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 extreme cases: otherwise there would be no living under them; and good society would be bad. Father Aldrovand has laid down the necessary distinction—'I tell thee, thou foolish Fleming, the text speaketh but of promises made unto Christians, and there is in the rubric a special exemption of such as are made to Welchmen.' There is also a rubric to the rules of good society; and squarers of the circle are among those whom there is special permission not to answer: they are the wild Welchmen of geometry, who are always assailing, but never taking, the Garde Douloureuse of the circle. 'At this commentary,' proceeds the story, 'the Fleming grinned so broadly as to show his whole case of broad strong white teeth.' I know not whether the Welchman would have done the like, but I hope Mr. James Smith will: and I hope he has as good a case to show as Wilkin Flammock. For I wish him long life and long health, and should be very glad to see so much energy employed in a productive way. I hope he wishes me the same if not, I will give him what all his judicious friends will think a good reason for doing so. His pamphlets and letters are all tied up together, and will form a curious lot when death or cessation of power to forage among book-shelves shall bring my little library to the hammer. And this time may not be far off: for I was X years old in X2; not 4 in  16, nor 5 in A.D. 25, but still in one case under that law. And now I have made my own age a problem of quadrature, and Mr. J. Smith may solve it. But I protest against his method of assuming a result, and making itself prove itself: he might in this way, as sure as eggs is eggs (a corruption of X is X), make me 1,864 years old, which is a great deal too much.

April 5, 1864.—Mr. Smith continues to write me long letters, to which he hints that I am to answer. In his last, of 31 closely written sides of note-paper, he informs me, with reference to my obstinate silence, that though I think myself and am thought by others to be a mathematical Goliath, I have resolved to play the mathematical snail, and keep within my shell. A mathematical snail! This cannot be the thing so called which regulates the striking of a clock; for it would mean that I am to make Mr. Smith sound the true time of day, which I would by no means undertake upon a clock that gains 19 seconds odd in every hour by false quadrature. But he ventures to tell me that pebbles from the sling of simple truth and common sense will ultimately crack my shell, and put me hors de combat. The confusion of images is amusing: Goliath turning himself into a snail to avoid $$\pi = \textstyle 3\frac{1}{8}$$ and James Smith, Esq., of the Mersey Dock Board: and