was moreover only discontented on his account, I did _not_ immediately leap out of my fit of passion into one of philosophy; and I believe he was upon that occasion much struck with certain metaphysical phenomena, on which I left him to brood; with the curious distinction, that is to say, between one fellow-creature undergoing the punishment of the knout without exhibiting a symptom of distress, and another fellow-creature looking on, all grief and anguish, shuddering at the spectacle, and feeling every lash on his own heart. These are the most generous bursts of rage that can be indulged in; and, next to those that are altogether destitute even of the shadow of a cause, are the most delicious to the irritable. The wrongs, troubles, and perversities of individuals, from near relatives to total strangers, generally form a plentiful supply; in fact, the smallest offence will be thankfully received, as the history of irascible people amply shows. Very good grounds for anger occur, as we can all remember, when a fellow-traveller at an inn refuses to take mustard with his pork-chop; or when another, in spite of every hint, persists in breaking his eggs at the small end, or lighting his cheroot at the large end; or when a sturdy fellow walks just before you through a smart shower of rain, and won't put his umbrella up, though you obligingly tap him on the shoulder, and remind him that it's pouring; or when an obstinate one declines the adoption of somebody else's opinion, merely because he has not been convinced of its reasonableness; or when an affected one pronounces the word London "Lunnun," and Birmingham "Brummagem," and, while he asserts in his justification that Lord Brougham calls the places by those names, refuses to distinguish his lordship as Lord Bruffham.