THE interruption referred to in the first sentence of the first of these papers was just a quarter of a century in duration.

Two articles entitled "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table" will be found in the "New England Magazine," formerly published in Boston by J.T.and E.Buckingham.The date of the first of these articles is November 1831, and that of the second February 1832.

When "The Atlantic Monthly" was begun, twenty-five years afterwards, and the author was asked to write for it, the recollection of these crude products of his uncombed literary boyhood suggested the thought that it would be a curious experiment to shake the same bough again, and see if the ripe fruit were better or worse than the early windfalls.

So began this series of papers, which naturally brings those earlier attempts to my own notice and that of some few friends who were idle enough to read them at the time of their publication.

The man is father to the boy that was, and I am my own son, as it seems to me, in those papers of the New England Magazine.If Ifind it hard to pardon the boy's faults, others would find it harder.They will not, therefore, be reprinted here, nor as Ihope, anywhere.

But a sentence or two from them will perhaps bear reproducing, and with these I trust the gentle reader, if that kind being still breathes, will be contented.

- "It is a capital plan to carry a tablet with you, and, when you find yourself felicitous, take notes of your own conversation." -- "When I feel inclined to read poetry I take down my Dictionary.

The poetry of words is quite as beautiful as that of sentences.

The author may arrange the gems effectively, but their fhape and luftre have been given by the attrition of ages.Bring me the fineft fimile from the whole range of imaginative writing, and Iwill fhow you a fingle word which conveys a more profound, a more accurate, and a more eloquent analogy." -- "Once on a time, a notion was ftarted, that if all the people in the world would fhout at once, it might be heard in the moon.So the projectors agreed it fhould be done in juft ten years.Some thousand fhip-loads of chronometers were diftributed to the selectmen and other great folks of all the different nations.For a year beforehand, nothing else was talked about but the awful noise that was to be made on the great occafion.When the time came, everybody had their ears so wide open, to hear the universal ejaculation of BOO, - the word agreed upon, - that nobody spoke except a deaf man in one of the Fejee Islands, and a woman in Pekin, so that the world was never so ftill fince the creation." -There was nothing better than these things and there was not a little that was much worse.A young fellow of two or three and twenty has as good a right to spoil a magazine-full of essays in learning how to write, as an oculist like Wenzel had to spoil his hat-full of eyes in learning how to operate for cataract, or an ELEGANT like Brummel to point to an armful of failures in the attempt to achieve a perfect tie.This son of mine, whom I have not seen for these twenty-five years, generously counted, was a self-willed youth, always too ready to utter his unchastised fancies.He, like too many American young people, got the spur when he should have had the rein.He therefore helped to fill the market with that unripe fruit which his father says in one of these papers abounds in the marts of his native country.All these by-gone shortcomings he would hope are forgiven, did he not feel sure that very few of his readers know anything about them.In taking the old name for the new papers, he felt bound to say that he had uttered unwise things under that title, and if it shall appear that his unwisdom has not diminished by at least half while his years have doubled, he promises not to repeat the experiment if he should live to double them again and become his own grandfather.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

BOSTON.NOV.1ST 1858.

I WAS JUST going to say, when I was interrupted, that one of the many ways of classifying minds is under the heads of arithmetical and algebraical intellects.All economical and practical wisdom is an extension or variation of the following arithmetical formula:

2+2=4.Every philosophical proposition has the more general character of the expression A+B=C.We are mere operatives, empirics, and egotists, until we learn to think in letters instead of figures.

They all stared.There is a divinity student lately come among us to whom I commonly address remarks like the above, allowing him to take a certain share in the conversation, so far as assent or pertinent questions are involved.He abused his liberty on this occasion by presuming to say that Leibnitz had the same observation.- No, sir, I replied, he has not.But he said a mighty good thing about mathematics, that sounds something like it, and you found it, NOT IN THE ORIGINAL, but quoted by Dr.Thomas Reid.I will tell the company what he did say, one of these days.

- If I belong to a Society of Mutual Admiration? - I blush to say that I do not at this present moment.I once did, however.It was the first association to which I ever heard the term applied; a body of scientific young men in a great foreign city who admired their teacher, and to some extent each other.Many of them deserved it; they have become famous since.It amuses me to hear the talk of one of those beings described by Thackeray -"Letters four do form his name" -

about a social development which belongs to the very noblest stage of civilization.All generous companies of artists, authors, philanthropists, men of science, are, or ought to be, Societies of Mutual Admiration.A man of genius, or any kind of superiority, is not debarred from admiring the same quality in another, nor the other from returning his admiration.They may even associate together and continue to think highly of each other.And so of a dozen such men, if any one place is fortunate enough to hold so many.The being referred to above assumes several false premises.

First, that men of talent necessarily hate each other.Secondly, that intimate knowledge or habitual association destroys our admiration of persons whom we esteemed highly at a distance.

Thirdly, that a circle of clever fellows, who meet together to dine and have a good time, have signed a constitutional compact to glorify themselves and to put down him and the fraction of the human race not belonging to their number.Fourthly, that it is an outrage that he is not asked to join them.

Here the company laughed a good deal, and the old gentleman who sits opposite said, "That's it! that's it!"I continued, for I was in the talking vein.As to clever people's hating each other, I think a LITTLE extra talent does sometimes make people jealous.They become irritated by perpetual attempts and failures, and it hurts their tempers and dispositions.

Unpretending mediocrity is good, and genius is glorious; but a weak flavor of genius in an essentially common person is detestable.It spoils the grand neutrality of a commonplace character, as the rinsings of an unwashed wineglass spoil a draught of fair water.

