It was not that they failed, each one, to try
Their warmth of welcome to speak and show;
I should just have risen and said good-bye,
With a haughty look, had they served me so.

It was rather that each would seem, instead,
With not one vestige of spleen or pride,
Across a chasm of change to spread

His greeting hands to the further side.

And our gladdest words rang strange and cold,
Like the echoes of other long-lost words;
And the nights were no more the nights of old
Than spring would be spring without the birds!

So they waned and waned, these visits of mine, Till I married the heiress, ending here.

For if caste approves the cigars and wine,

She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer.

And now 'tis years since I saw these men,
Years since I knew them living yet.
And of this alone I am sure, since then-
That none has gained what he toiled to get.

For I keep strict watch on the world of art,
And George, with his wide rich-dowered brain!
His fervent fancy, his ardent heart,

Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain.

And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright
In caustic column, in clever quip,
Of a truth must still be hiding his light
Beneath the bushel of journalship.

And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still,
Lounging through life, if yet alive,
Smoking his vast preposterous fill,
Lounging, smoking, striving to strive.

And I, the fourth in that old queer throng,
Fourth and least, as my soul avows,-
I alone have been counted strong,

I alone have the laurelled brows!

Well, and what has it all been worth?
May not my soul to my soul confess
That "succeeding," here upon earth,
Does not alway assume success?

I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year With artist George, with splenetic Fred,

With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer?

Capen, Elmer Hewitt, The Rev- Hall, Arthur Dudley.

Chidwick, John P., The Rev- Holmes, Oliver Wendell.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. Sheridan, Richard Brinsley.

Mayhew, Jonathan, The Rever- Tennyson, Alfred, Lord.