University of Virginia Library

3. SLYDER DOWNEHYLLE.
A SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.

“How happy I'll be to-morrow!” exclaimed little Slyder
Downehylle, in anticipation of Christmas; “oh, how
happy I shall be to-morrow!”

“Couldn't you contrive to be happy a little now?”
replied Uncle John, who had learned somewhat to distrust
anticipation and its gorgeous promises.

“Happy now, Uncle John!” retorted little Slyder
Downehylle, rather contemptuously, “happy now!—what
with, I should like to know—what shall I be happy with
—now? Where's the candy, the cakes, the pies—
where is the hobby-horse that somebody's going to give
me—and all the Christmas gifts? How I wish to-morrow
had come—what a long day—what a long evening
—what a great while I've got to sleep!”

Little Slyder Downehylle became quite cross, and
Uncle John whistled. Twenty-four hours afterwards, little
Slyder Downehylle was still more cross—he had been
happy with candy, with cakes and with pies, until he
was very uncomfortable indeed; he had been happy with
toys, until he had quarrelled with his little companions
and strewed the room with broken playthings; he had
been happy with his hobby-horse, until he got a fall.

“Oh, what a stupid day!” said little Slyder Downehylle,
“I wish to-morrow would come—I'll be so happy
at Aunt Betsy's.”

It is unnecessary to intrude at Aunt Betsy's, for the
events there were of a character strongly resembling what
had already occurred. Little Slyder Downehylle went
to bed in tears.

It was always so with the unfortunate Slyder Downehylle.
Throughout life, he wanted something to be
happy with; and strangely enough, it universally occurred
that when he had obtained the thing, it did not prove to
be exactly the thing he wanted. His expectations were
never realized, and he was, therefore, constantly in a state
of disappointment. Unlucky Slyder Downehylle! It
was deplorable too that such should be the case, for Slyder
Downehylle was anxious to be happy—he was always
looking forward to be happy—for something “to be happy
with.” He never got up in the morning but that it was
his resolve to be happy in the afternoon—and, if not successful
in accomplishing his purpose at that time, he endeavoured,
as far as possible, to retrieve the failure by forming
a similar determination for the evening. No one ever
had a greater variety of schemes for living happy—very
happy—than he; for living happy next week, for living
happy next month, or next year; but it appeared to him
that a malignant fate was sure to interfere, in order that
his projects might be frustrated. At school, he was
always thinking how happy he would be on Saturday
afternoon; but then sometimes it rained on Saturday
afternoon, or his companions would not do as he wished
them to do on Saturday afternoon, or it may be that,
although he had toiled hard for pleasure on Saturday afternoon,
and the toil for pleasure is often the severest of
work, he returned home weary, dispirited, and out of
temper. Of course, it was unavoidable that his pleasure
should be postponed until some other Saturday afternoon.
And it was even so with the larger holidays. They
never were exactly what they ought to have been—what
they promised to be—what they seemed to be, when
viewed from a distance. If Slyder Downehylle went afishing,
why a treacherous bank would often give way,
and then—pray, who can possibly be happy when dripping

wet, with his clothes on? Nobody but poodles.
What felicity is there in losing one's shoe in a swamp?
Who is perfectly happy when scouring across the plain,
like “swift Camilla,” with old Jenkins' big dog—that
dog always bites—rustic dogs do—following close at his
heels, widely opening a mouth which shows no need
of the dentist? Then, if Slyder Downehylle went skating,
it not unfrequently happened that he cried with cold,
—what a strange arrangement it is not to have the best
of skating on the warmest days! At other seasons, there
was the sun. It never rains but it pours, in this world.
Is it happiness, think ye, to have one's dear little nose—
incipient Roman, or determined pug, as the case may
be—all of a blister, and to have one's delectable countenance
as red and as hot as a scarlet fever? “There's
lime in the sack”—invariably, in Slyder Downehylle's
sack—it would be easy to make mortar of it.

The young Downehylle, finding that happiness eluded
his grasp while a boy, made sure of throwing a noose
over its head when he should be a man. What on earth
is there to prevent a man's being happy, if he chooses—
especially if a man has money, as was the case in the
present instance, Uncle John and Aunt Betsy both being
gathered to their fathers and mothers. May not a man
do as he pleases?—go to bed when he pleases, and get
up when he pleases?—eat what he pleases and drink
what he pleases? A man is not compelled to learn lessons.
All his afternoons are Saturday afternoons—his
holidays last all the year round. Who would not be a
man? “Oh, when I am a man!” said Slyder Downehylle.
“I wish I was a man!” exclaimed Slyder Downehylle.
“I want to be a man!” cried Slyder Downehylle,
with impatience.

