'That so they shall not be displaced By lapses or by wars, But for the love of happy souls Outlive the newest stars.' EMERSON. 'OUR ARTICLE.' 'John,' said I to my husband, as he came home from business, and settled into an armchair for half an hour's rest before dinner, 'I think of writing an article for THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.' 'Humph!' said my husband. Now 'humph' bears different interpretations; it may argue assent, indifference, disgust, disapprobation--in all cases it is aggressive; but this 'humph' seemed to be a combination of at least three of the above-mentioned frames of mind. Natural indignation was about taking full possession of me, but reflection stepped in, and I preserved a discreet silence. The truth is, no man should be assailed by a new idea before he has dined, and I, having had three years' opportunity of studying man nature, met my deserts when the above answer was given. So I still looked amiable, and behaved very prettily till dinner was over, and then John, having subsided into dressing gown, slippers, easy chair, and good nature, I remarked again: 'John, I think of writing an article for THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.' 'How shall you begin it?' said he. 'Well, I haven't exactly settled on a beginning yet, but--' 'Exactly! I supposed so!' remarked this barbarian. Unfortunately, he knew my weak point, for hadn't he been allowed to see a desk full of magnificent middles, only wanting a beginning and an end, and a publisher, and some readers, to place me in the front ranks of our modern essayists, side by side with 'Spare Hours,' and the 'Country Parson,' and 'Gail Hamilton?' The fact is, I have always been brimming over with brilliant ideas on all sorts of subjects, which never would arrange themselves or be arranged under any given head, but presented a series of remarkable literary fragments, jotted down on stray bits of paper, in old account books and diaries, and even, on one or two occasions, when seized by a sudden inspiration, on a smooth stone, taken from the brook, a fair sheet of birch bark, and the front of a pew in a white-painted country church. Having been subject to these inspirational attacks for many years, I had decided to take them in hand, and, if they must come, derive some benefit from them. An idea suggested itself. Claude Lorraine, it is said, never put the figures in his landscapes, but left that work for some brother artist. Now I could bring together material for an article; the inspiration, the picturing should be mine, but John should put in the figures. In other words, he should polish it, write the introduction and the _finis_, and send it out to the public, as the work of 'my wife and I.'