BIBLIOGRAPHICAL
Thepaperscollectedhereunderthenameof’MyLiteraryPassions’wereprintedseriallyinaperiodicalofsuchvastcirculationthattheymightwellhavebeensupposedtohavefoundtherealltheacceptancethatcouldbereasonablyhopedforthem。Nevertheless，theywerereissuedinavolumetheyearaftertheyfirstappeared，in1895，andtheyhadapleasingshareofsuchfavorastheirauthor’sbookshaveenjoyed。Butitistobedoubtedwhetheranyonelikedreadingthemsomuchashelikedwritingthem——say，sometimeintheyears1893and1894，inaNewYorkflat，wherehecouldlookfromhisloftywindowsovertwomilesandahalfofwoodlandinCentralPark，andhalloohisfancywhereverhechoseinthatfaeryrealmofbookswhichhere—enteredinreminiscencesperhapstoofondattimes，andperhapsalwaystooeagerforthereader’sfollowing。Thenamewasthoughtbythefriendlyeditorofthepopularpublicationwheretheywereserializedamainpartofsuchinspirationastheymightbeconjecturedtohave，andwas，asseldomhappenswitheditorandauthor，cordiallyagreeduponbeforetheywerebegun。
Thenamesays，indeed，soexactlyandsofullywhattheyarethatlittleremainsfortheirbibliographertoaddbeyondthemeagrehistoricaldetailheregiven。Theirshortandsimpleannalscouldbeekedoutbyconfidenceswhichwouldnotappreciablyenrichthematerialsoftheliteraryhistoryoftheirtime，anditseemsbettertoleavethemtotheimaginationofsuchposterityastheymayreach。Theyareratherhelplesslyfrank，butnot，Ihope，withalltheirratherhelplessfrankness，offensivelyfrank。Theyareatleastnotpartofthepolemicwhichtheirauthorsustainedintheessaysfollowingtheminthisvolume，andwhichmighthavebeencalled，inconformitywith’MyLiteraryPassions’，bythetitleof’MyLiteraryOpinions’betterthanbythevaguenamewhichtheyactuallywear。
Theydeal，tobesure，withtheofficeofCriticismandtheartofFiction，andsofartheirpresentnameisnotamisnomer。Itfollowsthemfromanearlierdateandcouldnoteasilybechanged，anditmayservetorecalltoaneldergenerationthanthisthetimewhentheirauthorwasbreakingsomanylancesinthegreat，forgottenwarbetweenRealismandRomanticismthatthefloorofthe\"Editor’sStudy\"inHarper’sMagazinewasstrewnwiththeembattledsplinters。The\"Editor’sStudy\"isnowquiteanotherplace，buthewhooriginallyimagineditin1886，andabodeinituntil1892，madeitatoncethesceneofsuchconstantoffencethathehadnotime，ifhehadthetemper，fordefence。
ThegreatZola，orcallhimtheimmenseZola，wastheprimemoverintheattackuponthemastersoftheRomanticisticschool;buthelivedtoownthathehadfoughtalosingfight，andtherearesomeproofsthathewasright。TheRealists，whowereundoubtedlythemastersoffictionintheirpassinggeneration，andwhoprevailednotonlyinFrance，butinRussia，inScandinavia，inSpain，inPortugal，wereoverborneinallAnglo—SaxoncountriesbytheinnumerablehostsofRomanticism，whotothisdaypossesstheland;thoughstill，wheneverayoungnovelistdoesworkinstantlyrecognizableforitstruthandbeautyamongus，heisseenandfelttohavewroughtinthespiritofRealism。Notevenyet，however，doestheaveragecriticrecognizethis，andsuchlessonasthe\"Editor’sStudy\"assumedtoteachremainshereinallitsessentialsforhisimprovement。
Monthaftermonthforthesixyearsinwhichthe\"Editor’sStudy\"
continuedinthekeepingofitsfirstoccupant，itslessonwasmoreorlessstormilydelivered，totheexclusion，forthegreaterpart，ofotherprophecy，butithasnotbeenfoundwelltokeepthetempestuousmanneralongwiththefulminantmatterinthisvolume。Whentheauthorcametorevisethematerial，hefoundsinsagainsttastewhichhiszealforrighteousnesscouldnotsufficetoatonefor。Hedidnothesitatetoomittheproofsofthese，andsofartomakehimselfnotonlyaprecept，butanexampleincriticism。Hehopesthatinotherandslighterthingshehasbetteredhisowninstruction，andthatinformandinfactthebookisaltogetherlesscrudeandlessrudethanthepapersfromwhichithasherebeenasecondtimeevolved。
Thepapers，astheyappearedfrommonthtomonth，werenottheproductofthoseunitiesoftimeandplacewhichwerethehappyconditioningof’MyLiteraryPassions。’Theycouldnothavebeenwritteninquitesomanyplacesastimes，buttheyenjoyedacomparablevarietyoforigin。
BeginninginBoston，theywerecontinuedinaBostonsuburb，ontheshoresofLakeGeorge，inaWesternNewYorkhealthresort，inBuffalo，inNahant;once，twice，andthriceinNewYork，withreversionstoBoston，andsummerexcursionstothehillsandwatersofNewEngland，untilitseemedthattheirauthorhadatlastsaidhissay，andhevoluntarilylapsedintosilencewiththeapplauseoffriendsandenemiesalike。
Thepapershadmadehimmoreofthelastthanofthefirst，butnotasstillappearstohimwithgreaterreason。Atmomentshisdeliverancesseemedtostirpeopleofdifferentmindstofuryintwocontinents，sofarastheywereEnglish—speaking，andonthecoastsofthesevenseas;
andsomeofthesecamebackathimwithsuchviolentpersonalitiesasitishissatisfactiontorememberthatheneverindulgedinhisattacksupontheirtheoriesofcriticismandfiction。Hisopinionswerealwaysimpersonal;andnowastheirmannerratherthantheirmakehasbeenslightlytempered，itmaysurprisethebelatedreadertolearnthatitwasthebeliefofoneEnglishcriticthattheirauthorhad\"placedhimselfbeyondthepaleofdecency\"bythem。Itoughttobelesssurprisingthat，sincethesedreadfulwordswerewrittenofhim，morethanonemagnanimousEnglishmanhaspenitentlyexpressedtotheauthorthefeelingthathewasnotsofarwronginhisoverboldlyhazardedconvictions。Thepenitenceofhiscountrymenisstillwaitingexpression，butitmaycometothatwhentheyhaverecurredtotheevidencesofhisoffenceintheirpresentshape。
KITTERYPOINT，MAINE，July，1909。
MYLITERARYPASSIONS
I。THEBOOKCASEATHOME
Togiveanaccountofone’sreadingisinsomesorttogiveanaccountofone’slife;andIhopethatIshallnotoffendthosewhofollowmeinthesepapers，ifIcannothelpspeakingofmyselfinspeakingoftheauthorsImustcallmymasters：mymastersnotbecausetheytaughtmethisorthatdirectly，butbecauseIhadsuchdelightinthemthatI
