"In seven days more I shall be fifty-nine;-which (practically) is all the same as sixty; but, be-ing asked by the wife of my dear old friend, W. H.Harrison, to say a few words of our old rela-tions together, I find myself, in spite of all theseyears, a boy again, -partly in the mere thoughtof, and renewed sympathy with, the cheerfulheart of my old literary master, and partly in in-stinctive terror lest, wherever he is in celestial cir-cles, he should catch me writing bad grammar, orputting wrong stops, and should set the tableturning, or the like. For he was inexorable in suchmatters, and many a sentence in "Modern Paint-ers," which I had thought quite beautifully turnedout after a forenoon's work on it, had to be turnedoutside-in, after all, and cut into the smallestpieces and sewn up again, because he had foundout there wasn't a nominative in it, or a genitive, or a conjunction, or something else indispensableto a sentence's decent existence and position inlife."
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