Iwasonaveryhighesthetichorse，whichIcouldnothaveconvenientlystoopedfromifIhadwished;itwasquiteenoughformethatThackeray’snovelswereprodigiousworksofart，andIacquiredmerit，atleastwithmyself，forappreciatingthemsokeenly，forlikingthemsomuch。Itmustbe，Ifeltwithfarlessconsciousnessthanmyformulationofthefeelingexpresses，thatIwasofsomefinersortmyselftobeabletoenjoysuchafinesort。NodoubtIshouldhavebeenacoxcombofsomekind，ifnotthatkind，andIshallnotbeverystrenuousincensuringThackerayforhiseffectuponmeinthisway。Nodoubttheeffectwasalreadyinme，andhedidnotsomuchproduceitasfindit。
Inthemeantimehewasavastdelighttome，asmuchinthevarietyofhisminorworks——his’Yellowplush，’and’LettersofMr。Brown，’and’AdventuresofMajorGahagan，’andthe’ParisSketchBook，’andthe’IrishSketchBook，’andthe’GreatHoggartyDiamond，’andthe’BookofSnobs，’andthe’EnglishHumorists，’andthe’FourGeorges，’andallthemultitudeofhisessays，andverses，andcaricatures——asinthespaciousdesignsofhishugenovels，the’Newcomes，’and’Pendennis，’and’VanityFair，’and’HenryEsmond，’and’BarryLyndon。’
Therewassomethingintheartofthelastwhichseemedtomethen，andstillseems，thefarthestreachoftheauthor’sgreattalent。Itiscouched，likesomuchofhiswork，intheautobiographicform，whichnexttothedramaticformisthemostnatural，andwhichlendsitselfwithsuchflexibilitytothepurposeoftheauthor。In’BarryLyndon’thereisimaginedtothelifeascoundrelofsuchrarequalitythatheneversupposesforamomentbutheisthefinestsortofagentleman;andso，infact，hewas，asmostgentlemenwentinhisday。Ofcourse，thepictureisover—colored;itwastheviceofThackeray，orofThackeray’stime，tosurchargeallimitationsoflifeandcharacter，sothatagenerationapparentlymuchslower，ifnotdullerthanours，shouldnotpossiblymisstheartist’smeaning。ButIdonotthinkitissomuchsurchargedas’Esmond;’’BarryLyndon’isbynomannerofmeanssoconsciousasthatmirrorofgentlemanhood，withitsmanifoldself—
reverberations;andforthesereasonsIaminclinedtothinkheisthemostperfectcreationofThackeray’smind。
IdidnotmaketheacquaintanceofThackeray’sbooksallatonce，oreveninrapidsuccession，andheatnotimepossessedthewholeempireofmycatholic，nottosay，fickle，affections，duringtheyearsIwascompassingafullknowledgeandsenseofhisgreatness，andburningincenseathisshrine。ButtherewasamomentwhenhesooutshoneandovertoppedallotherdivinitiesinmyworshipthatIwaseffectivelyhisalone，asIhavebeenthehelplessand，asitwere，hypnotizeddevoteeofthreeorfourothersoftheverygreat。Fromhisartthereflowedintomealiteraryqualitywhichtingedmywholementalsubstance，andmadeitimpossibleformetosay，orwishtosay，anythingwithoutgivingittheliterarycolor。Thatis，whilehedominatedmyloveandfancy，ifIhadbeensofortunateastohaveasimpleconceptofanythinginlife，Imusthavetriedtogivetheexpressionofitsometurnortintthatwouldremindthereaderofbooksevenbeforeitremindedhimofmen。
ItishardtomakeoutwhatImean，butthisisatryatit，andIdonotknowthatIshallbeabletodobetterunlessIaddthatThackeray，ofallthewritersthatIhaveknown，isthemostthoroughlyandprofoundlyimbuedwithliterature，sothatwhenhespeaksitisnotwithwordsandblood，butwithwordsandink。YoumayreadthegreatestpartofDickens，asyoumayreadthegreatestpartofHawthorneorTolstoy，andnotonceberemindedofliteratureasabusinessoracult，butyoucanhardlyreadaparagraph，hardlyasentence，ofThackeray’swithoutbeingremindedofiteitherbysuggestionordownrightallusion。
Idonotblamehimforthis;hewashimself，andhecouldnothavebeenanyothermannerofmanwithoutloss;butIsaythatthegreatesttalentisnotthatwhichbreathesofthelibrary，butthatwhichbreathesofthestreet，thefield，theopensky，thesimpleearth。IbegantoimitatethismasterofminealmostassoonasIbegantoreadhim;thismustbe，andIhadagreaterprideandjoyinmysuccessthanIshouldprobablyhaveknowninanythingreallycreative;Ishouldhavesuspectedthat，I
shouldhavedistrustedthat，becauseIhadnothingtotestitby，nomodel;butherebeforemewastheveryfinestandnoblestmodel，andI
hadbuttoformmylinesuponit，andIhadproducedaworkofartaltogethermoreestimableinmyeyesthananythingelsecouldhavebeen。
Isawthelittleworldaboutmethroughthelensesofmymaster’sspectacles，andIreporteditsfacts，inhistoneandhisattitude，withhisself—flatteredscorn，hisshowysighs，hisfacilesatire。IneednotsayIwasperfectlysatisfiedwiththeresult，orthattobeabletoimitateThackeraywasamuchgreaterthingformethantohavebeenabletoimitatenature。Infact，IcouldhavevaluedanypictureofthelifeandcharacterIknewonlyasitputmeinmindoflifeandcharacterasthesehadshownthemselvestomeinhisbooks。