couldnotfailtoteachmyselffromthemwhateverIwascapableoflearning。IdonotknowwhetherIhavebeenwhatpeoplecallagreatreader;Icannotclaimeventohavebeenaverywisereader;butIhavealwaysbeenconsciousofahighpurposetoreadmuchmore，andmorediscreetly，thanIhaveeverreallydone，andprobablyitisfromthevantage—groundofthisgoodintentionthatIshallsometimesbefoundwritinghereratherthanfromthefactsofthecase。
ButIamprettysurethatIbeganright，andthatifIhadalwayskepttheloftylevelwhichIstruckattheoutsetIshouldhavetherighttouseauthorityinthesereminiscenceswithoutabadconscience。Ishalltrynottouseauthority，however，andIdonotexpecttospeakhereofallmyreading，whetherithasbeenmuchorlittle，butonlyofthosebooks，orofthoseauthorsthatIhavefeltagenuinepassionfor。I
haveknownsuchpassionsateveryperiodofmylife，butitismainlyofthelovesofmyyouththatIshallwrite，andIshallwriteallthemorefranklybecausemyownyouthnowseemstomerathermorealienthanthatofanyotherperson。
IthinkthatIcameofareadingrace，whichhasalwayslovedliteratureinaway，andinspiteofvaryingfortunesandmanychanges。Fromaletterofmygreat—grandmother’swrittentoastubborndaughteruponsomeunfilialbehavior，likerunningawaytobemarried，Isuspectthatshewasfondofthehigh—coloredfictionofherday，forshetellsthewilfulchildthatshehas\"plantedadaggerinhermother’sheart，\"andIshouldnotbesurprisedifitwerefromthisfine—languagedladythatmygrandfatherderivedhistasteforpoetryratherthanfromhisfather，whowasofaworldlywisermind。Tobesure，hebecameaFriendbyConvincementastheQuakerssay，andsoIcannotimaginethathewasaltogetherworldly;buthehadaneyetothemainchance：hefoundedtheindustryofmakingflannelsinthelittleWelshtownwherehelived，andheseemstohavegrownricher，forhisdayandplace，thananyofushavesincegrownforours。Mygrandfather，indeed，wasconcernedchieflyingettingawayfromtheworldanditswickedness。Hecametothiscountryearlyinthenineteenthcenturyandsettledhisfamilyinalog—cabinintheOhiowoods，thattheymightbesafefromthesinisterinfluencesofthevillagewherehewasmanagingsomewoollen—mills。Buthekepthisaffectionforcertainpoetsofthegraver，nottosaygloomiersort，andhemusthavesufferedhischildrentoreadthem，pendingthatgreatquestionoftheirsouls’salvationwhichwasalifelongtroubletohim。
Myfather，atanyrate，hadsuchadecidedbentinthedirectionofliterature，thathewasnotcontentinanyofhisseveraleconomicalexperimentstillhebecametheeditorofanewspaper，whichwasthenthesolemeansofsatisfyingaliterarypassion。Hispaper，atthedatewhenIbegantoknowhim，wasaliving，comfortableanddecent，butwithouttheleastpromiseofwealthinit，orthehopeevenofamuchbettercondition。Ithinknowthathewaswisenottocarefortheadvancementwhichmostofushaveourheartssetupon，andthatitwasoneofhisfinestqualitiesthathewascontentwithalotinlifewherehewasnotexemptfromworkwithhishands，andyetwherehewasnotsopressedbyneedbuthecouldgivehimselfatwillnotonlytothethingsofthespirit，butthethingsofthemindtoo。Afteraseasonofscepticismhehadbecomeareligiousman，liketherestofhisrace，butinhisownfashion，whichwasnotatallthefashionofmygrandfather：aFriendwhohadmarriedoutofMeeting，andhadendedaperfervidMethodist。Myfather，whocouldnevergethimselfconvertedatanyofthecamp—meetingswheremygrandfatheroftenledtheforcesofprayertohissupport，andhadatlasttobegivenupindespair，fellinwiththewritingsofEmanuelSwedenborg，andembracedthedoctrineofthatphilosopherwithacontentthathaslastedhimallthedaysofhismanyyears。EversinceI
canremember，theworksofSwedenborgformedalargepartofhislibrary;
hereadthemmuchhimself，andmuchtomymother，andoccasionallya\"MemorableRelation\"fromthemtouschildren。Buthedidnotforcethemuponournotice，norurgeustoreadthem，andIthinkthiswasverywell。Isupposehisconscienceandhisreasonkepthimfromdoingso。
Butinregardtootherbooks，hisfondnesswastoomuchforhim，andwhenIbegantoshowalikingforliteraturehewaseagertoguidemychoice。
Hisownchoicewasforpoetry，andthemostofourlibrary，whichwasnotgiventotheology，wasgiventopoetry。Icallitthelibrarynow，butthenwecalleditthebookcase，andthatwaswhatliterallyitwas，becauseIbelievethatwhateverwehadcalledourmodestcollectionofbooks，itwasalargerprivatecollectionthananyotherinthetownwherewelived。Stillitwasallheld，andshutwithglassdoors，inacaseofveryfewshelves。Itwasnotconsiderablyenlargedduringmychildhood，forfewbookscametomyfatheraseditor，andheindulgedhimselfinbuyingthemevenmorerarely。Mygrandfather’sbookstore（itwasalsothevillagedrug—store）hadthentheonlystockofliteratureforsaleintheplace;andonce，whenHarper&Brothers’agentcametoreplenishit，begavemyfatherseveralvolumesforreview。OneofthesewasacopyofThomson’sSeasons，afinelyillustratededition，whosepicturesIknewlongbeforeIknewthepoetry，andthoughtthemthemostbeautifulthingsthateverwere。Myfatherreadpassagesofthebookaloud，andhewantedmetoreaditallmyself。ForthematterofthathewantedmetoreadCowper，fromwhomnoonecouldgetanythingbutgood，andhewantedmetoreadByron，fromwhomIcouldthenhavegotnoharm;wegetharmfromtheevilweunderstand。HelovedBurns，too，andheusedtoreadaloudfromhim，Imustown，tomyinexpressibleweariness。Icouldnotawaywiththatdialect，andIcouldnotthenfeelthecharmofthepoet’swit，northetenderbeautyofhispathos。Moore，Icouldmanagebetter;andwhenmyfatherread\"LallaRookh\"tomymotherIsatuptolisten，andenteredintoallthewoesofIraninthestoryofthe\"FireWorshippers。\"Idrewthelineatthe\"VeiledProphetofKhorassan，\"thoughIhadsomesenseofthehumorofthepoet’sconceptionofthecriticin\"Fadladeen。\"ButIlikedScott’spoemsfarbetter，andgotfromIspahantoEdinburghwithagladalacrityoffancy。Ifollowedthe\"LadyoftheLake\"throughout，andwhenIfirstbegantocontriveversesofmyownIfoundthatpoemafitmodelinmoodandmetre。
Amongothervolumesofverseonthetopshelfofthebookcase，ofwhichI
