a strong resistance to all sorts of ritual.
Moreover, this book of Scheffer's seems to me uncommonly lugubrious of its kind.
I read a few of the poems, and they made me feel so forlorn that I hastened to hide the book away in a receptacle that I keep for things not cheerful to read, and consequently not profitable to lend.
The world is so full of sadness that I more and more make it a point to avoid all sadness that does not come within the sphere of my duty.
I read only “chipper” books.
I hang prisms in my windows to fill the room with rainbows ; I gaze at all the bright pictures in shop windows; I cultivate the gayest flowers; I seek cheerfulness in every possible way. This is my “necessity in being old.”
Then you know I never did like the things that “good people” like.
Ritual was always antagonistic to my temperament; it interferes with my free-will, and my free — will grows more rampant every year I live.
And now having blown my blast against the “saint's” book, I thank you sincerely for your friendly intention in sending it; that I shall cherish in my memory though I consign the book to oblivion.
The poems are certainly pure, solid good sense; dreadful