No wonder the poor fellow we spoke of, who always belongs to this class of slightly flavored mediocrities, is puzzled and vexed by the strange sight of a dozen men of capacity working and playing together in harmony.He and his fellows are always fighting.With them familiarity naturally breeds contempt.If they ever praise each other's bad drawings, or broken-winded novels, or spavined verses, nobody ever supposed it was from admiration; it was simply a contract between themselves and a publisher or dealer.

If the Mutuals have really nothing among them worth admiring, that alters the question.But if they are men with noble powers and qualities, let me tell you, that, next to youthful love and family affections, there is no human sentiment better than that which unites the Societies of Mutual Admiration.And what would literature or art be without such associations? Who can tell what we owe to the Mutual Admiration Society of which Shakspeare, and Ben Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher were members? Or to that of which Addison and Steele formed the centre, and which gave us the Spectator? Or to that where Johnson, and Goldsmith, and Burke, and Reynolds, and Beauclerk, and Boswell, most admiring among all admirers, met together? Was there any great harm in the fact that the Irvings and Paulding wrote in company? or any unpardonable cabal in the literary union of Verplanck and Bryant and Sands, and as many more as they chose to associate with them?

The poor creature does not know what he is talking about, when he abuses this noblest of institutions.Let him inspect its mysteries through the knot-hole he has secured, but not use that orifice as a medium for his popgun.Such a society is the crown of a literary metropolis; if a town has not material for it, and spirit and good feeling enough to organize it, it is a mere caravansary, fit for a man of genius to lodge in, but not to live in.Foolish people hate and dread and envy such an association of men of varied powers and influence, because it is lofty, serene, impregnable, and, by the necessity of the case, exclusive.Wise ones are prouder of the title M.S.M.A.than of all their other honors put together.

- All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called "facts." They are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain.

Who does not know fellows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two which they lead after them into decent company like so many bull-dogs, ready to let them slip at every ingenious suggestion, or convenient generalization, or pleasant fancy? I allow no "facts"at this table.What! Because bread is good and wholesome and necessary and nourishing, shall you thrust a crumb into my windpipe while I am talking? Do not these muscles of mine represent a hundred loaves of bread? and is not my thought the abstract of ten thousand of these crumbs of truth with which you would choke off my speech?

[The above remark must be conditioned and qualified for the vulgar mind.The reader will of course understand the precise amount of seasoning which must be added to it before he adopts it as one of the axioms of his life.The speaker disclaims all responsibility for its abuse in incompetent hands.]

This business of conversation is a very serious matter.There are men that it weakens one to talk with an hour more than a day's fasting would do.Mark this that I am going to say, for it is as good as a working professional man's advice, and costs you nothing:

It is better to lose a pint of blood from your veins than to have a nerve tapped.Nobody measures your nervous force as it runs away, nor bandages your brain and marrow after the operation.

There are men of ESPRIT who are excessively exhausting to some people.They are the talkers who have what may be called JERKYminds.Their thoughts do not run in the natural order of sequence.

They say bright things on all possible subjects, but their zigzags rack you to death.After a jolting half-hour with one of these jerky companions, talking with a dull friend affords great relief.

It is like taking the cat in your lap after holding a squirrel.

What a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at times!

A ground-glass shade over a gas-lamp does not bring more solace to our dazzled eyes than such a one to our minds.

"Do not dull people bore you?" said one of the lady-boarders, - the same that sent me her autograph-book last week with a request for a few original stanzas, not remembering that "The Pactolian" pays me five dollars a line for every thing I write in its columns.

"Madam," said I, (she and the century were in their teens together,) "all men are bores, except when we want them.There never was but one man whom I would trust with my latch-key.""Who might that favored person be?"

"Zimmermann."

- The men of genius that I fancy most have erectile heads like the cobra-di-capello.You remember what they tell of William Pinkney, the great pleader; how in his eloquent paroxysms the veins of his neck would swell and his face flush and his eyes glitter, until he seemed on the verge of apoplexy.The hydraulic arrangements for supplying the brain with blood are only second in importance to its own organization.The bulbous-headed fellows that steam well when they are at work are the men that draw big audiences and give us marrowy books and pictures.It is a good sign to have one's feet grow cold when he is writing.A great writer and speaker once told me that he often wrote with his feet in hot water; but for this, ALL his blood would have run into his head, as the mercury sometimes withdraws into the ball of a thermometer.

- You don't suppose that my remarks made at this table are like so many postage-stamps, do you, - each to be only once uttered? If you do, you are mistaken.He must be a poor creature that does not often repeat himself.Imagine the author of the excellent piece of advice, "Know thyself," never alluding to that sentiment again during the course of a protracted existence! Why, the truths a man carries about with him are his tools; and do you think a carpenter is bound to use the same plane but once to smooth a knotty board with, or to hang up his hammer after it has driven its first nail?

I shall never repeat a conversation, but an idea often.I shall use the same types when I like, but not commonly the same stereotypes.A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times.It has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of associations.

Sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same speech twice over, and yet be held blameless.Thus, a certain lecturer, after performing in an inland city, where dwells a LITTERATRICE of note, was invited to meet her and others over the social teacup.

She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his new occupation."Yes," he replied, "I am like the Huma, the bird that never lights, being always in the cars, as he is always on the wing." - Years elapsed.The lecturer visited the same place once more for the same purpose.Another social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting with the distinguished lady."You are constantly going from place to place," she said.- "Yes," he answered, "I am like the Huma," - and finished the sentence as before.

What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine speech, word for word, twice over! Yet it was not true, as the lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished his conversation with the Huma daily during that whole interval of years.On the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought up precisely the same idea.He ought to have been proud of the accuracy of his mental adjustments.Given certain factors, and a sound brain should always evolve the same fixed product with the certainty of Babbage's calculating machine.

- What a satire, by the way, is that machine on the mere mathematician! A Frankenstein-monster, a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; that turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them!