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A beautiful girlⒶalteration in the MS realizes, in the course of time, that in her case the recurrent majorⒶalteration in the MS compliment—I mean, the compliment she oftenest gets from people's tongues and eyes—is one which is called out by her beauty. In Daniel Webster's case the major recurrent compliment was of course paid to his oratory; in Sandow's case, it is paidⒶalteration in the MS to his physical strengthⒶemendation; in Hobson's, to his splendidⒶalteration in the MS daring; in Funston's, to the excess of dirt in him over that employed in the construction of Adam—even in that early day, when dirt was cheaper than it isⒶalteration in the MS now.

Now, as regards the minor recurrent compliment. It does recur, but that is the most you can say under that head. It recurs three or four times in a lifetime. But its value to you is so great,Ⓐalteration in the MS that by comparison the major compliment is a cheap thing. The major compliment comes to you every day of your life, and it always brings you a pleasure—but, after its youth is past, seldom a thrill. But the Minor Compliment—ah, that seldom guest, that gracious guest, that welcome guest! its period is a comet's, and you may grow gray and die ere its glow shall have appeared in your sky three times; but when it appears, then you seem to hear the music of the spheres!

You have a dozen qualities, like everybody else. You have one which [begin page 432] is so prominent and so apparent that everybody recognizes it, nobody overlooks it. That one daily bags the Major Compliment. Now and then, at considerable intervals, some one detects and complimentsⒶalteration in the MS one or another of ten ofⒶalteration in the MS the other eleven—causing a mild pleasure in you, but nothing more—hardly a response, indeed.Ⓐalteration in the MS Meantime nobody stumbles upon that tenth quality—yet, mind you, that one is your secret darling, your treasure of treasures, your joy! At last some noble creature strikes that hidden string, and then—why then your whole being is deluged with a rich harmony, a celestial ecstasy!

Nearly twenty-five years ago an illustrious European—poet, sage, thinker—spent a week in my house as my guest. At parting, he said to me privately—impressively, too, after the manner of one who has made an almost unbelievable discovery—

“I believe that at bottom you are a serious man.”

That is my Minor Recurrent Compliment. It comes to me about once in every three years. The complimenter always shows by his manner that he thinks he is the first; that he takes for granted that there has been no other Columbus there ahead of him.Ⓐalteration in the MS He also plainly takes for granted that his discovery is going to astonish me, too; that he is far from imaginingⒶalteration in the MS it could ever have occurred to me that at bottom I was a serious person.

I am always courteous to this discoverer. I always show gratitude for being thus admitted to the human race, I always exhibit as much surprise as I can, in no case do I ever sit down and explain to the discoverer that he is an idiot; not even when he is a poet, a sage, and a “thinker” of international renown.

“I believeⒶalteration in the MS that at bottom you are a serious man.”

That is what the Thinker said—Thinker and Discoverer. It was about as sane as if he had said, solemnly and with profound conviction—

“I believe a cat is a quadruped.”

One might imagine a dialogue something like this:

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty who had had no acquaintance with physical pain?

He. I have not met such a person at all. If you will reflectⒶalteration in the MS a moment, it will be borne in upon you that such a person is not possible.

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty who had not had a large andⒶalteration in the MS rememberable and remembered share of such pain?

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He. Again, if you will reflect, it will occur to you that that kind of a person is not possible.

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty whose happy hopes had all been fulfilled?

He. Dear sir, such a person has never existed, and cannot exist; is it possible you have never thought of that?

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty, one-third of whose happy dreams had come to pass, and only the other two-thirds had gone down in ruin and the bitterness of disappointment?

He. Dear, dear, if you knew even the rudiments and commonplaces of human life, you would know that that person is also impossible!

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty who had never known dread,Ⓐalteration in the MS fear, defeat, disaster, sleepless nights,Ⓐalteration in the MS the paralysis of despair and the longing for death?

He. Can't you understand that that is the common lot and that no person of fifty has escaped it?

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty who had never known shame, insult, self-contempt for guilty conduct, and the scorching humiliation of exposure?

He. Why, there never was a man that—

I. When was the first time you ever saw a man of fifty who had not grown old in the comradeship of grief and tears, whose heart had not been bruised with sorrows, whose memory did not wander away at some hour of every day and every night to worship at a grave? When did you ever see any sane man of fifty who was not—and by awful compulsion—at bottom serious? Even a poet, “thinker,” or any other kind of an ass ought to know that such a man is impossible and has never existed.