usedtolookattheoutsidewithoutpenetratingdeeplywithin，werePope’stranslationoftheIliadandtheOdyssey，andDryden’sVirgil，prettylittletomesintree—calf，publishedbyJamesCrissyinPhiladelphia，andillustratedwithsmallcopper—plates，whichsomehowseemedtoputthematterhopelesslybeyondme。ItwasasiftheysaidtomeinsomanywordsthatliteraturewhichfurnishedthesubjectsofsuchpicturesIcouldnothopetounderstand，andneednottry。Atanyrate，Iletthemaloneforthetime，andIdidnotmeddlewithavolumeofShakespeare，ingreenclothandcruellyfineprint，whichoverawedmeinlikemannerwithitswood—cuts。IcannotsayjustwhyIconceivedthattherewassomethingunhallowedinthematterofthebook;perhapsthiswasatintfromthereputationoftheratherprofligateyoungmanfromwhommyfatherhadit。IfhewerenotprofligateIaskhispardon。I
havenottheleastnotionwhohewas，butthatwasthenotionIhadofhim，whoeverhewas，orwhereverhenowis。Theremayneverhavebeensuchayoungmanatall;theimpressionIhadmayhavebeenpureinventionofmyown，likemanythingswithchildren，whodonotverydistinctlyknowtheirdreamsfromtheirexperiences，andliveintheworldwherebothprojectthesamequalityofshadow。
Therewere，ofcourse，otherbooksinthebookcase，whichmyconsciousnessmadenoaccountof，andIspeakonlyofthoseIremember。
FictiontherewasnoneatallthatIcanrecall，exceptPoe’s’TalesoftheGrotesqueandtheArabesque’（Ilongafflictedmyselfastowhatthosewordsmeant，whenImighteasilyhaveaskedandfoundout）andBulwer’sLastDaysofPompeii，allinthesamekindofbinding。Historyisknown，tomyyoungremembranceofthatlibrary，byaHistoryoftheUnitedStates，whosedustandashesIhardlymademywaythrough;andbya’ChronicleoftheConquestofGranada’，bytheeverdearandpreciousFrayAntonioAgapida，whomIwaslonginmakingouttobeoneandthesameasWashingtonIrving。
Inschooltherewasaslittleliteraturethenasthereisnow，andI
cannotsayanythingworseofourschoolreading;butIwasnotreallyverymuchinschool，andsoIgotsmallharmfromit。Theprinting—
officewasmyschoolfromaveryearlydate。Myfatherthoroughlybelievedinit，andhehadhisbeliefsastowork，whichheillustratedassoonaswewereoldenoughtolearnthetradehefollowed。Wecouldgotoschoolandstudy，orwecouldgointotheprinting—officeandwork，withanequalchanceoflearning，butwecouldnotbeidle;wemustdosomething，foroursouls’sake，thoughhewaswillingenoughweshouldplay，andhelikedhimselftogointothewoodswithus，andtoenjoythepleasuresthatmanhoodcansharewithchildhood。Isupposethatastheworldgoesnowwewerepoor。Hisincomewasneverabovetwelvehundredayear，andhisfamilywaslarge;butnobodywasrichthereorthen;welivedinthesimpleabundanceofthattimeandplace，andwedidnotknowthatwewerepoor。Asyettheunequalmodernconditionswereundreamedof（whoindeedcouldhavedreamedofthemfortyorfiftyyearsago？）inthelittleSouthernOhiotownwherenearlythewholeofmymosthappyboyhoodwaspassed。
II。GOLDSMITH
WhenIbegantohaveliterarylikingsofmyown，andtolovecertainbooksaboveothers，thefirstauthorsofmyheartwereGoldsmith，Cervantes，andIrving。InthesharplyforeshortenedperspectiveofthepastIseemtohavereadthemallatonce，butIamawareofanorderoftimeinthepleasuretheygaveme，andIknowthatGoldsmithcamefirst。
HecamesoearlythatIcannottellwhenorhowIbegantoreadhim，butitmusthavebeenbeforeIwastenyearsold。Ireadotherbooksaboutthattime，notablyasmallbookonGrecianandRomanmythology，whichI
perusedwithsuchapassionforthosepagangodsandgoddessesthat，ifithadeverbeenaquestionofsacrificingtoDiana，IdonotreallyknowwhetherIshouldhavebeenabletorefuse。Iadoredindiscriminatelyallthetribesofnymphsandnaiads，demigodsandheroes，aswellasthehighonesofOlympus;andIamafraidthatbydayIdweltinaworldpeopledandruledbythem，thoughIfaithfullysaidmyprayersatnight，andfellasleepinsorrowformysins。IdonotknowintheleasthowGoldsmith’sGreececameintomyhands，thoughIfancyitmusthavebeenprocuredformebecauseofatastewhichIshowedforthatkindofreading，andIcanimaginenogreaterluckforasmallboyinasmalltownofSouthwesternOhiowell—nighfiftyyearsago。Ihavethebooksyet;twolittle，stoutvolumesinfineprint，withthemarksofwearonthem，butwithoutthosedishonorableblots，orthoseotherinjurieswhichboysinflictuponbooksinresentmentoftheirdulness，oroutofmerewantonness。Iwasalwayssensitivetothemaltreatmentofbooks;Icouldnotbeartoseeabookfaceddownordogs—earedorbroken—backed。Itwaslikeahurtoraninsulttoathingthatcouldfeel。
Goldsmith’sHistoryofRomecametomemuchlater，butquiteasimmemorably，andafterIhadformedapreferencefortheGreekRepublics，whichIdaresaywasnotmistaken。OfcourseIlikedAthensbest，andyettherewassomethinginthefinebehavioroftheSpartansinbattle，whichwonaheartformedforhero—worship。Imasteredthenotionoftheircommunism，andapprovedoftheirironmoney，withthepovertyitobligedthemto，yetsomehowtheircrueltreatmentoftheHelotsfailedtoshockme;perhapsIforgaveittotheirpatriotism，asIhadtoforgivemanyuglyfactsinthehistoryoftheRomanstotheirs。TherewashardlyanysortofbloodshedwhichIwouldnotpardoninthosedaystotheslayersoftyrants;andtheswaggerformofsuchasdespatchedadespotwithafinespeechwassomuchtomylikingthatIcouldonlygrievethatIwasborntoolatetodoandtosaythosethings。
