_Cross._ I put it to myself in that simple, old-fashioned word, instead of saying that I was out of spirits, or nervous, or using any of the other smooth phrases with which we good Christians cover up our little sins of temper. “Here you are, Christopher,” said I to myself, “a literary man, with a somewhat delicate nervous organization and a sensitive stomach, and you have been eating like a sailor or a ploughman; you have been gallivanting and merry-making and playing the boy for two weeks; up at all sorts of irregular hours, and into all sorts of boyish performances; and the consequence is, that, like a thoughtless young scapegrace, you have used up in ten days the capital of nervous energy that was meant to last you ten weeks. You can’t eat your cake and have it too, Christopher. When the nervous-fluid, source of cheerfulness, giver of pleasant sensations and pleasant views, is all spent, you can’t feel cheerful; things cannot look as they did when you were full of life and vigor. When the tide is out, there is nothing but unsightly, ill-smelling tide-mud, and you can’t help it; but you _can_ keep your senses,--you _can_ know what is the matter with you,--you can keep from visiting your overdose of Christmas mincepies and candies and jocularities on the heads of Mrs. Crowfield, Rover, and Jennie, whether in the form of virulent morality, pungent criticisms, or a free kick, such as you just gave the poor brute.” “Come here, Rover, poor dog!” said I, extending my hand to Rover, who cowered at the farther corner of the room, eying me wistfully,--“come here, you poor doggie, and make up with your master. There, there! Was his master cross? Well, he knows it. We must forgive and forget, old boy, mustn’t we?” And Rover nearly broke his own back and tore me to pieces with his tumultuous tail-waggings. “As for you, puss,” I said to Jennie, “I am much obliged to you for your free suggestion. You must take my cynical moralities for what they are worth, and put your little traps into as many of my drawers as you like.” In short, I made it up handsomely all around,--even apologizing to Mrs. Crowfield, who, by the by, has summered and wintered me so many years, and knows all my little seams and crinkles so well, that she took my irritable, unreasonable spirit as tranquilly as if I had been a baby cutting a new tooth. “Of course, Chris, I knew what the matter was; don’t disturb yourself,” she said, as I began my apology; “we understand each other. But there is one thing I have to say; and that is, that your article ought to be ready.” “Ah, well, then,” said I, “like other great writers, I shall make capital of my own sins, and treat of the second little family fox; and his name is-- _IRRITABILITY._