I never pass Number 32 Mt. Vernon Street without emotion. In this mellow old brick dwelling we lived for some years during the seventies. My father bought the house from the heirs of Miss Nabby Joy, a well-known character in the Boston of that time, and the owner of some interesting furniture and porcelain, also acquired by my father, and still in use in his grandchildren’s homes. Strange how permanent things are, compared to people! From this friendly Mt. Vernon Street house my three dear sisters were married,--what lovely brides, and all so different! Here many wonderful parties were given, among them the reception for General Grant and the breakfast for Bret Harte. The breakfast was set for nine, the company were all on time, the guest of honor arriving as the clock began to strike the hour. I remember my mother gave us broiled spring chickens and English bacon (that was before the day of our great packers), and to top off with, buckwheat cakes with maple syrup. That must be nearly fifty years ago, and breakfast parties are again in fashion, “morning after” breakfasts, served at the fag end of an all-night ball. For some reason or other I had not been told of the party, and I remember my astonishment at coming into the dining room a little late, to find the long table surrounded by strangers. “This is my youngest daughter, Mr. Harte,” was my mother’s introduction. “I did not know there was to be company,” I stammered, to excuse my tardiness. “You mean you did not know there were to be buckwheat cakes,” said Bret Harte, with mock severity. He was then in the first flush of fame. “The Luck of Roaring Camp”, a volume of short stories, had won him instant recognition; and “The Heathen Chinee” was already a classic. He was a man of fine presence, medium-sized, with thick silver hair that would curl, a face deeply pitted with smallpox, and keen blue eyes. The talk was so brilliant that I believed I should never forget the witty things that were said. Alas, only a few fragments remain of the conversation at that delectable breakfast table. “Mr. Harte, you have taught the English-speaking world a lesson in brevity it will never forget,” somebody said, but whether it was my mother or Mr. Emerson I have clean forgotten. I do remember how pleased Harte was and how his face kindled at the compliment. I found the opportunity to tell him that Jack Oakhurst was my favorite hero, and to ask why scampish heroes were so much more interesting to read about than the virtuous. “I cannot tell you why,” was Bret Harte’s answer, “but there is no doubt about the fact. I have been asked to give a lecture; I refused because I couldn’t think of a subject. Now you have given me an idea. I will write a lecture about Bad People I have known, if you will deliver it for me!” During the following summer Bret Harte was at Newport, where he wrote some of his finest poems. He was [Illustration: FRANCIS BRET HARTE From a photograph by Beardsley]