IdonotthinkIyetfeltthebeautyoftheliteraturewhichmadethemallliveinmyfancy，thatIconceivedofGoldsmithasanartistusingformyrapturethefinestofthearts;andyetIhadbeentaughttoseethelovelinessofpoetry，andwasalreadytryingtomakeitonmyownpooraccount。ItriedtomakeverseslikethoseIlistenedtowhenmyfatherreadMooreandScotttomymother，butIheardthemwithnosuchhappinessasIreadmybelovedhistories，thoughIneverthoughtthenofattemptingtowritelikeGoldsmith。IacceptedhisbeautifulworkasignorantlyasIdidmyotherblessings。IwasconcernedingettingattheGreeksandRomans，andIdidnotknowthroughwhatnimbleairandbywhatlovelywaysIwasledtothem。SomeretrospectiveperceptionofthiscamelongafterwardwhenIreadhisessays，andafterIknewallofhispoetry，andlateryetwhenIreadthe’VicarofWakefield’;butforthepresentmyeyeswereholden，astheeyesofaboymostlyareintheworldofart。WhatIwantedwithmyGreeksandRomansafterIgotatthemwastobelikethem，oratleasttoturnthemtoaccountinverse，andindramaticverseatthat。TheRomanswerelesscivilizedthantheGreeks，andsoweremorelikeboys，andmoretoaboy’spurpose。IdidnotmakeliteratureoftheGreeks，butIgotawholetragedyoutoftheRomans;itwasarhymedtragedy，andinoctosyllabicverse，likethe\"LadyoftheLake。\"Imeantittobeactedbymyschoolmates，butIamnotsurethatIevermadeitknowntothem。Still，theywerenotignorantofmyreading，andIrememberhowproudIwaswhenacertainboy，whohadalwayswhippedmewhenwefoughttogether，andsooutrankedmeinthatlittleboys’world，oncesenttoaskmethenameoftheRomanemperorwholamentedatnightfall，whenhehaddonenothingworthy，thathehadlostaday。Theboywasgoingtousethestory，inacomposition，aswecalledtheschoolthemesthen，andItoldhimtheemperor’sname;I
couldnottellhimnowwithoutturningtothebook。
Myreadinggavemenostandingamongtheboys，andIdidnotexpectittorankmewithboyswhoweremorevaliantinfightorinplay;andIhavesincefoundthatliteraturegivesonenomorecertainstationintheworldofmen’sactivities，eitheridleoruseful。Weliteraryfolktrytobelievethatitdoes，butthatisallnonsense。Ateveryperiodoflife，amongboysormen，weareacceptedwhentheyareatleisure，andwanttobeamused，andatbestwearetoleratedratherthanaccepted。
ImusthavetoldtheboysstoriesoutofmyGoldsmith’sGreeceandRome，oritwouldnothavebeenknownthatIhadreadthem，butIhavenorecollectionnowofdoingso，whileIdistinctlyrememberrehearsingtheallegoriesandfablesofthe’GestaRomanorum’，abookwhichseemstohavebeeninmyhandsaboutthesametimeoralittlelater。IhadadelightinthatstupidcollectionofmonkishlegendswhichIcannotaccountfornow，andwhichpersistedinspiteofthenightmareconfusionitmadeofmyancientGreeksandRomans。TheywerenotatalltheancientGreeksandRomansofGoldsmith’shistories。
IcannotsayatwhattimesIreadthesebooks，buttheymusthavebeenoddtimes，forlifewasveryfullofplaythen，andwasalreadybeginningtobetroubledwithwork。AsIhavesaid，Iwastoandfrobetweentheschoolhouseandtheprinting—officesomuchthatwhenItiredoftheoneImusthavebeenverypromptlygivenmychoiceoftheother。Thereading，however，somehowwentonprettyconstantly，andnodoubtmyloveforitwonmeachanceforit。Thereweresomefamouscherry—treesinouryard，which，asIlookbackatthem，seemtohavebeeninflowerorfruittheyearround;andinoneofthemtherewasalevelbranchwhereaboycouldsitwithabooktillhisdanglinglegswenttosleep，ortillsomeidlerorbusierboycametothegateandcalledhimdowntoplaymarblesorgoswimming。Whenthishappenedtheancientworldwasrolleduplikeascroll，andputawayuntilthenextday，withallitsoratorsandconspirators，itsnymphsandsatyrs，godsanddemigods;thoughsometimestheyescapedatnightandgotintotheboy’sdreams。
IdonotthinkIcaredasmuchassomeoftheotherboysforthe’ArabianNights’or’RobinsonCrusoe，’butwhenitcametothe’IngeniousGentlemanofLaMancha，’Iwasnotonlyfirst，Iwassole。
BeforeIspeak，however，ofthebeneficenthumoristwhonexthadmyboyishheartafterGoldsmith，letmeacquitmyselfinfullofmydebttothatnotunequalorunkindredspirit。IhavesaiditwaslongafterI
hadreadthosehistories，fullofhisinalienablecharm，merepot—boilersastheywere，andfarbeneathhismorewillingefforts，thatIcametoknowhispoetry。Myfathermusthavereadthe\"DesertedVillage\"tous，andtoldussomethingoftheauthor’spatheticlife，forIcannotrememberwhenIfirstknewof\"sweetAuburn，\"orhadthelightofthepoet’sowntroubleddayuponthe\"loveliestvillageoftheplain。\"
The’VicarofWakefield’musthavecomeintomylifeafterthatpoemandbefore’TheTraveler’。ItwaswhenIwouldhavesaidthatIknewallGoldsmith;weoftengiveourselvescreditforknowledgeinthiswaywithouthavinganytangibleassets;andmyreadinghasalwaysbeenverydesultory。Ishouldliketosayherethatthereadingofanyonewhoreadstomuchpurposeisalwaysverydesultory，thoughperhapsIhadbetternotsayso，butmerelystatethefactinmycase，andownthatI
neverreadanyoneauthorquitethroughwithoutwanderingfromhimtoothers。WhenIfirstreadthe’VicarofWakefield’（forIhavesincereaditseveraltimes，andhopeyettoreaditmanytimes），Ifounditspersonsandincidentsfamiliar，andsoIsupposeImusthavehearditread。Itisstillformeoneofthemostmodernnovels：thatistosay，oneofthebest。Itisunmistakablygooduptoacertainpoint，andthenunmistakablybad，butwithalwaysgoodenoughinittobeforeverimperishable。Kindnessandgentlenessareneveroutoffashion;itistheseinGoldsmithwhichmakehimourcontemporary，anditisworththewhileofanyyoungpersonpresentlyintendingdeathlessrenowntotakealittlethoughtofthem。Theyarethesourceofallrefinement，andIdonotbelievethatthebestartinanykindexistswithoutthem。Thestyleistheman，andhecannothidehimselfinanygarbofwordssothatweshallnotknowsomehowwhatmannerofmanheiswithinit;hisspeechbetrayethhim，notonlyastohiscountryandhisrace，butmoresubtlyyetastohisheart，andthelovesandhatesofhisheart。AstoGoldsmith，Idonotthinkthatamanofharshandarrogantnature，ofworldlyandselfishsoul，couldeverhavewrittenhisstyle，andIdonotthinkthat，infargreatermeasurethancriticismhasrecognized，hisspiritualquality，hisessentialfriendliness，expresseditselfintheliterarybeautythatwinstheheartaswellastakesthefancyinhiswork。
Ishouldhavemyreservationsandmyanimadversionsifitcametoclosecriticismofhiswork，butIamgladthathewasthefirstauthorI
loved，andthatevenbeforeIknewIlovedhimIwashisdevotedreader。
