A WINTER MOOD lyj 



thus:^ "It is a mixed kind of feeling 

 with which one reaches the top of this 

 Pisgah and peeps over into the mists 

 that hover over Jordan. I felt as if 

 Bryant was old and out of sight on his 

 seventieth birthday, but now — bless 

 me ! why, what did the Psalmist mean 

 with his 'threescore years and ten'? 

 Think of Tennyson, of Gladstone, of 

 Disraeli, of the stout old fellows who 

 ride to the hounds in England — of 

 old Radetsky — and the possibilities 

 — think of Thomas Parr! Think of 

 Henry Jenkins ! That is the way one 

 feels and talks to himself when he finds 

 himself driven into that fast-narrowing 

 corner, where the drivers — the deaf, 

 inexorable years — have at last edged 

 us almost without our knowing they 

 were driven. The horizon flies as we 

 travel westward, the sun goes back as it 

 ^Unpublished letter in author's possession. 