Sooner or later, at least in the eye of the law, most
boys become men, in despite of remonstrance. These

boys are remarkable for an upstart tendency, and the
Downehylles themselves are not exempt from the peculiarity.
So Slyder Downehylle was a man at last, though,
on the whole, it must be confessed that he did not derive
the satisfaction from it that he had been led to expect.

Slyder Downehylle was extended at full length upon
a sofa.

“I say, Spifflikens, what shall I be at? I'm twenty-one—I've
got plenty of money—I'm as tired as thunder
already—what shall I be at, Spifflikens?”

“Lend me a hundred, and buy yourself a buggy,—
why don't you get a buggy, to begin with?”

“Yes, Spifflikens, I will. You're right—the Downehylles
were always great on buggies, you know, Spifflikens.”

It was Slyder Downehylle's theory, after this conversation—for
he often theorized—that happiness was, to
some degree, vehicular; that, like respectability, it was
to be found in a gig, if it were to be found anywhere.
He, therefore, bought him a sulky and a fast trotter—a
mile in two minutes or thereabouts. What could escape
a man who followed so rapidly? If you wish to be successful
in the pursuit of happiness, do not forget to buy a
sulky—there's nothing like a sulky.

“Aha!—that's it!” muttered Slyder Downehylle, as he
tugged at the reins, and went whizzing along the turnpike
in a cloud of dust, passing every thing on the road,
and carrying consternation among the pigs, the ducks,
and the chickens.

Slyder thought that this was “it” for several consecutive
days; but as the novelty wore off—there's the rub—
(that Hamlet was rather a sensible fellow—did he too
keep a “fast trotter?”)—Slyder was not so sure whether
it was the thing exactly, and on the recommendation of

his friend Spifflikens, who borrowed another hundred on
the occasion, he endeavoured to improve it a little by
drinking champagne and playing billiards at the “Cottage.”
Fast trotters and champagne—fast trotters and
billiards harmonize very well. Under this combination,
Slyder appeared to think that “it” was considerably
more like the thing than before. He had found “something
to be happy with,” at last, and so had Spifflikens.
It was not, however, so difficult to make Spiffy a happy
man,—only allow him to go ahead, and say nothing
about “returns.” He hates any thing sombre—any thing
“dun.”

“Now I'm happy,” said Slyder Downehylle, as he
stood on the portico of the “Cottage,” and saw every eye
fixed with admiration on his establishment, as the boy
led his horse and sulky through the crowd of vehicles.
“That's it, at last!” and he lighted another cigar and
called for an additional bottle oficed champagne. “That's
it, certainly,” remarked Spifflikens, at the explosion of
the cork.

Slyder Downehylle was perfectly satisfied that this was
indeed “it,” for a considerable portion of the afternoon,
and, to tell the truth, when he remounted his buggy,
nodding his head to the bystanders, as he hung his coat-tails
over the back of the vehicle, he was not a little
“elevated.”

“There—let him go!” said he, tossing a half-dollar to
the hostler's deputy.

Mr. Downehylle's sulky flew like lightning across the
lawn.

“Splendid!” ejaculated the spectators.

“Superiaw—fine!” added Spifflikens.

The dogs barked—the coloured gentlemen, who officiated
as waiters, grinned from ear to ear.—There was quite
a sensation at the “Cottage.”

“That's it, at last!” said Slyder Downehylle, triumphantly.
But he forgot that existence, short as it is, cannot
be crowded all into the exhilarating moment of a
“start.” Life is not to be distilled and condensed in this
way, though his life seemed to come as near it as possible,
on the occasion referred to.

Why are we made ambitious? Why will we endeavour
to jump over puddles that are too wide, when we
so often miss immortality by no more than a hair's
breadth? But “touch and go” is the secret of great
enterprises. Slyder Downehylle was struck with a desire
to sublimate the sublime—to “o'ertop old Pelion,”
and old Pelion, as it was natural he should, resented the
insult. Downehylle was allowed to “touch”—we
often do that—but there was a veto on his “go.” He
wished to shave the gate-post, in his curricular enthusiasm—to
astonish the natives with his charioteering skill.
Yet the poplars might have reminded him of Phaeton—
of Phaeton's sisters weeping, lank and long.

