"Governor Burnett, upon an invitation, came to visit y^e Coll: besides---- y^e Civil Officers in Cambridge w^th some others, together with y^e Masters of Art in College, were invited to dine w^th him. There was an Oration in y^e hall by Sir Clark, some of y^e neighboring Clergie were present, & about sixty persons in all had a handsome dinner in y^e Library." Here _was_ an event to be recorded. But was W. S. present? We remain in the dark. Entries now become more and more uncommon. We learn little more of the clock or of the cyder; and we are at a loss to explain the reason why. But lo! we have it! In November there is but one entry, on the "21. _I was married_." There is the gospel, without note or comment. To whom? We ask in vain. "I was married," and that is all. But is not that enough? No more records about clocks and cyder! What need of those things? Very few entries are made in this year, and these are records of the thermometer. Evidently a new one had come from London. But in October is a short and significant record: "19. Bille was born at 5 a clock morning." It was inevitable--cause and effect--a striking example--most philosophic! Had he black eyes or blue? Was he like his father or his mother? Was he little or big? Did he weigh eight pounds or ten? Did he live to be a man? None of these things are recorded, and we shall never know. After this supreme event few entries appear in the diary through the years. Life has become engrossing, important. Let us hope it was sufficing and not full of failure and trouble; let us enjoy the pleasure of believing so, as we well may. The clock, the cyder, the thermometer, the little Bille: what more important matters had he or have we to record? We part with the three, the four faint shadows, Nathaniel, Nathan, W. S., and little Bille, with a mild regret, hoping we may meet them, and especially "little Bille," on the other side. Till then farewell. CHARLES WYLLYS ELLIOTT. TO WALT WHITMAN. O Titan soul, ascend your starry steep On golden stair to gods and storied men! Ascend! nor care where thy traducers creep. For what may well be said of prophets when A world that's wicked comes to call them good? Ascend and sing! As kings of thought who stood On stormy heights and held far lights to men, Stand thou and shout above the tumbled roar, Lest brave ships drive and break against the shore. What though thy sounding song be roughly set? Parnassus' self is rough! Give thou the thought, The golden ore, the gems that few forget; In time the tinsel jewel will be wrought.... Stand thou alone and fixed as destiny; An imaged god that lifts above all hate, Stand thou serene and satisfied with fate. Stand thou as stands that lightning-riven tree That lords the cloven clouds of gray Yosemite.