A few held higher converse, which caused their calm and melancholy
souls to beam moonlight from their eyes. As I lingered near them,--
for I felt an inward attraction towards these men, as if the
sympathy of feeling, if not of genius, had united me to their
order,--my friend mentioned several of their names. The world has
likewise heard those names; with some it has been familiar for
years; and others are daily making their way deeper into the
universal heart.

"Thank Heaven," observed I to my companion, as we passed to another
part of the hall, "we have done with this techy, wayward, shy, proud
unreasonable set of laurel-gatherers. I love them in their works,
but have little desire to meet them elsewhere."

"You have adopted all old prejudice, I see," replied my friend, who
was familiar with most of these worthies, being himself a student of
poetry, and not without the poetic flame. "But, so far as my
experience goes, men of genius are fairly gifted with the social
qualities; and in this age there appears to be a fellow-feeling
among them which had not heretofore been developed. As men, they
ask nothing better than to be on equal terms with their fellow-men;
and as authors, they have thrown aside their proverbial jealousy,
and acknowledge a generous brotherhood."

"The world does not think so," answered I. "An author is received
in general society pretty much as we honest citizens are in the Hall
of Fantasy. We gaze at him as if he had no business among us, and
question whether he is fit for any of our pursuits."