his passion and his mistress,
and which since he had given up all idea of the army, he was resolved to
make his sole profession.

His first step toward this end was to arrange, before leaving New York,
for a new edition of his already published work, adding some hitherto
unpublished poems which even in the unsympathetic atmosphere of Number
28 South Barracks had been undergoing a refining process in the seething
crucible of his brain.

The money for this venture dropped into his lap, as it were, for when
the new friends in whom he had confided passed the word around that "the
Bard" was going to get out a book of poetry, the cadets (in anticipation
of a collection of ditties cleverly hitting off the peculiarities and
characteristics of the professors) to a man, subscribed in advance--at
seventy-five cents per copy. In appreciation of their recognition of his
genius, and little guessing what manner of book they expected it to be,
"the Bard" gratefully dedicated the new volume "To the United States
Corps of Cadets."

Happy it was for him that he was not present to hear those he had thus
honored set up their throats in unanimous expressions of disgust
when--the dedication leaf turned--they were confronted by a reprint of
"Tamerlane" and "Al Aaraaf," with the shorter poems, "To Helen," "A
Paean," "Israfel," "Fairy-Land," and other "rubbish," as they promptly
pronounced the entire contents of the book.

"Listen, fellows!" said one of the disgusted lot, with the open volume
in his hand.

"'In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heartstrings are a lute.
None sing so wildly well
As the angel, Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.'"

As he finished this opening stanza of what posterity has ranked as one
of the most exquisite lyrics in the English tongue, but which was
received by the audience of cadets with guffaws of derision, the reader
closed the book with a snap, and dashed it across the room and into the
open fire.

"Did you ever hear crazier rubbish?" he asked, with contempt. "Highway
robbery, I call it, to send us such stuff for our good, hard cash!"

"The joke's on us this time, and no doubt about it," said the also
chagrinned, but more philosophically inclined "Gibs." "The Bard means
well, though, and no doubt he thinks the stuff is poetry."

"Old P." solemnly tapped his forehead with his forefinger.

"Some