IwasnotconsciouslyhisadmirertillIbegantoread，whenIwasfourteen，alittlevolumeofhisessays，madeup，Idaresay，fromthe’CitizenoftheWorld’andotherunsuccessfulventuresofhis。ItcontainedthepapersonBeauTibbs，amongothers，andItriedtowritesketchesandstudiesoflifeintheirmanner。ButthisattemptatGoldsmith’smannerfollowedalongtimeafterItriedtowriteinthestyleofEdgarA。Poe，asIknewitfromhis’TalesoftheGrotesqueerredArabesque。’Isupposetheverypoorestofthesewasthe\"DevilintheBelfry，\"butsuchasitwasIfolloweditascloselyasIcouldinthe\"DevilintheSmoke—Pipes\";Imeanttobacco—pipes。TheresemblancewasnotedbythosetowhomIreadmystory;Ialonecouldnotseeitorwouldnotownit，andIreallyfeltitahardshipthatIshouldbefoundtohaveproducedanimitation。
ItwasthefirsttimeIhadimitatedaprosewriter，thoughIhadimitatedseveralpoetslikeMoore，Campbell，andGoldsmithhimself。
Ihavenevergreatlylovedanauthorwithoutwishingtowritelikehim。
Ihavenownoreluctancetoconfessthat，andIdonotseewhyIshouldnotsaythatitwasalongtimebeforeIfounditbesttobeaslikemyselfasIcould，evenwhenIdidnotthinksowellofmyselfasofsomeothers。IhopeIshallalwaysbeableandwillingtolearnsomethingfromthemastersofliteratureandstillbemyself，butfortheyoungwriterthisseemsimpossible。Hemustformhimselffromtimetotimeuponthedifferentauthorsheisinlovewith，butwhenhehasdonethishemustwishitnottobeknown，forthatisnaturaltoo。Theloveralwaysdesirestoignoretheobjectofhispassion，andtheadorationwhichayoungwriterhasforagreatoneistrulyapassionpassingtheloveofwomen。IthinkithardlylessfortunatethatCervanteswasoneofmyearlypassions，thoughIsatathisfeetwithnomoresenseofhismasterythanIhadofGoldsmith’s。
III。CERVANTES
IrecallveryfullythemomentandtheplacewhenIfirstheardof’DonQuixote，’whileasyetIcouldnotconnectitverydistinctlywithanybody’sauthorship。Iwasstilltooyoungtoconceiveofauthorship，eveninmyowncase，andwrotemymiserableverseswithoutanynotionofliterature，orofanythingbutthepleasureofseeingthemactuallycomeoutrightlyrhymedandmeasured。Themomentwasatthecloseofasummer’sdayjustbeforesupper，which，inourhouse，wehadlawlesslylate，andtheplacewasthekitchenwheremymotherwasgoingaboutherwork，andlisteningasshecouldtowhatmyfatherwastellingmybrotherandmeandanapprenticeofours，whowaslikeabrothertousboth，ofabookthathehadonceread。Weboyswereallshellingpeas，butthestory，asitwenton，raptusfromthepooremploy，andwhateverourfingersweredoing，ourspiritswereawayinthatstrangelandofadventuresandmishaps，wherethefeveredlifeoftheknighttrulywithoutfearandwithoutreproachburneditselfout。Idaresaythatmyfathertriedtomakeusunderstandthesatiricalpurposeofthebook。
Ivaguelyrememberhisspeakingofthebooksofchivalryitwasmeanttoridicule;butaboycouldnotcareforthis，andwhatIlongedtodoatoncewastogetthatbookandplungeintoitsstory。Hetoldusatrandomoftheattackonthewindmillsandtheflocksofsheep，ofthenightinthevalleyofthefulling—millswiththeirtrip—hammers，oftheinnandthemuleteers，ofthetossingofSanchointheblanket，oftheislandthatwasgivenhimtogovern，andofallthemerrypranksattheduke’sandduchess’s，oftheliberationofthegalley—slaves，ofthecaptureofMambrino’shelmet，andofSancho’sinventionoftheenchantedDulcinea，andwhateverelsetherewaswonderfulanddelightfulinthemostwonderfulanddelightfulbookintheworld。Idonotknowwhenorwheremyfathergotitforme，andIamawareofanappreciabletimethatpassedbetweenmyhearingofitandmyhavingit。Theeventmusthavebeenmostimportanttome，anditisstrangeIcannotfixthemomentwhenthepreciousstorycameintomyhands;thoughforthematterofthatthereisnothingmorecapriciousthanachild’smemory，whatitwillholdandwhatitwilllose。
ItiscertainmyDonQuixotewasintwosmall，stoutvolumesnotmuchbiggereachthanmyGoldsmith’s’Greece’，boundinasortoflaw—calf，wellfittedtowithstandtheweartheyweredestinedtoundergo。Thetranslationwas，ofcourse，theold—fashionedversionofJervas，which，whetheritwasacloselyfaithfulversionornot，washonesteighteenth—
centuryEnglish，andreportedfaithfullyenoughthespiritoftheoriginal。Ifithadanyliteraryinfluencewithmetheinfluencemusthavebeengood。ButIcannotmakeoutthatIwassensibleoftheliterature;itwastheforeverenchantingstorythatIenjoyed。
Iexultedintheboundlessfreedomofthedesign;theopenairofthatimmensescene，whereadventurefollowedadventurewiththenaturalsequenceoflife，andthedaysandthenightswerenotlongenoughfortheeventsthatthrongedthem，amidstthefieldsandwoods，thestreamsandhills，thehighwaysandbyways，hostelriesandhovels，prisonsandpalaces，whichwerethesettingofthatmatchlesshistory。ItookitassimplyasItookeverythingelseintheworldaboutme。ItwasfullofmeaningthatIcouldnotgrasp，andthereweresignificancesofthekindthatliteratureunhappilyaboundsin，buttheywerelostuponmyinnocence。Ididnotknowwhetheritwaswellwrittenornot;Ineverthoughtaboutthat;itwassimplythereinitsvastentirety，itsinexhaustibleopulence，andIwasrichinitbeyondthedreamsofavarice。
MyfathermusthavetoldusthatnightaboutCervantesaswellasabouthis’DonQuixote’，forIseemtohaveknownfromthebeginningthathewasonceaslaveinAlgiers，andthathehadlostahandinbattle，andI
lovedhimwithasortofpersonalaffection，asifhewerestilllivingandhecouldsomehowreturnmylove。HisnameandnatureendearedtheSpanishnameandnaturetome，sothattheywerealwaysmyromance，andtothisdayIcannotmeetaSpanishmanwithoutclothinghiminsomethingofthehonorandworshipIlavisheduponCervanteswhenIwasachild。
WhileIwasinthefullflushofthisardortherecametoseeourschool，oneday，aMexicangentlemanwhowasstudyingtheAmericansystemofeducation;amild，fat，saffronman，whomIcouldalmosthavediedtopleaseforCervantes’andDonQuixote’ssake，becauseIknewhespoketheirtongue。Buthesmileduponusall，andIhadnochancetodistinguishmyselffromtherestbyanyactofdevotionbeforetheblessedvisionfaded，thoughforlongafterwards，inimpassionedreveries，Iaccostedhimandclaimedhimkindredbecauseofmyfealty，andbecauseIwouldhavebeenSpanishifIcould。
Iwouldnothavehadtheboy—worldaboutmeknowanythingofthesefonddreams;butitwasmytastesalone，mypassions，whichwerealienthere;
