my memoranda were scattered by my imprisonment) I enjoyed one
of those very rare trips into the country which my engagements
allowed. I was accompanied by two old friends, Mr. J. M. Wheeler
and Mr. John Robertson, the latter being then on a brief first
visit to London. We went up the river by boat, walked for hours
about Kew and Richmond, and sat on the famous Terrace in the
early evening, enjoying the lovely prospect, and discussing a
long letter from Italy, written by one of our best friends, who
was spending a year in that poet's paradise. How we chattered
all through that golden day on all subjects, in the heavens above,
on the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth! With
what fresh delight, in keeping with the scene, we compared our
favorite authors and capped each other's quotations! Rare
Walt Whitman told Mr. Conway that his _forte_ was "loafing and
writing poems." Well, we loafed too, and if we did not write
poems, we startled the birds, the sheep, the cattle, and stray
pedestrians, by reciting them. I returned home with that pleasant
feeling of fatigue which is a good sign of health--with tired
limbs and a clear brain, languid but not jaded. Throwing myself
into the chair before my desk, I lit my pipe, and sat calmly
puffing, while the incidents of that happy day floated through
my memory as I watched the floating smoke-wreaths. Casually
turning round, I noticed a queer-looking sheet of paper on the
desk. I picked it up and read it. It was a summons from the
Lord Mayor, commanding my attendance at the Mansion House on
the following Tuesday, to answer a charge of Blasphemy. Strange
ending to such a day! What a tragi-comedy life is--how full of
contrasts and surprises, of laughter and tears.

Two others were summoned to appear with me: Mr. W. J. Ramsey,