Mournfully, mournfully whispering, they, Whispering, whispering every day, Thy soul in their waters, thy breath in their spray, Thy spirit still speaking in all that they say. They knew thee well, those weedy rocks, And now they rear their rugged blocks When I pass by, To ask me why They never feel thy tender hands; And all the yellow of the sands Is spread to greet Thy tireless feet, Which loved to walk them when the tide was low. Now when I walk alone, To hear the ocean moan, The sea-birds circling round Sweep almost to the ground, And peep and pry above my head to know Why thou dost never come, To watch them flying home, Upon the purple breast, Where daylight sinks to rest.' The Journal 1887, 1888, and 1889 is full of mention of pleasant dinners and meetings with interesting people. Young as Mr. Romanes was, he attained long before he died 'that which should accompany old age--honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,' and as one turns over the brief records of the Journal one is struck with the brightness of his outward life. He enjoyed constant pleasant intercourse with men and women differing widely in pursuits, in opinions, in social position; he was full of plans for work, work which led him into many different phases of intellectual life, and he had every year an admixture of country life and country pursuits, and the love for music and for poetry, which increased each year, kept him from growing too absorbed in science, from being at all one-sided. He used sometimes to say he had too many interests, but be that as it may, these interests gave him much enjoyment and made him the most delightful of companions. A dear friend wrote of him after his death that 'In the home few men have been more surrounded by love, or have better deserved it,' and few men have been more loved by those outside his home. He had an unlimited capacity for loyal, true-hearted friendship. As one most truly said, 'Romanes was the most loyal of friends.'