the
plains--both gone. One might suppose that I would feel something of the
natural exultation of a Sole Survivor; but as Byron found that

our thoughts take wildest flight
Even at the moment when they should array
Themselves in pensive order,

so I find that they sometimes array themselves in pensive order, even at
the moment when they ought to be most hilarious.

* * * * *

Of reminiscences there is no end. I have a vast store of them laid up,
wherewith to wile away the tedious years of my anecdotage--whenever it
shall please Heaven to make me old. Some years that I passed in London as
a working journalist are particularly rich in them. Ah! "we were a gallant
company" in those days.

I am told that the English are heavy thinkers and dull talkers. My
recollection is different; speaking from that, I should say they are no
end clever with their tongues. Certainly I have not elsewhere heard such
brilliant talk as among the artists and writers of London. Of course they
were a picked lot; some of them had attained to some eminence in the world
of intellect; others have achieved it since. But they were not all English
by many. London draws the best brains of Ireland and Scotland, and there
is always a small American contingent, mostly correspondents of the big
New York journals.

The typical London journalist is a gentleman. He is usually a graduate of
one or the other of the great universities. He is well paid and holds his
position, whatever it may be, by a less precarious tenure than his
American congener. He rather moves than "dabbles" in literature, and not
uncommonly takes a hand at some of the many forms of art. On the whole, he
is a good fellow, too, with a skeptical mind, a cynical tongue, and a warm
heart. I found these men agreeable, hospitable, intelligent, amusing. We
worked too hard, dined too well, frequented too many clubs, and went to
bed too late in the forenoon. We were overmuch addicted to shedding the
blood of the grape. In short, we diligently, conscientiously, and with a
perverse satisfaction burned the candle of life at both ends and in the
middle.

This was many a year ago. To-day a list of these men's names with a cross
against that of each one whom I know to be dead would look like a Roman
Catholic cemetery. I could dine all the survivors at the table on which I
write, and I should like to do so. But the dead ones, I must say, were the
best diners.