id that
Boston was perturbed by the reported discovery in Africa of a new
and edible bean.

To New England the bean is an obsession; it is rapidly becoming a
superstition. To the stranger it is an infliction; but, bad as the
bean is to the uninitiated, it is a luscious morsel compared with
the flavorless cod-fish ball which lodges in the throat and stays
there--a second Adam's apple--for lack of something to wash it
down.

If pork and beans is the device of the Puritans, the cod-fish ball
is the invention of the devil. It is as if Satan looked on
enviously while his foes prepared their powder of beans, and then,
retiring to his bottomless pit, went them one better by casting
his ball of cod-fish.

"But from the parlor of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear,
Like water rushing through a weir;
Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause

"The firelight, shedding over all
The splendor of its ruddy glow,
Filled the whole parlor large and low."

The room remains, but of all that jolly company which gathered in
Longfellow's days and constituted the imaginary weavers of tales
and romances, but one is alive to-day,--the "Young Sicilian."

"A young Sicilian, too, was there;
In sight of Etna born and bred,
Some breath of its volcanic air
Was glowing in his heart and brain,
And, being rebellious to his liege,
After Palermo's fatal siege,
Across the western seas he fled,
In good king Bomba's happy reign.
His face was like a summer night,
All flooded with a dusky light;
His hands were small; his teeth shone white
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke."

To the present proprietor of the inn the "Young Sicilian" wrote
the following letter:

Rome, July 4, 1898.

Dear Sir,--In answer to your letter of June 8, I am delighted to
learn that you have purchased the dear old house and carefully
restored and put it back in its old-time condition. I sincerely
hope that it may remain thus for a long, long time as a memento of
the days and customs gone by. It is very sad for me to think that
I am the only living member of that happy company that used to
spend their summer vacations there in the fifties; yet I still
hope that I may visit the old Inn once more before I rejoin those
choice spirits whom Mr. Longfellow has immortalized in his great
poem. I am glad that some of the old residents still remember me
when I was a visitor there with Dr. Parsons (the Poet),