XXI。"LAZARILLODETORMES"
Atthesametime，IwasnotonlyreadingmanybooksbesidesThackeray’s，butIwasstudyingtogetasmatteringofseverallanguagesaswellasI
could，withorwithouthelp。IcouldnowmanageSpanishfairlywell，andIwassendingontoNewYorkforauthorsinthattongue。IdonotrememberhowIgotthemoneytobuythem;tobesureitwasnogreatsum;
butitmusthavebeengivenmeoutofthesumswewereallworkingsohardtomakeupforthedebt，andtheinterestonthedebt（thatisalwaysthewickedpinchforthedebtor！），wehadincurredinthepurchaseofthenewspaperwhichwelivedby，andthehousewhichwelivedin。
Ispentnomoneyonanyothersortofpleasure，andso，Isuppose，itwasaffordedmethemorereadily;butIcannotreallyrecallthehistoryofthoseacquisitionsonitsfinancialside。Inanycase，ifthesumsI
laidoutinliteraturecouldnothavebeencomparativelygreat，theexcitementattendingtheoutlaywasprodigious。
IknowthatIusedtowriteontoMessrs。RoeLockwood&Son，NewYork，formySpanishbooks，andIdaresaythatmylettersweresufficientlypedantic，andfilledwithasimulatedacquaintancewithallSpanishliterature。Heavenknowswhattheymusthavethought，iftheythoughtanything，oftheirqueercustomerinthatobscurelittleOhiovillage;
buthecouldnothavebeenqueerertothemthantohisfellow—villagers，Iamsure。Ihauntedthepost—officeaboutthetimethebooksweredue，andwhenIfoundoneoftheminourdeepboxamongaheapofexchangenewspapersandbusinessletters，myemotionwassogreatthatitalmosttookmybreath。Ihurriedhomewiththepreciousvolume，andshutmyselfintomylittleden，whereIgavemyselfuptoasortoftransportinit。
ThesebookswerealwaysfromthecollectionofSpanishauthorspublishedbyBaudryinParis，andtheywereinsaffron—coloredpapercover，printedfullofaperfectlyintoxicatingcatalogueofotherSpanishbookswhichI
meanttoread，everyone，sometime。ThepaperandtheinkhadacertainodorwhichwassweetertomethantheperfumesofAraby。Thelookofthetypetookmemorethantheglanceofagirl，andIhadafeveroflongingtoknowtheheartofthebook，whichwaslikealover’spassion。SometimesIdidnotreachitsheart，butcommonlyIdid。Moratin’s’OriginsoftheSpanishTheatre，’andalargevolumeofSpanishdramaticauthors，werethefirstSpanishbooksIsentfor，butIcouldnotsaywhyIsentforthem，unlessitwasbecauseIsawthatthereweresomeplaysofCervantesamongtherest。IreadtheseandIreadseveralcomediesofLopedeVega，andnumbersofarchaicdramasinMoratin’shistory，andI
reallygotafairishperspectiveoftheSpanishdrama，whichhasnowalmostwhollyfadedfrommymind。ItismoreintelligibletomewhyI
shouldhavereadConde’s’DominionoftheArabsinSpain;’forthatwasinthelineofmyreadinginIrving，whichwouldaccountformypleasureinthe’HistoryoftheCivilWarsofGranada;’itwassometimebeforeI
realizedthatthechroniclesinthiswereabundleofromancesandnotveritablerecords;andmywholestudyinthesethingswaswhollyundirectedandunenlightened。ButImeanttobethoroughinit，andI
couldnotrestsatisfiedwiththeSpanish—EnglishgrammarsIhad;IwasnotwillingtostopshortoftheofficialgrammaroftheSpanishAcademy。
IsenttoNewYorkforit，andmybooksellerstherereportedthattheywouldhavetosendtoSpainforit。IlivedtillitcametohandthroughthemfromMadrid;andIdonotunderstandwhyIdidnotperishthenfromtheprideandjoyIhadinit。
But，afterall，IamnotaSpanishscholar，andcanneitherspeaknorwritethelanguage。Inevergotmorethanagoodreadinguseofit，perhapsbecauseIneverreallytriedformore。ButIamverygladofthat，becauseithasbeenagreatpleasuretome，andevensomeprofit，andithaslightedupmanymeaningsinliterature，whichmustalwayshaveremaineddarktome。NottospeaknowofthemodernSpanishwriterswhomithasenabledmetoknowintheirownhousesasitwere，IhadeveninthatremotedayarapturousdelightinacertainSpanishbook，whichwaswellworthallthepainsIhadundergonetogetatit。Thiswasthefamouspicaresquenovel，’LazarillodeTormes，’byHurtadodeMendoza，whosenamethensofamiliarizeditselftomyfondnessthatnowasIwriteitIfeelasifitwerethatofanoldpersonalfriendwhomIhadknownintheflesh。IbelieveitwouldnothavebeenalwayscomfortabletoknowMendozaoutsideofhisbooks;hewasratheraterribleperson;hewasoneoftheSpanishinvadersofItaly，andisknowninItalianhistoryastheTyrantofSierra。ButatmydistanceoftimeandplaceIcouldsafelyrevelinhisfriendship，andasanauthorIcertainlyfoundhimamostcharmingcompanion。Theadventuresofhisrogueofahero，whobeganlifeastheservantandaccompliceofablindbeggar，andthenadventuredonthroughamostdivertingcareerofknavery，broughtbacktheatmosphereofDonQuixote，andallthelandscapeofthatdearwonder—
