and his
sisters, one of whom, my wife, is also the only living member of
those who used to assemble there. Both my wife and I remember well
Mr. Calvin Howe, Mr. Parmenter, and the others you mention; for we
spent many summers there with Professor Treadwell (the Theologian)
and his wife, Mr. Henry W. Wales (the Student), and other visitors
not mentioned in the poem, till the death of Mr. Lyman Howe (the
Landlord), which broke up the party. The "Musician" and the
"Spanish Jew," though not imaginary characters, were never guests
at the "Wayside Inn." I remain,

Sincerely yours,
Luigi Monti (the "Young Sicilian").

But there was a "Musician," for Ole Bull was once a guest at the
Wayside,

"Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe,
His figure tall and straight and lithe,
And every feature of his face
Revealing his Norwegian race."

The "Spanish Jew from Alicant" in real life was Israel Edrehi.

The Landlord told his tale of Paul Revere; the "Student" followed
with his story of love:

"Only a tale of love is mine,
Blending the human and divine,
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri's garden old."

And one by one the tales were told until the last was said.

"The hour was late; the fire burned low,
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep,
And near the story's end a deep
Sonorous sound at times was heard,
As when the distant bagpipes blow,
At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred,
As one awaking from a swound,
And, gazing anxiously around,
Protested that he had not slept,
But only shut his eyes, and kept
His ears attentive to each word.
Then all arose, and said 'Good-Night.'
Alone remained the drowsy Squire
To rake the embers of the fire,
And quench the waning parlor light;
While from the windows, here and there,
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed,
And the illumined hostel seemed
The constellation of the Bear,
Downward, athwart the misty air,
Sinking and setting toward the sun.
Far off the village clock struck one."

Before leaving the next morning, we visited the ancient ballroom
which extends over the dining-room. It seemed crude and cruel to
enter this hall of bygone revelry by the garish light of day. The
two fireplaces were cold and inhospitable; the pen at one end
where the fiddlers sat was deserted; the wooden benches which
fringed the sides were hard and forbidding; but long before any of
us were born this room was the scene o