It certainly was the champagne—that last bottle, so
well iced.

Mr. Downehylle was out in his calculation by about
the sixteenth part of an inch. He was on a lee-shore.

A cloud of splinters went up and came down again.
“There is but a Frenchman the more in France,” said a
Bourbon on the Restoration. It was also quite evident
that there was a sulky the less in existence. As this
could not be considered the “fast trotter's” business—
he having no further concern with the matter than to do
a certain number of miles in a specific number of minutes—he,
therefore, went straight on to fulfil his part of
the contract, and it is to be presumed that he was successful,
as nothing has been heard from him since.

“That's not it, after all,” murmured Mr. Slyder Downehylle,
as he was carried into the Cottage for surgical aid.

The bystanders, lately so full of admiration, ungraciously
placed their thumbs upon their noses, and waggled
their fingers. Greatness always falls when it meets
with an upset.

“What could you expect from a fellow that holds his
elbows so, when he drives?” was the general remark.
When we are down, every one can see the reason why.
The world is always full of sagacity, after the event.'

Slyder Downehylle is known by the coloured waiters
at the Cottage as “the gemplin that got spilt,” and he
was so knocked down by the affair that he felt flat at the
slightest allusion to it. He never hunted happiness in a
buggy again, but went slowly home in the omnibus, and,
though it did not enable him to journey very rapidly, he
yet contrived, while in it, to arrive at the conclusion that,
if “fast trotters” carried others to felicity, the mode of
travel was too rough for him.

He was puzzled. What could be the matter? He
was a man, a man of cash—money in both pockets; but
yet Slyder Downehylle was not happy—not particularly
happy. On the contrary, striking an average, he was,
for the most part, decidedly miserable. He yawned
about all the morning; he was not hungry in the afternoon;
he was seldom sleepy at night,—vexatious!

“There's something I want,” thought Slyder Downehylle;
“but what it is—that's more than I can tell; but
it is something to be happy with. What other people
get for the purpose, that they go grinning about so, hang
me if I can discover.”

Slyder Downehylle was rather good-looking, about these
times—not decidedly “a love,” but well enough; and so,
as nature had been propitious, he struck out in a new line—
a very popular line—the hair line. He cultivated whiskers,
“fringing the base of his countenance;” he set up a
moustache; he starred his under lip with an imperial, and

he balanced the superstructure with the classical “goatee.”
Medusa herself never had more luxuriant curls. When
Slyder Downehylle wanted to find himself, he was obliged
to beat the bushes. He passed half the day with a brush
in his hand, in adjusting his embellishments—in giving
them the irresistible expression; and the rest of the time
was consumed in carrying them up and down all manner of
streets, and to all sorts of public places. Slyder Downehylle
was now the envy of the young bloods about town,
and was regarded as a perfect Cupidon by the ladies.
How, indeed, could it be otherwise! Birnam Wood had
come to Dunsinane—not a feature was discernible. Esau
and Orson were shavelings and shavers to Slyder Downehylle.
But, notwithstanding the fact that Samson found
strength in his hair, Slyder was not so lucky. A thickset
hedge cannot keep out ennui. It is true that the buffalo
and the bison at the menagerie, took Mr. Slyder
Downehylle for a patriarch of the tribe, fresh from the head
waters of the Oregon; yet, after all, Slyder's spirit was
nearly as bald of comfort as the “hairless horse”—that
unfashionable quadruped. It must be confessed, however,
that there were gleams of consolation attendant upon
his bristly condition. The servants at the hotels styled
him “mounsheer.” How delightful it is to be mistaken
for what you are not! People thought he talked “pretty
good English, considerin',” and, best of all, the little
boys ran backwards that they might look with wonder at
his face, while the smaller children went screaming into
the house to call their mammas to see the “funny thing.”
But “false is the light on glory's plume;” and it is no
less false on glory's hair. Even the excitement of such
enviable distinction as this soon wears away, and it may
be questioned whether, barring the expense of soap, a
furry-faced gentleman is, in the long run, much happier
than the more sober citizen who has so little taste for the
picturesque as to shave several times a week, and who is
neither a “foundling of the forest” nor a perambulatory
Moses, always among the bulrushes.

