his virtues sprung:
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense;
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined,
Call for fond sympathy's heartfelt regret,
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt!

TRIVIA

The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, profane,
clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame or blame.

--HOBBES, _Leviathan_, Chap. VIII.

The bachelor is almost extinct in America. Our hopelessly utilitarian
civilization demands that a man of forty should be rearing a family,
should go to an office five times a week, and pretend an interest in the
World's Series. It is unthinkable to us that there should be men of
mature years who do not know the relative batting averages of the Red
Sox and the Pirates. The intellectual and strolling male of from
thirty-five to fifty-five years (which is what one means by bachelor)
must either marry and settle down in the Oranges, or he must flee to
Europe or the MacDowell Colony. There is no alternative. Vachel Lindsay
please notice.

The fate of Henry James is a case in point. Undoubtedly he fled the
shores of his native land to escape the barrage of the bonbonniverous
sub-deb, who would else have mown him down without ruth.

But in England they still linger, these quaint, phosphorescent
middle-aged creatures, lurking behind a screenage of muffins and
crumpets and hip baths. And thither fled one of the most delightful born
bachelors this hemisphere has ever unearthed, Mr. Logan Pearsall Smith.

Mr. Smith was a Philadelphian, born about fifty years ago. But that most
amiable of cities does not encourage detached and meditative
bachelorhood, and after sampling what is quaintly known as "a guarded
education in morals and manners" at Haverford College, our hero passed
to Harvard, and thence by a swifter decline to Oxford. Literature and
liberalism became his pursuits; on the one hand, he found himself
engrossed in the task of proving to the British electorate that England
need not always remain the same; on the other, he wrote a Life of Sir
Henry Wotton, a volume of very graceful and beautiful short stories
about Oxford ("The Youth of Parnassus") and a valuable little book on
the history and habits of the English language.

But in spite of his best endeavours to quench and subdue his mental
humours, Mr. Smith found his serious moments invaded by in