The [purple glebed clusters → half-ripened apples] their life-dews have bled; How sweet is the [breath → taste] of the [fragrance they shed → sugar of lead]! For summer’s [last roses → rank poisons] lie hid in the [wines → _wines_!!!] That were garnered by [maidens who laughed through the vines. → stable-boys smoking long-nines.] Then a [smile → scowl], and a [glass → howl], and a [toast → scoff], and a [cheer → sneer], For all [the good wine, and we’ve some of it here → strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer] In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, [Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! → Down, down, with the tyrant that masters us all!] The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge the committee double,—which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don’t know that it made much difference. I am a very particular person about having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse. A misprint kills a sensitive author. An intentional change of his text murders him. No wonder so many poets die young! I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism of language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips. The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition,—matrimony, in fact. —The woman who “calculates” is lost. —Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust. CHAPTER III [The “Atlantic” obeys the moon, and its LUNIVERSARY has come round again. I have gathered up some hasty notes of my remarks made since the last high tides, which I respectfully submit. Please to remember this is _talk_; just as easy and just as formal as I choose to make it.] —I never saw an author in my life—saving, perhaps, one—that did not purr as audibly as a full-grown domestic cat, (_Felis Catus_, LINN.,) on having his fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand. But let me give you a caution. Be very careful how you tell an author he is _droll_. Ten to one he will hate you; and if he does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. Say you _cried_ over his romance or his verses, and he will love you and send you a copy. You can laugh over that as much as you like—in private. —Wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny?—Why, there are obvious reasons, and deep philosophical ones. The clown knows very well that the women are not in love with him, but with Hamlet, the fellow in the black cloak and plumed hat. Passion never laughs. The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.