Slyder Downehylle, therefore, reinforced his whiskers
by an elaborate care in dress. He was padded into a
model of symmetry; but, although the buckram was judiciously
placed, he soon ascertained that this was not the
kind of bolstering he wanted. The cotton made him
warm, but it did not make him happy—not quite. It
was “nothing to be thus,” unless one were “safely thus.”
Slyder Downehylle began to feel small, when his muscular
developments were hung upon the bed-post. Which
was Slyder, in the main—he beneath the cover, or that
larger part of him against the wall? He was tired of
packing and unpacking; wearied with being “spectacular.”

It was not exactly kind in Uncle John and Aunt
Betsy—though they thought it was—thus to bequeath
their savings to Slyder Downehylle. Their legacy perplexed
him sadly. He discovered, in a very short time,
that money is not in itself—notwithstanding the fact that
it is generally known as the “one thing needful”—the
material of happiness. But he was clear in his own mind
that it was something to be got with money. Still, however,
he could not find it—that “something to be happy
with”—that cake, that candy, that sugar-ice, that hobby-horse.
When his game was run down, why, it was only
a fox after all.

“Life's an imposition—a humbug,” said Slyder
Downehylle, pettishly; “I've tried much of the fun that's
said to be in it, and I'm beginning to have an idea it's a
confounded stupid piece of business, when a man has
seen it pretty much all through, like a farce at the theatre.
I'm sure I don't know what to be at next. There's
a man to be hung to-morrow; but I've seen two or three

fellows hung, and they do it just alike. The fun is soon
got out of that. Then there's to be a fight somewhere
this afternoon; but what's a fight, or a race, or any thing,
in short? A spree is to come off to-night at Crinkumcrankum's;
but I suppose every thing's to travel down
our throats in the old way—botheration!”

“You should go it,” remarked Spifflikens, “go it
strong—that's the way to scatter the blue devils: go it
strong; and, as the poet judiciously remarks, `go it while
you're young.' That's the time—lend me fifty, and I'll
show you a thing or two—there are several things to be
seen yet, by individuals who don't wear spectacles. This
is good brandy, Slyder—prime brandy—where did it
come from? Have you got any more? Brandy's wholesome.
It agrees with almost everybody.”

This postulate is not exactly so self-evident as Mr.
Spifflikens thought it to be; but while it is not clearly
proved that brandy agrees with everybody, yet it was
plain enough that Spifflikens agreed with it, and Slyder
Downehylle began likewise to have a slight agreement
with that adjective, both in number and person.

He followed the advice of Spifflikens. No one knew
the world better than Spifflikens, and, therefore, Spifflikens
must, of course, be right,—so Slyder Downehylle
became convivial. He slept by day and he frolicked by
night. If this was not the long-sought “it,” where could
“it” be. Slyder Downehylle was merry—exceeding
jocose. He was sometimes turned out of three theatres
in one evening—he had fought in a ball-room—had
thrashed several watchmen—had been honoured with
“private hearings” by the magistracy, and had been
more than once almost beaten to a jelly. Slyder Downehylle
earned the right and title to be known as a spirited
youth, and so he was, generally. But, by dint of repetition,
the blue began to disappear from this plum also—

the peach was no longer downy. If it had not been for
the peach-brandy, what would have become of Slyder
Downehylle? It was not, indeed, perfect bliss—Slyder
was subject to headache in the earlier part of the day—
but it was as nearly “something to be happy with,” as
he had yet been enabled to discover.

It was a hard case, view it as you will. Mr. Slyder
Downehylle wanted to be happy—he had the greatest
disposition to be happy. He had tried every possible experiment
in that direction that either he or Spifflikens
could suggest; but yet he was a dejected man, even
when tipsy twice a day. He could find no delight that
was of a substantial character—nothing to which he could
constantly recur without fear of disappointment and disgust—nothing
that would wear all the week through and
be the same to-day, to-morrow, and the day after that.
It was in vain that he intermingled his pleasures—took
them in alternation—over-eat himself in the morning and
over-drank himself in the evening, or reversed the process,
turning the bill of fare upside down. It came all
to the same thing in the end. There must be something
wrong—why could not Slyder Downehylle be happy?
Who laboured harder to boil down common-place and to
extract from it the essence of felicity—to concentrate the
soup of life, and to elicit essentials from their insipid
dilution?