worldofSpain，whereIhadlivedsomuch，andIfollowedhimwithalltheolddelight。
IdonotknowthatIshouldcounselotherstodoso，orthatthegeneralreaderwouldfindhisaccountinit，butIamsurethattheintendingauthorofAmericanfictionwoulddowelltostudytheSpanishpicaresquenovels;forintheirsimplicityofdesignhewillfindoneofthebestformsforanAmericanstory。Theintrigueofclosetexturewillneversuitourconditions，whicharesolooseandopenandvariable;eachman’slifeamongusisaromanceoftheSpanishmodel，ifitisthelifeofamanwhohasrisen，aswenearlyallhave，withmanyupsanddowns。Thestoryof’Latzarillo’isgrossinitsfacts，andismostly"unmeetforladies，"likemostofthefictioninalllanguagesbeforeourtimes;butthereisanhonestsimplicityinthenarration，apervadinghumor，andarichfeelingforcharacterthatgivesitvalue。
Ithinkthatagooddealofitsfoulnesswaslostuponme，butI
certainlyunderstoodthatitwouldnotdotopresentittoanAmericanpublicjustasitwas，inthetranslationwhichIpresentlyplannedtomake。Iwentabouttellingthestorytopeople，andtryingtomakethemfinditasamusingasIdid，butwhetherIeversucceededIcannotsay，thoughthenotionofaversionwithmodificationsconstantlygrewwithme，tillonedayIwenttothecityofClevelandwithmyfather。TherewasabranchhouseofanEasternfirmofpublishersinthatplace，andI
musthavehadthehopethatImighthavethecouragetoproposeatranslationofLazarillotothem。Myfatherurgedmetotrymyfortune，butmyheartfailedme。Iwashalfblindwithoneoftheheadachesthattormentedmeinthosedays，andIturnedmysickeyesfromthesign，"J。P。Jewett&Co。，Publishers，"whichheldmefascinated，andwenthomewithoutatleasthavingmymuch—dreamed—ofversionofLazarillorefused。
XXII。CURTIS，LONGFELLOW，SCHLEGEL
Iamquiteatalosstoknowwhymyreadinghadthisdirectionorthatinthosedays。Ithadnecessarilypassedbeyondmyfather’ssuggestion，andIthinkitmusthavebeenlargelybyaccidentorexperimentthatIreadonebookratherthananother。Hemadesomesortofnewspaperarrangementwithabook—storeinCleveland，whichwasthemeansofenrichingourhomelibrarywithagoodlynumberofbooks，shop—worn，butnonetheworseforthat，andnewintheonlywaythatbooksneedbenewtotheloverofthem。AmongtheseIfoundatreasureinCurtis’stwobooks，the’NileNotesofaHowadji，’andthe’HowadjiinSyria。’Ialreadyknewhimbyhis’PotipharPapers，’andtheever—delightfulreverieswhichhavesincegoneunderthenameof’PrueandI;’butthosebooksofEasterntravelopenedanewworldofthinkingandfeeling。Theyhadatonceagreatinfluenceuponme。Thesmoothrichnessoftheirdiction;theamiablesweetnessoftheirmood，theirgraciouscaprice，thedelicacyoftheirsatire（whichwassokindthatitshouldhavesomeothername），theirabundanceoflightandcolor，andthedeepheartofhumanityunderlyingtheirairiestfantasticality，allunitedinaneffectwhichwasdifferentfromanyIhadyetknown。
Asusual，Isteepedmyselfinthem，andthefirstrunningsofmyfancywhenIbegantopouritoutafterwardswereoftheirflavor。Itriedtowritelikethisnewmaster;butwhetherIhadtriedornot，IshouldprobablyhavedonesofromtheloveIborehim。Hewasafavoritenotonlyofmine，butofalltheyoungpeopleinthevillagewhowerereadingcurrentliterature，sothatonthisgroundatleastIhadabundantsympathy。Thepresentgenerationcanhavelittlenotionofthedeepimpressionmadeupontheintelligenceandconscienceofthewholenationbythe’PotipharPapers，’orhowitsfancywasraptwiththe’PrueandI’
sketches，Theseareamongthemostveritableliterarysuccesseswehavehad，andprobablywewhoweresogladwhentheauthorofthesebeautifulthingsturnedasidefromtheflowerypathswhereheledus，tobattleforfreedominthefieldofpolitics，wouldhavefeltthesacrificetoogreatifwecouldhavedreameditwouldbelife—long。But，asitwas，wecouldonlyhonorhimthemore，andgivehimaplaceinourheartswhichhesharedwithLongfellow。
ThisdivinepoetIhaveneverceasedtoread。HisHiawathawasanewbookduringoneofthoseterribleLakeShorewinters，butalltheotherpoemswereoldfriendswithmebythattime。WithasisterwhoisnolongerlivingIhadapeculiaraffectionforhisprettyandtouchingandlightlyhumoroustaleof’Kavanagh，’whichwasofavillagelifeenoughlikeourown，）insomethings，tomakeusknowthetruthofitsdelicaterealism。Weusedtoreaditandtalkitfondlyovertogether，andI
believesomestoriesoflikemakeandmannergrewoutofourpleasureinit。Theywereneverfinished，butitwasenoughtobeginthem，andtherewerefewwriters，ifany，amongthoseIdelightedinwhoescapedthetributeofanimitation。Onehastobeginthatway，oratleastonehadinmyday;perhapsitisnowpossibleforayoungwritertobeginbybeinghimself;butformypart，thatwasnothalfsoimportantastobelikesomeoneelse。Literature，notlife，wasmyaim，andtoreproduceitwasmyjoyandmypride。
