For breakfast we had excellent-flavored coffee, hot and strong—­not very clear and no great deal of cream—­veal cutlets, elegant ham and eggs and nice bread and butter.  I never sat down to a more plentiful or a nicer breakfast.  I wish you could have seen the eggs—­and the great dishes of meat.  Sis [his wife] is delighted, and we are both in excellent spirits.  She has coughed hardly any and had no night sweat.  She is now busy mending my pants, which I tore against a nail.  I went out last night and bought a skein of silk, a skein of thread, two buttons, a pair of slippers, and a tin pan for the stove.  The fire kept in all night.  We have now got four dollars and a half left.  To-morrow I am going to try and borrow three dollars, so that I may have a fortnight to go upon.  I feel in excellent spirits, and haven’t drank a drop—­so that I hope soon to get out of trouble.

[Illustration]

Yes, let us clear the typewriter off the table:  an ink-well is a sacred thing.

Do you ever stop to think, when you see the grimy spattered desks of a public post-office, how many eager or puzzled human hearts have tried, in those dingy little ink-cups, to set themselves right with fortune?  What blissful meetings have been appointed, what scribblings of pain and sorrow, out of those founts of common speech.  And the ink-wells on hotel counters—­does not the public dipping place of the Bellevue Hotel, Boston, win a new dignity in my memory when I know (as I learned lately) that Rupert Brooke registered there in the spring of 1914?  I remember, too, a certain pleasant vibration when, signing my name one day in the Bellevue’s book, I found Miss Agnes Repplier’s autograph a little above on the same page.

Among our younger friends, Vachel Lindsay comes to mind as one who has done honor to the ink-well.  His Apology for the Bottle Volcanic is in his best flow of secret smiling (save an unfortunate dilution of Riley): 

  Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire,
  The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.... 
  O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way—­
  All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
  And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
  And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. 
  And yet when I am extra good ... [here I omit the transfusion
    of Riley]
  My bottle spreads a rainbow mist, and from the vapor fine
  Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.

I suppose it is the mark of a trifling mind, yet I like to hear of the little particulars that surrounded those whose pens struck sparks.  It is Boswell that leads us into that habit of thought.  I like to know what the author wore, how he sat, what the furniture of his desk and chamber, who cooked his meals for him, and with what appetite he approached them.  “The mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty” (so dipped Hazlitt in some favored ink-bottle)—­“it is at home in the groveling, the disagreeable, and the little.”