ineverythingelseIwasasmuchacitizenasanyboywhohadneverheardofDonQuixote。ButIbelievethatIcarriedthebookaboutwithmemostofthetime，soasnottoloseanychancemomentofreadingit。Evenintheblankofcertainyears，whenIaddedlittleotherreadingtomystore，Imuststillhavebeenreadingit。Thiswasafterwehadremovedfromthetownwheretheearlieryearsofmyboyhoodwerepassed，andI
hadbarelyadjustedmyselftothestrangeenvironmentwhenoneofmyunclesaskedmetocomewithhimandlearnthedrugbusiness，intheplace，fortymilesaway，wherehepractisedmedicine。Wemadethelongjourney，longerthananyIhavemadesince，inthestage—coachofthosedays，andwearrivedathishouseabouttwilight，hegladtogethome，andIsicktodeathwithyearningforthehomeIhadleft。Idonotknowhowitwasthatinthisstate，whenalltheworldwasonehopelessblacknessaroundme，Ishouldhavegotmy’DonQuixote’outofmybag;
Iseemtohavehaditwithmeasanessentialpartofmyequipmentformynewcareer。PerhapsIhadbeenaskedtoshowit，withthenotionofbeguilingmefrommymisery;perhapsIwasmyselftryingtodrownmysorrowsinit。ButanyhowIhavebeforemenowthevisionofmysweetyoungauntandheryoungsisterlookingoverhershoulder，astheystoodtogetheronthelawninthesummereveninglight。MyauntheldmyDonQuixoteopeninonehand，whilesheclaspedwiththeotherthechildshecarriedonherarm。Shelookedatthebook，andthenfromtimetotimeshelookedatme，verykindlybutverycuriously，withafaintsmile，sothatasIstoodthere，inwardlywrithinginmybashfulness，IhadthesensethatinhereyesIwasaqueerboy。Shereturnedthebookwithoutcomment，aftersomequestions，andItookitofftomyroom，wheretheconfidentialfriendofCervantescriedhimselftosleep。
InthemorningIroseupandtoldthemIcouldnotstandit，andIwasgoinghome。Nothingtheycouldsayavailed，andmyunclewentdowntothestage—officewithmeandtookmypassageback。
Thehorrorofcholerawasthenintheland;andweheardinthestage—
officethatamanlaydeadofitinthehoteloverhead。Butmyuncleledmetohisdrugstore，wherethestagewastocallforme，andmademetastealittlecamphor;withthisprophylactic，CervantesandIsomehowgothometogetheralive。
Thereadingof’DonQuixote’wentonthroughoutmyboyhood，sothatI
cannotrecallanydistinctiveperiodofitwhenIwasnot，moreorless，readingthatbook。Inaboy’swayIknewitwellwhenIwasten，andafewyearsago，whenIwasfifty，ItookitupintheadmirablenewversionofOrmsby，andfounditsofullofmyselfandofmyownirrevocablepastthatIdidnotfinditverygay。ButImadeagreatmanydiscoveriesinit;thingsIhadnotdreamtofwerethere，andmustalwayshavebeenthere，andotherthingsworeanewface，andmadeaneweffectuponme。Ihadmydoubts，myreserves，whereonceIhadgivenitmywholeheartwithoutquestion，andyetinwhatformedthegreatnessofthebookitseemedtomegreaterthanever。Ibelievethatitsfreeandsimpledesign，whereeventfollowseventwithoutthefetteringcontrolofintrigue，butwhereallgrowsnaturallyoutofcharacterandconditions，isthesupremeformoffiction;andIcannothelpthinkingthatifweeverhaveagreatAmericannovelitmustbebuiltuponsomesuchlargeandnoblelines。Asforthecentralfigure，DonQuixotehimself，inhisdignityandgenerosity，hisunselfishideals，andhisfearlessdevotiontothem，heisalwaysheroicandbeautiful;andIwasgladtofindinmylatestlookathishistorythatIhadtrulyconceivedofhimatfirst，andhadfeltthesublimityofhisnature。Ididnotwanttolaughathimsomuch，andIcouldnotlaughatallanymoreatsomeofthethingsdonetohim。Oncetheyseemedfunny，butnowonlycruel，andevenstupid，sothatitwasstrangetorealizehisqualitiesandindignitiesasbothflowingfromthesamemind。Butinmymatureexperience，whichthrewabroaderlightonthefable，Iwashappytokeepmyoldloveofanauthorwhohadbeenalmostpersonally，deartome。
IV
IRVING
IhavetoldhowCervantesmadehisraceprecioustome，andIamsurethatitmusthavebeenhewhofittedmetounderstandandenjoytheAmericanauthorwhonowstayedmeonSpanishgroundandkeptmehappyinSpanishair，thoughIcannottracethetieintimeandcircumstancebetweenIrvingandCervantes。ThemostIcanmakesureofisthatIreadthe’ConquestofGranada’afterIreadDonQuixote，andthatIlovedthehistoriansomuchbecauseIhadlovedthenovelistmuchmore。OfcourseIdidnotperceivethenthatIrving’scharmcamelargelyfromCervantesandtheotherSpanishhumoristsyetunknowntome，andthathehadformedhimselfuponthemalmostasmuchasuponGoldsmith，butIdaresaythatthisfacthadinsensiblyagreatdealtodowithmyliking。AfterwardsI
cametoseeit，andatthesametimetoseewhatwasIrving’sowninIrving;tofeelhisnative，ifsomewhatattenuatedhumor，andhisoriginal，ifsomewhattoostudiedgrace。Butasyettherewasnocriticalquestionwithme。Igavemyheartsimplyandpassionatelytotheauthorwhomadethescenesofthatmostpathetichistoryliveinmysympathy，andcompanionedmewiththestatelyandgraciousactorsinthem。
IreallycannotsaynowwhetherIlovedtheMoorsortheSpaniardsmore。
Ifoughtonbothsides;IwouldnothavehadtheSpaniardsbeaten，andyetwhentheMoorslostIwasvanquishedwiththem;andwhenthepooryoungKingBoabdil（Iwashisdevotedpartisanandatthesametimeafollowerofhisfieryolduncleandrival，HametelZegri）heavedtheLastSighoftheMoor，ashiseyeslefttheroofsofGranadaforever，itwasasmuchmygriefasifithadburstfrommyownbreast。IputboththeseprincesintothefirstandlasthistoricalromanceIeverwrote。
Ihavenownoideawhattheydidinit，butasthestorynevercametoaconclusionitdoesnotgreatlymatter。IhadneveryetreadanhistoricalromancethatIcanmakesureof，andprobablymyattemptmusthavebeenbasedalmostsolelyuponthefactsofIrving’shistory。IamcertainIcouldnothavethoughtofaddinganythingtothem，oratallvaryingthem。
Inreadinghis’Chronicle’IsufferedforatimefromitsattributiontoFrayAntonioAgapida，thepiousmonkwhomhefeignstohavewrittenit，justasinreading’DonQuixote’IsufferedfromCervantesmasqueradingastheMoorishscribe，CidHametBenEngeli。Myfatherexplainedtheliterarycaprice，butitremainedaconfusionandatroubleforme，andI