Iwaswideningmyknowledgeofithelplesslyandinvoluntarily，andIwasalwayschancinguponsomebookthatservedthisendamongthegreatnumberofbooksthatIreadmerelyformypleasurewithoutanyrealresultofthesort。Schlegel’s’LecturesonDramaticLiterature’cameintomyhandsnotlongafterIhadfinishedmystudiesinthehistoryoftheSpanishtheatre，anditmadethewholesubjectatonceluminous。
IcannotgiveaduenotionofthecomfortthisbookaffordedmebythelightitcastuponpathswhereIhaddimlymademywaybefore，butwhichInowfollowedinthefullday。
Ofcourse，IpinnedmyfaithtoeverythingthatSchlegelsaid。
IobedientlydespisedtheclassicunitiesandtheFrenchandItaliantheatrewhichhadperpetuatedthem，andIreveredtheromanticdramawhichhaditsgloriouscourseamongtheSpanishandEnglishpoets，andwhichwascrownedwiththefameoftheCervantesandtheShakespearewhomIseemedtoown，theyownedmesocompletely。ItvexesmenowtofindthatIcannotrememberhowthebookcameintomyhands，orwhocouldhavesuggestedittome。Itispossiblethatitmayhavebeenthatartistwhocameandstayedamonthwithuswhileshepaintedmymother’sportrait。
ShewasfreshfromherstudiesinNewYork，whereshehadmetauthorsandartistsatthehouseoftheCareysisters，andhadevenonceseenmyadoredCurtissomewhere，thoughshehadnotspokenwithhim。Hertalkaboutthesethingssimplyemparadisedme;itliftedmeintoaheavenofhopethatI，too，mightsomedaymeetsuchelectspiritsandconversewiththemfacetoface。Mymoodwassufficientlyfoolish，butitwasnotsuchaframeofmindasIcanbeashamedof;andIcouldwishaboynohappierfortunethantopossessitforatime，atleast。
XXIII。TENNYSON
IcannotquiteseenowhowIfoundtimeforeventryingtodothethingsIhadinhandmoreorless。ItisperfectlycleartomethatIdidnoneofthemwell，thoughImeantatthetimetodononeofthemotherthanexcellently。Iwasattemptingthestudyofnolessthanfourlanguages，andIpresentlyaddedafifthtothese。Iwasreadingrightandleftineverydirection，butchieflyinthatofpoetry，criticism，andfiction。
FromtimetotimeIboldlyattackedahistory，andcarrieditbya’coupdemain，’orsatdownbeforeitforaprolongedsiege。Therewasoccasionallyanauthorwhoworstedme，whomItriedtoreadandquietlygaveupafteravainstruggle，butImustsaythattheseauthorswerefew。Ihadgotaveryfairnotionoftherangeofallliterature，andtherelationsofthedifferentliteraturestooneanother，andIknewprettywellwhatmannerofbookitwasthatItookupbeforeIcommittedmyselftothetaskofreadingit。AlwaysIreadforpleasure，forthedelightofknowingsomethingmore;andthispleasureisaverydifferentthingfromamusement，thoughIreadagreatdealformereamusement，asI
dostill，andtotakemymindawayfromunhappyorharassingthoughts。
ThereareveryfewthingsthatIthinkitawasteoftimetohaveread;
IshouldprobablyhavewastedthetimeifIhadnotreadthem，andattheperiodIspeakofIdonotthinkIwastedmuchtime。
Mydaybeganaboutseveno’clock，intheprinting—office，whereittookmetillnoontodomytaskofsomanythousandems，sayfourorfive。
Thenwehaddinner，afterthesimplefashionofpeoplewhoworkwiththeirhandsfortheirdinners。IntheafternoonIwentbackandcorrectedtheproofofthetypeIhadset，anddistributedmycaseforthenextday。Attwoorthreeo’clockIwasfree，andthenIwenthomeandbeganmystudies;ortriedtowritesomething;orreadabook。
Wehadsupperatsix，andafterthatIrejoicedinliterature，tillI
wenttobedattenoreleven。IcannotthinkofanytimewhenIdidnotgogladlytomybooksormanuscripts，whenitwasnotanoblejoyaswellasahighprivilege。
Butitallendedassuchastrainmust，inthesortofbreakwhichwasnotyetknownasnervousprostration。WhenIcouldnotsleepaftermystudies，andthesickheadachescameoftener，andthendaysandweeksofhypochondriacalmisery，itwasapparentIwasnotwell;butthatwasnotthedayofanxietyforsuchthings，andifitwasthoughtbestthatI
shouldleaveworkandstudyforawhile，itwasnotwiththenotionthatthecasewasatallserious，orneededanuninterruptedcure。Ipasseddaysinthewoodsandfields，gunningorpickingberries;Ispentmyselfinheavywork;Imadelittlejourneys;andallthiswasverywholesomeandverywell;butIdidnotgiveupmyreadingormyattemptstowrite。
NodoubtIwassecretlyproudtohavebeeninvalidedinsogreatacause，andtobesickliedoverwiththepalecastofthought，ratherthanbysomeignobleagueorthedevastatingconsumptionofthatregion。IfI
layawake，notingthewildpulsationsofmyheart，andlisteningtothedeath—watchinthewall，Iwascertainlyverymuchscared，butIwasnotwithouttheconsolationthatIwasatleastasuffererforliterature。
