To HENRY MILLS ALDEN, DOCTOR OF LETTERS. My dear A lden, In that former state of existence when we were poets, you wrote verses which I knew by heart and I read dreamy tales to you which you speculated over as if they were already classics. Then you bound your manuscript verses in a full blue calf volume and put it on the shelf, and I woke to find myself at the desk of a literary workman. We used to be told that seven years was the limit of personal integrity, but I believe the physiologists now refuse to let us be the same person for two consecutive breaths.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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