or thirsty. My action amounts to saying some different state is preferable to my present state. I wish for change, therefore I must be unhappy. All action means change; therefore all action springs from want of ease. We cannot examine the metaphysical groundwork of this argument; but it certainly contradicts the testimony of experience. Many states of desire are exquisitely pleasant. A good appetite is thoroughly agreeable so long as it does not pass beyond certain limits. We like to be hungry, and we enjoy satisfying our hunger. The system is stored with certain energies the exercise of which is a source of pleasure, perhaps the only source of pleasure, although the exercise implies a constant state of change. If this is admitted, whatever may be the ultimate explanation, it follows that the bare proof that a certain state of mind or body implies a desire for change does not make it illogical. The state, for example, in which grief passes into another form may be actually productive of a surplus of pleasure. The painful stage during which grief is, so to speak, accumulating within our system, may be a stage during which the grief is rather latent than overt. It exists, but it exists in such a way as not to impress our imagination. It is a dumb, inarticulate form, and therefore easily overlooked. The mood in which we accept the inevitable and derive a pleasure from abandonment to our impulses has, on the contrary, a conspicuous side which pleases the imagination in prospect, and in unhealthy states we commit the solecism of cultivating the grief in order to have the pleasure of relief from grief.
The cases, indeed, are rare, if they ever occur, in which a person would deliberately encounter sorrow in order to indulge the pleasure of weeping. The most ordinary case is that in which a person hugs a sorrow to his breast instead of seeking immediately for happiness. And in such a case, the true nature of the process is obscured by moral and aesthetic considerations. The indulgence in grief seems to be demanded as a proof of fidelity, or there is something shocking to the imagination in too speedy a transition from the mood of sorrow to the mood of happiness. We look at our own lives as we look at a tragedy. We are not pleased in the bare representation of suffering virtue; but we are impressed by the general harmony and beauty of the sentiment wrung from the martyr by his sufferings. We admire the actor who can thus set before us the very essence of a noble nature; and we are always tempted to become actors for our own edification. We see ourselves in imagination performing the part of tragic hero with unbounded applause; and feel that any cheerfulness, however pleasant for the moment, would produce a discord. Such a sentiment, possibly legitimate within certain limits, gradually initiates us in the habit of finding pleasure in melancholy; and in weak or morbid characters the habit gradually strengthens, and leads to the waste of life and the production of much vapid sentimentalism.
EDIBLE AND POISONOUS FUNGI.
In several books certain general rules are given for ascertaining offhand whether a fungus may be eaten or not: they are so absurd, however, that botanists simply smile and never think of refuting them. Who originally drew up this code I do not know; but subsequent writers have copied it more or less implicitly. It is not exactly easy to see whether these rules are intended for the discrimination of the mushroom from other fungi, or edible from poisonous species generally. Perhaps the most important of these canons is, that edible species never change color when cut or bruised. We have seen how A. arvensis comports itself under such conditions! But there is a variety of A. campestris (var. rufescens, Berk.) which becomes brilliantly pink at the seat of injury; and this plant is one of the most savory forms of the mushroom we know. A. rubescens, P., assumes, as its name implies, a rufous tint, especially where it has been injured by insects. Lactarius deliciosus, Fr., turns from bright orange to a dirty green, and this alone is sufficient to distinguish it from all its compeers. The mere fact of a fungus changing color to blue cannot be regarded as an absolute proof of its toxic qualities, for a friend of ours has eaten Boletus chrysenteron, Fr., before he knew accurately B. edulis, Bul.; and during my noviciate I several times partook of B. badius, Fr., without any ill effects whatever accruing. Another rule very commonly relied on is, that if a fungus be pleasant to the taste, and its odor not offensive, it may be eaten. But this is not only a fallacious but an exceedingly dangerous guide. It is quite true some fungi are intensely acrid, and are irritant poisons; but, upon the other hand, Lactarius deliciosus, one of the