AtthesametimethatIwassohorriblyafraidofdying，Icouldhavecomposedanepitaphwhichwouldhavemovedotherstotearsformyuntimelyfate。Buttherewasreallynotimpairmentofmyconstitution，andafterawhileIbegantobebetter，andlittlebylittlethehealthwhichhasneversincefailedmeunderanyreasonablestressofworkestablisheditself。
IwasinthemidstofthisunequalstrugglewhenIfirstbecameacquaintedwiththepoetwhoatoncepossessedhimselfofwhatwasbestworthhavinginme。ProbablyIknewofTennysonbyextracts，andfromtheEnglishreviews，butIbelieveitwasfromreadingoneofCurtis’s"EasyChair"papersthatIwaspromptedtogetthenewpoemof"Maud，"
whichIunderstoodfromthe"EasyChair"wasthenmovingpoliteyouthintheEast。ItdidnotseemtomethatIcouldverywelllivewithoutthatpoem，andwhenIwenttoClevelandwiththehopethatImighthavecouragetoproposeatranslationofLazarillotoapublisheritwaswiththefixedpurposeofgetting"Maud"ifitwastobefoundinanybook—
storethere。
IdonotknowwhyIwassolonginreachingTennyson，andIcanonlyaccountforitbythefactthatIwasalwaysreadingrathertheearlierthanthelaterEnglishpoetry。TobesureIhadpassedthroughwhatI
maycallaparoxysmofAlexanderSmith，apoetdeeplyunknowntothepresentgeneration，butthenacclaimedimmortalbyallthecritics，andputwithShakespeare，whomustbeagooddealastonishedfromtimetotimeinhisElysianquietbythecompanionshipthrustuponhim。Ireadthisnowdead—and—goneimmortalwithanecstasyunspeakable;Iravedofhimbyday，anddreamedofhimbynight;Igotgreatlengthsofhis"Life—Drama"byheart;andIcanstillrepeatseveralgorgeouspassagesfromit;Iwouldalmosthavebeenwillingtotakethelifeofthesolecriticwhohadthesensetolaughathim，andwhomadehiswickedfuninGraham’sMagazine，anextinctperiodicaloftheoldextinctPhiladelphianspecies。IcannottellhowIcameoutofthiscraze，butneithercouldanyofthecriticswholedmeintoit，Idaresay。Thereadingworldisverysusceptibleofsuch—lunacies，andallthatcanbesaidisthatatagiventimeitwastimeforcriticismtogomadoverapoetwhowasneitherbetternorworsethanmanyanotherthird—ratepoetapotheosizedbeforeandsince。WhatwasgoodinSmithwasthereflectedfireofthepoetswhohadavitalheatinthem;anditwasbymerechancethatI
bathedmyselfinhissecond—handeffulgence。IalreadyknewprettywelltheoriginoftheTennysonianlineinEnglishpoetry;Wordsworth，andKeats，andShelley;andIdidnotcometoTennyson’sworshipasuddenconvert，butmydevotiontohimwasnonethelesscompleteandexclusive。
Likeeveryothergreatpoethesomehowexpressedthefeelingsofhisday，andIsupposethatatthetimehewrote"Maud"hesaidmorefullywhatthewholeEnglish—speakingracewerethendimlylongingtoutterthananyEnglishpoetwhohaslived。
OneneednotquestionthegreatnessofBrowninginowningthefactthatthetwopoetsofhisdaywhopreeminentlyvoicedtheirgenerationwereTennysonandLongfellow;thoughBrowning，likeEmerson，ispossiblynowmoremodernthaneither。However，IhadthennothingtodowithTennyson’scomparativeclaimonmyadoration;therewasforthetimenoparallelforhiminthewholerangeofliterarydivinitiesthatIhadbowedthekneeto。Forthatwhile，thetemplewasnotonlyemptiedofalltheotheridols，butIhadarichlyflatteringillusionofbeinghisonlyworshipper。WhenIcametothesenseofthiserror，itwaswiththebeliefthatatleastnooneelsehadeverappreciatedhimsofully，stoodsoclosetohiminthatholyofholieswherehewroughthismiracles。
Isaytawdilyandineffectivelyandfalselywhatwasaverypreciousandsacredexperiencewithme。Thisgreatpoetopenedtomeawholeworldofthinkingandfeeling，whereIhadmybeingwithhiminthatmysticintimacy，whichcannotbeputintowords。Iatonceidentifiedmyselfnotonlywiththeheroofthepoem，butinsomesowiththepoethimself，whenIread"Maud";butthatwasonlythefirststeptowardsthelastingstateinwhichhispoetryhasuponthewholebeenmoretomethanthatofanyotherpoet。Ihaveneverreadanyothersocloselyandcontinuously，orreadmyselfsomuchintoandoutofhisverse。TherehavebeentimesandmoodswhenIhavehadmyquestions，andmademycavils，andwhenitseemedtomethatthepoetwaslessthanIhadthoughthim;andcertainlyIdonotrevereequallyandunreservedlyallthathehaswritten;thatwouldbeimpossible。ButwhenIthinkoveralltheotherpoetsIhaveread，heissupremeabovetheminhisresponsetosomeneedinmethathehassatisfiedsoperfectly。