A man laughed in the play-house—laughed several
times. What right had he to laugh in that side-shaking
manner? Slyder Downehylle could not laugh—he saw
no particular joke that required it; but the man laughed
again, and when Slyder requested him not to make a fool
of himself, the man pulled Slyder's nose. Hope deferred
engenders fierceness. Slyder quarrelled with the
man about making so free with another person's nose, as
if it were a bell-pull or a knocker. A nose is not much,

to be sure—many noses are not—but when a nose is constituted
a point of honour, it expands to the dimensions
of a geographical promontory—it is peninsular—it is an
independent territory, over which no one can be allowed to
march, much less to make settlements upon it. Slyder
Downehylle resolved to stand by his nose, and so he
stood up to it, and a duel was the consequence—a duel,
according to the barbarian custom of modern times, which
was fought before breakfast. Who can be surprised that
there is so much bad shooting extant on these interesting
occasions? A gentleman, no matter how much of a gentleman
he may be in proper hours, cannot reasonably be
expected to be altogether a gentleman—altogether himself—at
such an uncivilized time of day. A man may
be valiant enough after nine o'clock—when he has had
his coffee and muffins—he may be able to face a battery
in the forenoon, and ready to lead a forlorn hope when he
has dined comfortably; but to ask one to get up to be
shot at, in the gray of the morning—in the midst of fogs
and all sorts of chilly discomfort, his boots and his trowsers
draggled with dew, and himself unsustained by a
breakfast, why the whole thing is preposterous. No man
can be valiant unless he is warm, and, as no man can be
warm without his breakfast, it is a demonstrated fact that
breakfast is itself valor, and that one may be frightened
before breakfast, without the slightest disparagement to
his character for courage. Master Barnardine was right
when he refused to get up early to go to the gallows.
There is a time for all things. But Slyder Downehylle
was not more alarmed than was natural and proper—not
more, probably, than his antagonist. “How do they
come on?” said the surgeon to Goliah Bluff, who acted
as Slyder's second. The fourth shot had been interchanged
and no blood drawn. “As well as could be
expected,” replied Goliah; “they are approximating—
the seconds don't have to dodge now, and the principals
are not so likely as they were to shoot off their own toes.
Practice makes perfect. Gentlemen, are you ready?—
one, two, three!”—bang!—bang!—The man had winged
Slyder, and both were glad—the one that it was safely
over, so far as he was concerned, and the other that the
affair was finished and no worse, so far as he was concerned.
Further approximations might have been dangerous.
But the result was a downright flying in the
face of poetical justice, owing, no doubt, to the fact that
poetical justice wisely lies abed till the last bell rings.
But then, as Goliah Bluff announced to the parties belligerent,
Slyder Downehylle was “satisfied,” and who
else had a right to complain? His nose was the feature
most interested, and it said nothing, “as nobody knows
on”—for it was now a nose which, when regarded in its
metaphysical and honourable aspect, notwithstanding its
rubid tints, had not a stain upon its escutcheon. The
bullet in its master's shoulder had been soapsuds to its
reputation, and the duel had been brickdust to the lustre
of its glory. Slyder Downehylle's nose actually “shone
again,” brighter than ever. His arm, indeed, was in a
sling—the same arm that had conveyed so many slings
into him, to support him, comfort him, and keep him up;
but his nose was self-sustained; it had been proved to be
a feature not to be handled with impunity. But what are
noses, after all—what are noses in the abstract—noses individually
considered? Slyder, in the end, did not care
much who pulled his nose, so they did it gently.

He was engaged in solving a great moral problem.
He left the longitude and the squaring of the circle to
intellects of an inferior order. It was for him to determine
whether it was possible to live upon the principal
of one's health and capacities for enjoyment, without
being restricted to such beggarly returns as the mere interest

thereof. As for content—the “being happy with
one's self,” as Uncle John expressed it—this was a very
flat sort of happiness in Slyder Downehylle's estimation,
if, indeed, he ever placed it in that category at all. It
was by no means strong enough for the purpose. Happy
upon water! “I'll trouble you for that pale brandy,”
said Slyder Downehylle. He desired that his existence
should be one vast bowl of champagne punch—an
everlasting mince-pie—terrapins and turtle soup—glaciers
of ice-cream and cataracts of cognac, sunned by
frolic and fanned by the breeze of excitement,—a “perpetual
spree.” There were to be no shady sides of
the way in his resplendent world.—How many practical
philosophers have failed in the same pursuit! Is the
aurum potabile never to be discovered? Are we always
to come down to the plain reality, at last? Downehylle
could not endure the thought. “More cayenne, if you
please.”

