The cure then, it seems to me, for personal ambition, is the humorous reflection that the stir and hum of one’s own particular teetotum is confined to a very small space and range; and that the witty description of the Greek politician who was said to be well known throughout the whole civilised world and at Lampsacus, or of the philosopher who was announced as the author of many epoch-making volumes and as the second cousin of the Earl of Cork, represents a very real truth,—­that reputation is not a thing which is worth bothering one’s head about; that if it comes, it is apt to be quite as inconvenient as it is pleasant, while if one grows to depend upon it, it is as liable to part with its sparkle as soda-water in an open glass.

And then if one comes to consider the commoner claim, the claim to be felt and respected and regarded in one’s own little circle, it is wholesome and humiliating to observe how generously and easily that regard is conceded to affectionateness and kindness, and how little it is won by any brilliance or sharpness.  Of course irritable, quick-tempered, severe, discontented people can win attention easily enough, and acquire the kind of consideration which is generally conceded to anyone who can be unpleasant.  How often families and groups are drilled and cautioned by anxious mothers and sisters not to say or do anything which will vex so-and-so!  Such irritable people get the rooms and the chairs and the food that they like, and the talk in their presence is eagerly kept upon subjects on which they can hold forth.  But how little such regard lasts, and how welcome a relief it is, when one that is thus courted and deferred to is absent!  Of course if one is wholly indifferent whether one is regarded, needed, missed, loved, so long as one can obtain the obedience and the conveniences one likes, there is no more to be said.  But I often think of that wonderful poem of Christina Rossetti’s about the revenant, the spirit that returns to the familiar house, and finds himself unregretted: 

  “‘To-morrow’ and ‘to-day,’ they cried;
     I was of yesterday!”

One sometimes sees, in the faces of old family servants, in unregarded elderly relatives, bachelor uncles, maiden aunts, who are entertained as a duty, or given a home in charity, a very beautiful and tender look, indescribable in words but unmistakable, when it seems as if self, and personal claims, and pride, and complacency had really passed out of the expression, leaving nothing but a hope of being loved, and a desire to do some humble service.

I saw it the other day in the face of a little old lady, who lived in the house of a well-to-do cousin, with rather a bustling and vigorous family pervading the place.  She was a small frail creature, with a tired worn face, but with no look of fretfulness or discontent.  She had a little attic as a bedroom, and she was not considered in any way.  She effaced herself, ate about as much as a bird would eat, seldom