a "hot day" to-morrow. These specimens of soul-curtailed humanity seem to carry in their hands a disenchanting wand, and, at its waving, leaf, blossom and fruit fall from the tree of life, and the bare, unsightly stalk is left behind; the beauty and poetry of all creation vanish, and hard, positive, unspiritual prose alone remains.
You who are sensitive to sympathetic impressions, to what Swedenborgians call "spheres," avoid these apathetic beings as you would shun infection! Strange and sad to say, there is contagion in the lethargic atmosphere by which they are surrounded. Associate with them, and they insensibly steal away from you the power of appreciation and admiration which they themselves lack.
Mr. Quenchum goes with you to hear a world-renowned orator. As you listen with rapt attention, his words conjure a panorama, pulsating with life and glowing with vivid hues, before your eyes. You soon become excited by his bursts of eloquence, melted by his pathos, fired by his enthusiasm, elevated by his lofty sentiments. You turn with an ejaculation of delight towards Quenchum, and discover that a hideous aperture has taken the place of his mouth, and unmistakable weariness looks out from its yawning depths. Abashed at your own state of delectation, you timidly ask what he thinks of the eminent speaker. He shrugs his shoulders, tells you the man is fair
