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 find that confession in these pages as to receive Leviathan in the living-room of “Sans Souci”; but once the fact had established itself in my conviction, it remained there, as immovable as Plymouth Rock.

It was as if some one — Dan Cupid, for preference — had dropped a bomb into the peaceful hamlet of my philosophy. The roofs which sheltered my pet notions flew in flinders, and the notions themselves rushed screaming into the streets, rending their garments and calling upon Heaven to pardon them their sins. The municipal authorities, Messrs. Obstinacy, Selfishness, Conceit, and Company, resigned their offices upon the spot, and Major-General Humility put the town under martial law.

This matter of love is a singular thing enough, as experienced by a man. First of all, it bowls over his confidence, the very quality of which he would seem to be in the most urgent need; and then, in a manner nothing short of gross, turns its attention to demoralizing