Ofcourse，"Maud"seemedtomethefinestpoemIhadread，uptothattime，butIamnotsurethatthisconclusionwaswhollymyown;IthinkitwaspartiallyformedformebytheadmirationofthepoemwhichIfelttobeeverywhereinthecriticalatmosphere，andwhichhadalreadypenetratedtome。Ididnotlikeallpartsofitequallywell，andsomepartsofitseemedthinandpoor（thoughIwouldnotsuffermyselftosaysothen），andtheystillseemso。Buttherewerewholepassagesandspacesofitwhosedivineandperfectbeautyliftedmeabovelife。Ididnotfullyunderstandthepoemthen;Idonotfullyunderstanditnow，butthatdidnotanddoesnotmatter;fortheresomethinginpoetrythatreachesthesoulbyotherenuesthantheintelligence。BothinthispoemandothersofTennyson，andineverypoetthatIhaveloved，therearemelodiesandharmoniesenfoldingsignificancethatappearedlongafterI
hadfirstreadthem，andhadevenlearnedthembyheart;thatlayweedyinmyouterearandwereenoughintheirMerebeautyofphrasing，tillthetimecameforthemtorevealtheirwholemeaning。Infacttheycoulddothisonlytolaterandgreaterknowledgeofmyselfandothers，aseveryonemustrecognizewhorecursinafter—lifetoabookthathereadwhenyoung;thenhefindsittwiceasfullofmeaningasitwasatfirst。
Icouldnotrestsatisfiedwith"Maud";IsentthesamesummertoClevelandforthelittlevolumewhichthenheldallthepoet’swork，andabandonedmyselfsowhollytoit，thatforayearIreadnootherversethatIcanremember。Thevolumewasthefirstofthatprettyblue—and—
goldserieswhichTicknor&Fieldsbegantopublishin1856，andwhichtheirimprint，sorarelyaffixedtoanunworthybook，atoncecarriedfarandwide。Theirmodestoldbrownclothbindinghadlongbeenaquietwarrantofqualityintheliteratureitcovered，andnowthissplendidblossomofthebookmakingart，asitseemed，wasfitlyemployedtoconveythesweetnessandrichnessoftheloveliestpoetrythatIthoughttheworldhadyetknown。Afteranoldfashionofmine，Ireaditcontinuously，withfrequentrecurrencesfromeachnewpoemtosomethathadalreadypleasedme，andwithamostcapriciousrangeamongthepieces。"InMemoriam"wasinthatbook，andthe"Princess";Ireadthe"Princess"throughandthrough，andoverandover，butIdidnotthenread"InMemoriam"through，andIhaveneverreaditincourse;IamnotsurethatIhaveevenyetreadeverypartofit。Ididnotcometothe"Princess，"either，untilIhadsaturatedmyfancyandmymemorywithsomeoftheshorterpoems，withthe"DreamofFairWomen，"withthe"Lotus—Eaters，"withthe"Miller’sDaughter，"withthe"Morted’Arthur，"
with"EdwinMorris，orTheLake，"with"LoveandDuty，"andascoreofotherminorandbrieferpoems。Ireadthebooknightandday，in—doorsandout，tomyselfandtowhomeverIcouldmakelisten。Ihavenowordstotelltheraptureitwastome;butIhopethatinsomemorearticulatebeing，ifitshouldeverbemyunmeritedfortunetomeetthat’sommopoeta’facetoface，itshallsomehowbeutteredfrommetohim，andhewillunderstandhowcompletelyhebecamethelifeoftheboyIwasthen。
Ithinkitmightplease，oratleastamuse，thatloftyghost，andthathewouldnotresentit，ashewouldprobablyhavedoneonearth。Icanwellunderstandwhythehomageofhisworshippersshouldhaveafflictedhimhere，andIcouldneverhavebeenonetoburnincenseinhisearthlypresence;butperhapsitmightbedonehereafterwithoutoffence。
IeagerlycaughtupandtreasuredeverypersonalwordIcouldfindabouthim，andIdweltinthatsortofcharmedintimacywithhimthroughhisverse，inwhichIcouldnotpresumenorherepel，andwhichIhadenjoyedinturnwithCervantesandShakespeare，withoutasnubfromthem。
IhaveneverceasedtoadoreTennyson，thoughtheraptureofthenewconvertcouldnotlast。Thatmustpassliketheflushofanyotherpassion。IthinkIhavenowabettersenseofhiscomparativegreatness，butabettersenseofhispositivegreatnessIcouldnothavethanIhadatthebeginning;andIbelievethisistheessentialknowledgeofapoet。ItisverywelltosayoneisgreaterthanKeats，ornotsogreatasWordsworth;thatoneisorisnotofthehighestorderofpoetslikeShakespeareandDanteandGoethe;butthatdoesnotmeananythingofvalue，andIneverfindmyaccountinit。Iknowitisnotpossibleforanylessthanthegreatestwritertoabidelastinglyinone’slife。Somedazzlingcomermayenterandpossessitforaday，buthesoonwearshiswelcomeout，andpresentlyfindsthedoor，tobeansweredwithanot—at—
homeifheknocksagain。ButitwasonlythismorningthatIreadoneofthenewlastpoemsofTennysonwithareturnoftheemotionwhichhefirstwokeinmewell—nighfortyyearsago。TherehasbeennoyearofthosemanywhenIhavenotreadhimandlovedhimwithsomethingoftheearlyfireifnotalltheearlyconflagration;andeachsuccessivepoemofhishasbeenformeafreshjoy。
HewentwithmeintotheworldfrommyvillagewhenIleftittomakemyfirstventureawayfromhome。Myfatherhadgotoneofthoselegislativeclerkshipswhichusedtofallsometimestodeservingcountryeditorswhentheirpartywasinpower，andwetogetherimaginedandcarriedoutaschemeforcorrespondingwithsomecitynewspapers。Weweretofurnishadaily，lettergivinganaccountofthelegislativeproceedingswhichI
