It is very sad for me to think that I am the only living member of that happy company that used to spend their summer vacations there in the fifties; yet I still hope that I may visit the old Inn once more before I rejoin those choice spirits whom Mr.Longfellow has immortalized in his great poem.

I am glad that some of the old residents still remember me when I was a visitor there with Dr.Parsons (the Poet), 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.