madeapracticeofskippingthosepassageswhereeitherauthorinsisteduponhisinvention。IwillownthatIamrathergladthatsortofthingseemstobeoutoffashionnow，andIthinkthedirecterandfrankermethodsofmodernfictionwillforbiditsrevival。Thackeraywasfondofsuchopendisguises，andlikedtogreethisreaderfromthemaskofYellowplushandMichaelAngeloTitmarsh，butitseemstomethiswasinhisleastmodernmoments。
My’ConquestofGranada’wasintwooctavovolumes，boundindrabboards，andprintedonpaperverymuchyellowedwithtimeatitsirregularedges。
Idonotknowwhenthebookshappenedinmyhands。Ihavenoremembrancethattheywereinanywiseofferedorcommendedtome，andinasortofwaytheywereasauthenticallymineasifIhadmadethem。Isawthemathome，notmanymonthsago，inmyfather’slibrary（ithaslongoutgrowntheoldbookcase，whichhasgoneIknownotwhere），anduponthewholeI
rathershrankfromtakingthemdown，muchmorefromopeningthem，thoughIcouldnotsaywhy，unlessitwasfromthefearofperhapsfindingtheghostofmyboyishselfwithin，pressedflatlikeawitheredleaf，somewherebetweenthefamiliarpages。
WhenIlearnedSpanishitwaswiththepurpose，neveryetfulfilled，ofwritingthelifeofCervantes，althoughIhavesincehadsomeforty—oddyearstodoitin。Itaughtmyselfthelanguage，orbegantodoso，whenIknewnothingoftheEnglishgrammarbuttheprosodyattheendofthebook。Myfatherhadthecontemptoffamiliaritywithit，havinghimselfwrittenaverybriefsketchofouraccidence，andheseemstohaveletmeplungeintotheseaofSpanishverbsandadverbs，nounsandpronouns，andalltherest，whenasyetIcouldnotconfidentlycallthembyname，withtheserenebeliefthatifIdidnotswimIwouldstillsomehowgetashorewithoutsinking。Theend，perhaps，justifiedhim，andIsupposeIdidnotdoallthatworkwithoutgettingsomestrengthfromit;butIwishI
hadbackthetimethatitcostme;Ishouldliketowasteitinsomeotherway。However，timeseemedinterminablethen，andIthoughttherewouldbeenoughofitformeinwhichtoreadallSpanishliterature;or，atleast，Ididnotproposetodoanythingless。
IfollowedIrving，too，inmylaterreading，butathaphazard，andwithotherauthorsatthesametime。Ididmypoorbesttobeamusedbyhis’KnickerbockerHistoryofNewYork’，becausemyfatherlikeditsomuch，butsecretlyIfounditheavy;andafewyearsagowhenIwentcarefullythroughitagain。Icouldnotlaugh。EvenasaboyIfoundsomeotherthingsofhisuphillwork。Therewasthebeautifulmanner，butthethoughtseemedthin;andIdonotrememberhavingbeenmuchamusedby’BracebridgeHall’，thoughIreaditdevoutly，andwithafullsensethatitwouldbevery’commeilfaut’tolikeit。ButIdidlikethe’LifeofGoldsmith’;Ilikeditagreatdealbetterthanthemoreauthoritative’LifebyForster’，andIthinkthereisadeeperandsweetersenseofGoldsmithinit。Betterthanall，exceptthe’ConquestofGranada’，Ilikedthe’LegendofSleepyHollow’andthestoryofRipVanWinkle，withtheirhumorousandaffectionatecaricaturesoflifethatwasonceofourownsoilandair;andthe’TalesoftheAlhambra’，whichtransportedmeagain，tothescenesofmyyouthbesidetheXenil。ItwaslongaftermyacquaintancewithhisworkthatIcametoaduesenseofIrvingasanartist，andperhapsIhavecometofeelafullsenseofitonlynow，whenIperceivethatheworkedwillinglyonlywhenheworkedinventively。
AtlastIcandojusticetotheexquisiteconceptionofhis’ConquestofGranada’，astudyofhistorywhich，inuniquemeasure，conveysnotonlythepathos，butthehumorofoneofthemostsplendidandimpressivesituationsintheexperienceoftherace。Verypossiblysomethingoftheseverertruthmighthavebeensacrificedtotheeffectofthepleasingandtouchingtale，butIdonotunderstandthatthiswasreallydone。
UponthewholeIamverywellcontentwithmyfirstthreelovesinliterature，andifIweretochooseforanyotherboyIdonotseehowI
couldchoosebetterthanGoldsmithandCervantesandIrving，kindredspirits，andeachnotamasteronly，butasweetandgentlefriend，whosekindnesscouldnotfailtoprofithim。
V。FIRSTFICTIONANDDRAMA
InmyowncasetherefollowedmyacquaintancewiththeseauthorscertainBoeotianyears，whenifIdidnotgobackwardIscarcelywentforwardinthepathsIhadsetoutupon。Theywereyearsofthework，oftheover—
work，indeed，whichfallstothelotofsomanythatIshouldbeashamedtospeakofitexceptinaccountingforthefact。MyfatherhadsoldhispaperinHamiltonandhadboughtaninterestinanotheratDayton，andwewereallstrainingourutmosttohelppayforit。MydailytasksbegansoearlyandendedsolatethatIhadlittletime，evenifIhadthespirit，forreading;anditwasnottillwhatwethoughtruin，butwhatwasreallyrelease，cametousthatIgotbackagaintomybooks。Thenwewenttoliveinthecountryforayear，andthatstressoftoil，withtheshadowoffailuredarkeningall，fellfrommelikethehorrorofanevildream。TheonlynewbookwhichIremembertohavereadinthosetwoorthreeyearsatDayton，whenIhardlyremembertohavereadanyoldones，wasthenovelof’JaneEyre，’whichItookinveryimperfectly，andwhichIassociatewiththefirstrumoroftheRochesterKnockings，thenjustbeginningtoreverberatethroughaworldthattheyhavenotsinceleftwhollyatpeace。ItwasagloomySundayafternoonwhenthebookcameundermyhand;andmixedwithmyinterestinthestorywasananxietylestthepicturesonthewallsshouldleavetheirnailsandcomeandlaythemselvesatmyfeet;thatwaswhatthepictureshadbeendoinginRochesterandotherplaceswherethedisembodiedspiritswerebeginningtomakethemselvesfelt。Thethingdidnotreallyhappeninmycase，butIwasaloneinthehouse，anditmightveryeasilyhavehappened。
Ifverylittlecametomeinthosedaysfrombooks，ontheotherhandmyacquaintancewiththedramavastlyenlargeditself。Therewasahaplesscompanyofplayersinthetownfromtimetotime，andtheycametousfortheirprinting。Ibelievetheyneverpaidforit，oratleastneverwholly，buttheylavishedfreepassesuponus，andasnearlyasIcanmakeout，atthisdistanceoftime，Iprofitedbytheirgenerosity，everynight。Theygavetwoorthreeplaysateveryperformancetohousesungratefullysmall，butofalivelyspiritandimpatienttemperthatwouldnotbrookdelayintherepresentation;andtheychangedthebilleachday。InthiswayIbecamefamiliarwithShakespearebeforeIreadhim，oratleastsuchplaysofhisasweremostgiveninthosedays，andIsaw\"Macbeth\"and\"Hamlet，\"andaboveall\"RichardIII。，\"againandagain。Idonotknowwhymydelightinthosetragediesdidnotsendmetothevolumeofhisplays，whichwasallthetimeinthebookcaseathome，butIseemnottohavethoughtofit，andraptasIwasinthemI
