I returned to England in April, 1858, rich in memories, which are still a delight to me, and for some years I enjoyed the friendship, and, more or less, the society of many of the gifted ones whom I have mentioned in these pages. But failing health and waning sight, together with residing just far enough from London to render a little journey thither a toil and fatigue, made me drop away from the opportunities I might have had of bringing my recollections to a later date. But later recollections, which could only refer to what thousands living are able to chronicle, seem to me of less value than records of the decades which preceded the birth of the men and women who are now coming forward to move the world. The Great Reaper has been busy, for it may have been noticed that, except incidentally, I have refrained from writing about the living. Yet there are three authors I have yet to mention—dead within these few years—whom, for some reasons, it seems convenient to group together. They are R. H. Horne, J. A. Heraud, and Dr. Westland Marston. Fifty years ago their names were familiar ones to the reading public of England, but they seem little mentioned now.

On the strength of his “Orion,” I venture to rank Richard Hengist Home as a true and fine poet, worthy to be ranked as such through all time.