“Have you ever tried faro?” whispered Spifflikens;
“there's considerable fun at faro, when you are up
to it.”

Spifflikens passed the bottle. Slyder Downehylle had
never tried faro, but he did try it, and thought that he
rather liked it. In short, it improved upon acquaintance.
At length, he had reached the ultima Thule. The “something
to be happy with” had, to all appearance, been
found. Redheiffer was but a goose. He knew not
where to look for the “perpetual motion”—the everlast
ing jog to the flagging spirit. But the top of our speed
brings the end of the race. He who moves most rapidly,
is the soonest at the close of his career. Faro is fickle,
and Slyder Downehylle, in his zeal to pile enjoyment
upon enjoyment—to be happy, if possible, with several
things at a time—had unluckily a habit of not taking
even his faro “plain;” he needed syrup also in that effervescing

draught, and, as his head became warm, the
“cool” amounts in his pockets melted away.

Slyder Downehylle was a cashless man—his researches
after felicity had not only proved unsuccessful, but had
left him without the means of future progression. He
was bemired, half-way—swamped, as it were, in sight
of port. Even Spifflikens cut him dead. The tailors
desired no more of his custom—his apartments at the
hotel were wanted. The “credit system” was out of
fashion. Financiering had been clipped in its wings.
How doleful looks the candle when capped with an extinguisher!—The
wounded squirrel drops from limb to
limb. The world has many wounded squirrels, besides
those that crack nuts to earn a living. Just such a
squirrel was Slyder Downehylle, compelled, before he
reached the top of his aspiring hopes, to abandon every
step that he had so toilfully surmounted.

How he now obtained any thing to eat, is not exactly
known. His mode of obtaining something to drink, is,
if not original, certainly ingenious. He never goes to the
pump, having no taste for hydraulics. Nor does he find
water with a hazel twig. He has a more effective “twig”
than that. He lounges in bar-rooms, and, as his old
acquaintances, searchers after happiness not yet brought
up with a “round turn,” go there to drink—a dry
bar is a sad impediment to navigation—it is astonishing
how very solicitous he becomes in reference to their
health.

“How do you do, Mr. Jones? I've not had the pleasure
of seeing you for a long time. How have you
been?”

“Pretty well, Downehylle, pretty well—but excuse
me—Bibo and I are going to try something.”

“Why, ah—thank you—I don't care much if I do join.

The pale brandy—yes—that will answer,” would be Slyder
Downehylle's response under such circumstances,
from which it is apparent that misfortune had somewhat
impaired his sense of hearing.

Slyder Downehylle is supposed to be yet about town,
looking earnestly for his undiscovered happiness. The
last time he was seen by credible witnesses, they noted
him busily employed in playing “All Fours,” in front of
John Gin's hostelry—a game probably selected as emblematic
of his now creeping condition. He lounges no
more in fashionable resorts. Champagne punch is a
mere reminiscence. His Havanas are converted into
“long nines,” and his bibulations are at two cents a glass,
making up in piperine pungency what they lack in delicacy
of flavour. He is sadly emaciated, and, in all respects,
considerably the worse for wear, while a hollow
cough indicates that his physical capabilities have proved
inadequate to the requirements of his method of employing
life, and are fast dropping to pieces. Slyder Downehylle
is consequently more melancholy than ever. He is
troubled with doubts. Perhaps he may have proceeded
upon an error—perhaps the principle, the high pressure
principle, of his action was not the right one. It may be
that excitement is not happiness—that our pleasures are
fleeting in proportion to their intensity—that, indeed, if
“life be a feast,” the amount of satisfaction to be derived
from it is rather diminished than increased by swallowing
the viands hastily, and by having a free recourse to
condiments, and that a physical economy is as wise and
as necessary to well-being as economy of any other kind.
He is almost led to suppose that his “something to be
happy with” is a fallacy; he never could hold it within

his grasp, and he inclines to the belief that a man probably
does well to have a home in himself, that he may not
always be compelled to run abroad for recreation, or to
appeal to his senses to give vivacity to the hour. If it
were his luck to begin again, perhaps he might try the
tack thus indicated. But that hollow cough!—Our experiences
oft reach their climax too late; yet others may
learn from the example of Slyder Downehylle.