wasmainlytowriteupfrommaterialhehelpedmetogettogether。Thelettersatoncefoundfavorwiththeeditorswhoagreedtotakethem，andmyfatherthenwithdrewfromtheworkaltogether，aftertellingthemwhowasdoingit。Wewereafraidtheymightnotcareforthereportsofaboyofnineteen，buttheydidnotseemtotakemyageintoaccount，andI
didnotboastofmyyouthamongthelawmakers。IlookedthreeorfouryearsolderthanIwas;butIexperiencedaterriblemomentoncewhenafatherlySenatoraskedmemyage。Igotawaysomehowwithoutsaying，butitwasagreatrelieftomewhenmytwentiethbirthdaycamethatwinter，andIcouldhonestlyproclaimthatIwasinmytwenty—firstyear。
IhadnowthefreerangeoftheStateLibrary，andIdrewmanysortsofbooksfromit。Largely，however，theywerefiction，andIreadallthenovelsofBulwer，forwhomIhadalreadyagreatlikingfrom’TheCaxtons’and’MyNovel。’Iwasdazzledbythem，andIthoughthimagreatwriter，ifnotsogreataoneashethoughthimself。Littleornothingofthoseromances，withtheirswellingprefacesaboutthepoetandhisfunction，theirglitteringcriminals，andshowyrakesandroguesofallkinds，andtheirpatricianperfumeandsocialsplendor，remainedwithme;theymayhavebeenbetterorworse;Iwillnotattempttosay。
IfImaycallmyfascinationwiththemapassionatall，Imustsaythatitwasbutafitfulfever。IalsoreadmanyvolumesofZschokke’sadmirabletales，whichIfoundinatranslationintheLibrary，andI
thinkIbeganatthesametimetofindoutDeQuincey。TheseauthorsI
recalloutofthemanythatpassedthroughmymindalmostastracelesslyastheypassedthroughmyhands。IgotatsomeversionsofIcelandicpoems，inthemetreof"Hiawatha";IhadforawhileanotionofstudyingIcelandic，andIdidtakeoutanIcelandicgrammarandlexicon，anddecidedthatIwouldlearnthelanguagelater。BythistimeImusthavebegunGerman，whichIafterwardscarriedsofar，withoneauthoratleast，astofindinhimadelightonlysecondtothatIhadinTennyson;
butasyetTennysonwasallinalltomeinpoetry。IsuspectthatI
carriedhispoemsaboutwithmeagreatpartofthetime;IamafraidthatIalwayshadthatblue—and—goldTennysoninmypocket;andIwasreadytodrawituponanybody，attheslightestprovocation。Thisistheworstoftheardentloverofliterature：hewishestomakeeveryoneelsesharehisrapture，willhe，nillhe。Manygoodfellowssufferedfrommyadmirationofthisauthororthat，andmanymorepretty，patientmaids。
Iwantedtoreadmyfavoritepassages，myfavoritepoemstothem;IamafraidIoftendidread，whentheywouldratherhavebeentalking;inthecaseofthepoemsIdidworse，Irepeatedthem。Thisseemsratherincrediblenow，butitistrueenough，andabsurdasitis，itatleastattestsmysincerity。ItwaslongbeforeIcuredmyselfofsopestilentahabit;andIamnotyetsoperfectlywellofitthatIcouldbesafelytrustedwithafascinatingbookandasubmissivelistener。IdaresayI
couldnothavebeenmadetounderstandatthistimethatTennysonwasnotsonearlythefirstinterestoflifewithotherpeopleashewaswithme;
Imustoftenhavesuspectedit，butIwashelplessagainstthewishtomakethemfeelhimasimportanttotheirprosperityandwell—beingashewastomine。Myheadwasfullofhim;hiswordswerealwaysbehindmylips;andwhenIwasnotrepeatinghisphrasetomyselfortosomeoneelse，IwastryingtoframesomethingofmyownaslikehimasIcould。
Itwasatimeofmelancholyfromill—health，andofanxietyforthefutureinwhichImustmakemyownplaceintheworld。Work，andhardwork，Ihadalwaysbeenusedtoandneverafraidof;butworkisbynomeansthewholestory。Youmaygetonwithoutmuchofit，oryoumaydoagreatdeal，andnotgeton。IwaswillingtodoasmuchofitasI
couldgettodo，butIdistrustedmyhealth，somewhat，andIhadmanyforebodings，whichmyadoredpoethelpedmetotransfiguretothesubstanceofliterature，orenabledmeforthetimetoforget。IwasalreadyimitatinghimintheverseIwrote;henowseemedtheonlyworthymodelforonewhomeanttobeasgreatapoetasIdid。NoneoftheauthorswhomIreadatalldisplacedhiminmydevotion，andIcouldnothavebelievedthatanyotherpoetwouldeverbesomuchtome。Infact，asIhaveexpressed，noneeverhasbeen。
XXIV。HEINE
Thatwinterpassedveryquicklyandhappilyforme，andattheendofthelegislativesessionIhadacquittedmyselfsomuchtothesatisfactionofoneofthenewspaperswhichIwroteforthatIwasofferedaplaceonit。
Iwasaskedtobecityeditor，asitwascalledinthatday，andIwastohavechargeofthelocalreporting。Itwasagreattemptation，andforawhileIthoughtitthegreatestpieceofgoodfortune。IwentdowntoCincinnatitoacquaintmyselfwiththedetailsofthework，andtofitmyselfforitbybeginningasreportermyself。Onenight’sroundofthepolicestationswiththeotherreporterssatisfiedmethatIwasnotmeantforthatwork，andIattempteditnofarther。Ihaveoftenbeensorrysince，foritwouldhavemadeknowntomemanyphasesoflifethatIhavealwaysremainedignorantof，butIdidnotknowthenthatlifewassupremelyinterestingandimportant。Ifanciedthatliterature，thatpoetrywasso;anditwashumiliationandanguishindescribabletothinkofmyselftornfrommyhighidealsbylaborslikethoseofthereporter。
