"Oh, my way of life has its compensations," he answered. "But Sydney Smith--wasn't it?--said that life was a middling affair, anyway. As for the classics, etc., I find that reading and study lose much of their stimulus unless they get an issue in action,--unless one can apply them directly toward his own work. I often think that, if I were fifteen or even ten years younger, I would go into some branch of natural science. A scientific man always seems to me peculiarly happy in the healthy character of his work. He can keep himself apart from it. It is objective, impersonal, makes no demand on his emotions. Now a writing man has to put himself into his work. He has to keep looking out all the time for impressions, material; to keep trying to enlarge and deepen his own experience, and he gets self-conscious and loses his freshness in the process." "I am surprised to find you in New York," said I, by way of changing the subject. "I thought you had laid out to live in the country. Do you remember that pretty little word-picture of a winter afternoon that you drew us--something in the style of an _Il Penseroso_ landscape? I expected to find you domesticated in a Berkshire farm-house." "Yes, I remember. I tried it. But I find it necessary, for my work, to be in New York. The newspapers--confound 'em!--won't move into the woods. But, after all, place is indifferent. See here; this isn't bad." He drew aside the window curtain, and I looked out over a wilderness of roofs to the North River and the Palisades tinged with a purple light. The ferry boats and tugs plying over the water in every direction, the noise of the steam whistles, and the clouds of white vapor floating on the clear air, made an inspiriting scene. "I'm up among the architects here," continued Clay; "nothing but the janitor's family between me and the roof." We talked awhile longer, and on taking leave, I said: "I shall be on the lookout for something big from you one of these days. You know what we always expected of you. So don't lose your grip, old man." "Who knows?" he replied. "It doesn't rest with me, but with the _daimon_." I was unable to visit Doddridge, the remaining member of our group. He lived in the thriving town of Wahee, Minnesota, and I had heard of him, in a general way, as highly prosperous. He was a prominent lawyer and successful politician, and had lately been appointed United States district judge, after representing his section in the State Senate for a term or two. I wrote to him, congratulating him on his success and asking for details. I mentioned also my visits to Berkeley, Armstrong, and Clay. I got a prompt reply from Doddridge, from which I extract such portions as are material to this narrative: