Whether the currency of _The Pilot's Story_ and the _Atlantic_ publication of my Heinesque poems added to my reputation in our city I could not say. It was the belief of my senior on the newspaper that our local recognition was enervating and that it had better go no farther, but naturally I could not agree with a man of his greater age and observation, and it is still a question with me whether recognition hurts when one has done one's best. I cannot recall that I ever tried to invite it; I hope not; but certainly I worked for it and hoped for it, and I doubt if any like experiment was ever received with more generous favor than ours by a community which I had reasons for knowing was intelligent if not critical. Our paper, if I may say it, was always good society, but after a while and inevitably it became an old story, or at least an older story than at first, though it never quite ceased to be good society. There remained the literary interest, the æsthetic interest for me, after the journalistic interest had waned; there was always the occasion, or the occasion could always be made. Passages in those old letters home remind me that we talked long and late about _The Marble Faun_ one night at a certain house; at another we talked about other books from nine o'clock on, I imagine till midnight. At another the young lady of the house "sang about a hundred songs." At still another the girl hostess said, "You haven't asked me to sing to-night, but I will sing," and then sang divinely half the night away, for all I know. There was a young lady who liked German poetry, and could talk about Goethe's lyrics; and apparently everywhere there were the talking and the laughing and the singing which fill the world with bliss for youth.