insanity. His later writings were incomprehensible. When we were
living in England, he passed through the midst of us on one of his
aimless, mysterious journeys round the world; and when I was in New
York, in 1884, I met him, looking pale, sombre, nervous, but little
touched by age. He died a few years later. He conceived the highest
admiration for my father's genius, and a deep affection for him
personally; but he told me, during our talk, that he was convinced
that there was some secret in my father's life which had never been
revealed, and which accounted for the gloomy passages in his books. It
was characteristic in him to imagine so; there were many secrets
untold in his own career. But there were few honester or more lovable
men than Herman Melville.

[IMAGE: HERMAN MELVILLE]

James (no relation of our distinguished contemporary) was a
commonplace, meritorious person, with much blameless and intelligent
conversation; but the only thing that recalls him personally to my
memory is the fact of his being associated with a furious
thunder-storm. My father and I were alone in the house at the time; my
mother had gone to West Newton on a three weeks' visit. In the midst
of the thunder and lightning, the downpour and the hurricane, the
crash of matter and the wreck of worlds, our door burst open, and
behold! of all persons in the world to be heralded by such
circumstances, G. P. R. James! Not he only, but close upon his heels
his entire family, numerous, orthodox, admirable, and infinitely
undesirable to two secluded gentlemen without a wife and mother to
help them out. But it was a choice between murder and hospitality, and
come in they must. Never before or after did our liliputian
drawing-room harbor so large an assemblage. They dripped on the