amnotsurethattheygavemegreaterpleasure，orseemedatallfiner，than\"Rollo，\"\"TheWife，\"\"TheStranger，\"\"Barbarossa，\"\"TheMiserofMarseilles，\"andtherestofthemelodramas，comedies，andfarceswhichI
sawatthattime。Ihaveanotionthatthereweresomecleverpeopleinoneofthesecompanies，andthatthelighterpiecesatleastwerewellplayed，butImaybealtogetherwrong。Thegentlemanwhotookthepartofvillain，withanunfailingloveofevil，inthedifferentdramas，usedtocomeabouttheprinting—officeagooddeal，andIwaspuzzledtofindhimaverymildandgentleperson。Tobesurehehadamustache，whichinthosedaysdevotedamantowickedness，butbydayitwasablondmustache，quiteflaxen，infact，andnotatallthedarkanddeadlythingitwasbehindthefootlightsatnight。Icouldscarcelygaspinhispresence，myheartboundedsoinaweandhonorofhimwhenhepaidavisittous;perhapsheusedtobringthecopyoftheshow—bills。Thecompanyhebelongedtolefttownintheadversityhabitualwiththem。
Ourownadversityhadbeengrowing，andnowitbecameoverwhelming。Wehadtogiveupthepaperwehadstruggledsohardtokeep，butwhentheworstcameitwasnothalfsobadaswhathadgonebefore。Therewasnomorewaitingtillmidnightforthetelegraphicnews，nomorewakingatdawntodeliverthepapers，nomorewearydaysatthecase，heavierforthedoomhangingoverus。Myfatherandhisbrothershadlongdreamedofasortoffamilycolonysomewhereinthecountry，andnowtheunclewhowasmostprosperousboughtamillingpropertyonarivernotfarfromDayton，andmyfatherwentouttotakechargeofituntiltheotherscouldshapetheirbusinesstofollowhim。Theschemecametonothingfinally，butinthemeantimeweescapedfromthelittlecityanditssorrowfulassociationsoffruitlesslabor，andhadayearinthecountry，whichwasblest，atleasttouschildren，bysojourninalog—cabin，whileahousewasbuildingforus。
VI。LONGFELLOW’S\"SPANISHSTUDENT\"
Thislog—cabinhadaloft，whereweboysslept，andintheloftwerestoredinbarrelsthebooksthathadnowbeguntooverflowthebookcase。
IdonotknowwhyIchosethelofttorenewmylong—neglectedfriendshipwiththem。Thelightcouldnothavebeengood，thoughifIbroughtmybookstothelittlegablewindowthatoverlookedthegroaningandwhistlinggristmillIcouldseewellenough。ButperhapsIlikedtheloftbestbecausethebookswerehandiestthere，andbecauseIcouldbealone。Atanyrate，itwastherethatIreadLongfellow’s\"SpanishStudent，\"whichIfoundinanoldpapercopyofhispoemsinoneofthebarrels，andIinstantlyconceivedforitthepassionwhichallthingsSpanishinspiredinme。AsIreadInotonlyrenewedmyacquaintancewithliterature，butrenewedmydelightinpeopleandplaceswhereIhadbeenhappybeforethoseheavyyearsinDayton。AtthesametimeIfeltalittlejealousy，alittlegrudge，thatanyoneelseshouldlovethemaswellasI，andifthepoemhadnotbeensobeautifulIshouldhavehatedthepoetfortrespassingonmyground。ButIcouldnotholdoutlongagainstthewitcheryofhisverse。The\"SpanishStudent\"becameoneofmypassions;aminorpassion，notagrandone，like’DonQuixote’andthe’ConquestofGranada’，butstillapassion，andIshoulddreadalittletoreadthepiecenow，lestIshoulddisturbmyoldidealofitsbeauty。
Thehero’srogueservant，Chispa，seemedtome，thenandlongafterwards，sofineabitofSpanishcharacterthatIchosehisnameformyfirstpseudonymwhenIbegantowriteforthenewspapers，andsignedmylegislativecorrespondenceforaCincinnatipaperwithit。Iwasinlovewiththeheroine，thelovelydancerwhose’cachucha’turnedmyhead，alongwiththatofthecardinal，butwhosenameevenIhaveforgotten，andIwentaboutwiththethoughtofherburninginmyheart，asifshehadbeenarealperson。
VII。SCOTT
AllthewhileIwasbringingupthelongarrearsofplaywhichIhadnotenjoyedinthetoil—yearsatDayton，andwastryingtomakemySpanishreadingserveinthesportsthatwehadinthewoodsandbytheriver。
WewereMoorsandSpaniardsalmostasoftenaswewereBritishandAmericans，orsettlersandIndians。Isuspectthatthelarge，mildboy，thesonofaneighboringfarmer，whomainlysharedourgames，hadbutadimnotionofwhatImeantbymystrangepeople，butIdidmybesttoenlightenhim，andhehelpedmemakeadreamoutofmylife，anddidhisbesttodwellintheregionofunrealitieswhereIpreferablyhadmybeing;hewasfromtimetotimeaMoorwhenIthinkhewouldratherhavebeenaMingo。
IgotholdofScott’spoems，too，inthatcabinloft，andreadmostofthetaleswhichwereyetunknowntomeafterthoseearlierreadingsofmyfather’s。Icouldnotsaywhy\"HaroldtheDauntless\"mosttookmyfancy;
thefine，stronglyflowingrhythmoftheversehadagooddealtodowithit，Ibelieve。Ilikedthesethings，allofthem，andinafteryearsI
likedthe\"LadyoftheLake\"moreandmore，andfrommereloveofitgotgreatlengthsofitbyheart;butIcannotsaythatScottwasthenoreveragreatpassionwithme。Itwasasoberedaffectionatbest，whichcamefrommysympathywithhisloveofnature，andthewholekindlyandhumanekeepingofhisgenius。Manyyearslater，duringthemonthwhenI
waswaitingformypassportasConsulforVenice，andhadthetimeonmyhands，Ipasseditchieflyinreadingallhisnovels，oneafteranother，withouttheinterruptionofotherreading。’Ivanhoe’Ihadknownbefore，andthe’BrideofLammermoor’and’Woodstock’，buttheresthadremainedinthatsortofabeyancewhichisoftenthefateofbookspeopleexpecttoreadasamatterofcourse，andcomeverynearnotreadingatall，orreadonlyverylate。Takingtheminthisswiftsequence，littleornothingofthemremainedwithme，andmyexperiencewiththemisagainstthatsortoforderedandregularreading，whichIhavesooftenheardadvisedforyoungpeoplebytheirelders。Ialwayssuspecttheireldersofnothavingdonethatkindofreadingthemselves。