“Retire within thyself, O mortal Man!” Was the grand doctrine of the classic age, From whence has come the imperishable page Of rarest wisdom that the eye may scan. The city that Augustus raised--nay, mighty Pan, And all the wonders penned by bard and sage Have vanished ’neath the unconquerable rage Of rival factions since their doom began. But we who live and look with rev’rent gaze Across the awful space that marks their course, May struggle with great odds to gain perforce This heritage of mind from sundered days: Or, with hearts athirst, mid barren ways, Drink of ennobling life from such unfailing source. B. F. D. DUNN. ONE FAILURE TO FORGET. Two others, both men, had nodded silent assent when Wooler made the declaration, lightly, that the pleasures of memory must surely pall before the pleasures of forgetting. And presently, when the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, these three men found themselves looking one another over with that calm scrutiny in which one wonders who the deuce the other man is. As a matter of fact, however, these three, John Wooler, Andrew Insgate and Tom Farlough, knew one another fairly well. Each was merely trying to gauge the other’s sincerity. “She objected, of course,” Wooler went on, as if there had been no interruption at all, “but then, I expected nothing else. A woman would always rather remember than forget.” He sipped thoughtfully at his port. “With us--it is different.” At the other end of the table a group of portly, elderly gentlemen were regaling one another with anecdotal alletria. “Do we really mean it?” asked Wooler, “or do we take the appearance of the thought for sake of its unorthodoxy?” “For my part,” said Farlough, fingering his cravat, “I would give much of my life if I could forget some of it.” [Illustration] Insgate held his wine glass to the light and gazed at the rich tint of red within. “Leopardi was right,” he said, “no man would live his life over again. But--I would begin anew tomorrow if I could wipe out all the yesterday.” The other men had left the head of the table and joined the ladies in the drawing-room. The butler moved about silently for a few moments and then left these three alone with their wine, and their thoughts. Wooler spoke again. “We are all able to, h’m, take a little for granted. Our reasons scarcely matter much.” The others nodded. “The only consideration is that we wish to--forget. Why shouldn’t we try, we three? We are not bound in any way. Neither wives nor debts stare us in the face. We have both time and money. Why not try?” “Why not?” repeated Insgate. “Gentlemen,” said Farlough, smiling, “I would represent the minority were I to do else than agree with you. Why not?” “Very well. From now on, then, we attempt forgetting. Each in his own way. From time to time we report progress or regress.”