the moonlight. The green turf is already sprinkled with daisies, and the mavis sings her requiem. The footsore gipsy will untie his wallet beside the brook which whimples near, and eat his noonday crust beneath the cooling shade. I do not believe that he will disturb my rest, unbelieving beggar though he be; and the spot and its gentle companionship well become the idle mood that we call death.

Whether, however, it be lawful to trifle in print is a matter that may be discussed till Doomsday. Yet when a man is occupied with other than literary work, he must either trifle, or lay down the pen altogether. It is impossible that the professional man can produce a work of real value or sustained interest in his brief and widelydivided intervals of leisure. When he returns from the law court or his office in the city, he cannot resume, without an effort, the interrupted thread of his discourse. The mood has changed.

The passion has cooled. Like some inveterate jesters, he has forgotten the point of the joke. Yet the man who has once seen his name in print is as difficult to cure as the man who is addicted to intemperance. He can never quite separate himself from the companions of his gipsyhood. So in his holiday-time he lifts the pen which he had laid aside, and trifles with art, and poetry, and letters, and politics. Grave men are entitled to complain of the desultory and unexhaustive treatment of serious subjects; but, fortunately for the wearer of motley, the public is less exacting. If he do not meddle with the moneymarket, he may 'babble o' green fields' to his heart's content. And this is my apology for a 'Book of Trifles.'

S.