one after another larger and more lustrous--at
times, when dilated with delight, more like Moons than Stars--like
Seraphs hovering over the earth they loved, though seeming so high up in
heaven!

To whom now may the young enthusiast turn as to Beings of the same kind
with himself, but of a higher order, and therefore with a love that
fears no sin in its idolatry? The young enthusiast may turn to some of
the living, but he will think more of others who are gone. The dead know
not of his love, and he can hold no communion with the grave. But Poets
never die--immortal in their works, the Library is the world of spirits;
there they dwell, the same as in the flesh, when by meditation most
cleansed and purified--yet with some holy change it seems--a change not
in them but in us, who are stilled by the stillness, and attribute
something supernatural to the Living Dead.

Since first this Golden Pen of ours--given us by One who meant it but
for a memorial--began, many years ago, to let drop on paper a few
careless words, what quires so distained--some pages, let us hope, with
durable ink--have accumulated on our hands! Some haughty ones have
chosen to say rather, how many leaves have been wafted away to wither?
But not a few of the gifted--near and afar--have called on us with other
voices--reminding us that long ago we were elected, on sight of our
credentials--not indeed without a few black balls--into the Brotherhood.
The shelf marked with our initials exhibits some half-dozen volumes
only, and has room for scores. It may not be easily found in that vast
Library; but, humble member as we are, we feel it now to be a point of
honour to make an occasional contribution to the Club. So here is the
FIRST SERIES of what we have chosen to call our RECREATIONS. There have
been much recasting and remoulding--many alterations, believed by us to
have been wrought with no unskilful spirit of change--cruel, we confess,
to our feelings, rejections of numerous lucubrations to their father
dear--and if we may use such words, not a few new creations, in the same
_genial_ spirit in which we worked of old--not always unrewarded by
sympathy, which is better than praise.

For kindness shown when kindness was most needed--for sympathy and
affection--yea, love itself--for grief and pity not misplaced, though
bestowed in a mistaken belief of our condition, forlorn indeed, but not
wholly forlorn--for solace and encouragement sent to us from afar, fr