Iwouldnotconsenteventodotheofficeworkofthedepartment，andtheproprietorandeditorwhowasmoreespeciallymyfriendtriedtomakesomeotherplaceforme。AllthedepartmentswerefullbuttheoneI
wouldhavenothingtodowith，andafterafewweeksofsufferanceandsufferingIturnedmybackonathousanddollarsayear，andforthesecondtimereturnedtotheprinting—office。
Iwasgladtogethome，forIhadbeenallthetimetormentedbymyoldmaladyofhomesickness。Butotherwisethesituationwasnotcheerfulforme，andInowbegantryingtowritesomethingforpublicationthatI
couldsell。Isentoffpoemsandtheycameback;IofferedlittletranslationsfromtheSpanishthatnobodywanted。AtthesametimeI
tookupthestudyofGerman，whichImusthavealreadyplayedwith，atsuchoddtimesasIcouldfind。Myfatherknewsomethingofit，andthatfriendofmineamongtheprinterswasalreadyreadingitandtryingtospeakit。IhadtheirhelpwiththefirststepssofarastherecitationsfromOllendorffwereconcerned，butIwasimpatienttoreadGerman，orrathertoreadoneGermanpoetwhohadseizedmyfancyfromthefirstlineofhisIhadseen。
ThispoetwasHeinrichHeine，whodominatedmelongerthananyoneauthorthatIhaveknown。WhereorwhenIfirstacquaintedmyselfwithhismostfascinatinggenius，Icannotbesure，butIthinkitwasinsomearticleoftheWestminsterReview，whereseveralpoemsofhisweregiveninEnglishandGerman;andtheirsingularbeautyandgraceatoncepossessedmysoul。Iwasinafevertoknowmoreofhim，anditwasmygreatgoodlucktofallinwithaGermaninthevillagewhohadhisbooks。Hewasabookbinder，oneofthoseeducatedartisanswhomtherevolutionsof1848
senttousingreatnumbers。HewasaHanoverian，andhisaccentwasthen，Ibelieve，thestandard，thoughtheBerlineseisnowtheacceptedpronunciation。ButIcaredverylittleforaccent;mywishwastogetatHeinewithaslittledelayaspossible;andIbegantocultivatethefriendshipofthatbookbinderineveryway。Idaresayhewasgladofmine，forhewasotherwisequitealoneinthevillage，orhadnocompanionshipoutsideofhisownfamily。IclothedhiminalltheromanticinterestIbegantofeelforhisraceandlanguage，whichnewtooktheplaceoftheSpaniardsandSpanishinmyaffections。Hewasaveryquickandgayintelligence，withmoresympathyformyloveofourauthor’shumorthanformyloveofhissentiment，andIcanrememberverywellthetwinkleofhislittlesharpblackeyes，withtheirTartarslant，andthetwitchingofhiskeenlypointed，sensitivenose，whenwecametosomepassageofbitingsatire，orsomephraseinwhichthebitterJewhadunpackedalltheinsultofhissoul。
WebegantoreadHeinetogetherwhenmyvocabularyhadtobedugalmostwordbywordoutofthedictionary，forthebookbinder’sEnglishwasratherscantyatthebest，andwasnotliterary。Asforthegrammar，I
wasgettingthatupasfastasIcouldfromOllendorff，andfromothersources，butIwasenjoyingHeinebeforeIwellknewadeclensionoraconjugation。Assoonasmytaskwasdoneattheoffice，Iwenthometothebooks，andworkedawayatthemuntilsupper。ThenmybookbinderandImetinmyfather’seditorialroom，andwithacoupleofcandlesonthetablebetweenus，andourHeineandthedictionarybeforeus，wereadtillwewerebothtiredout。
Thecandlesweretallow，andtheyloppedatdifferentanglesintheflatcandlesticksheavilyloadedwithlead，whichcompositorsonceused。
Itseemstohavebeensummerwhenourreadingsbegan，andtheyareassociatedinmymemorywiththesmelloftheneighboringgardens，whichcameinattheopendoorsandwindows，andwiththeflutteringofmoths，andthebumblingofthedorbugs，thatstoleinalongwiththeodors。
Icanseetheperspirationontheshiningforeheadofthebookbinderashelooksupfromsomebrilliantpassage，toexchangeasmileoftriumphwithmeathavingmadeoutthemeaningwiththemeagrefacilitieswehadforthepurpose;hehadbeautifulredpoutinglips，andastifflittlebranchingmustacheabovethem，thatwenttothemakingofhissmile。
Sometimes，inthetrucewemadewiththetext，hetoldalittlestoryofhislifeathome，orsomeanecdoterelevanttoourreading，orquotedapassagefromsomeotherauthor。Itseemedtomethemakeofahighintellectualbanquet，andIshouldbegladifIcouldenjoyanythingasmuchnow。
Wewalkedhomeasfarashishouse，orratherhisapartmentoveroneofthevillagestores;andashemountedtoitbyanoutsidestaircase，weexchangedajoyous"GuteNacht，"andIkeptonhomewardthroughthedarkandsilentvillagestreet，whichwasreallynotthatstreet，butsomeother，whereHeinehadbeen，somestreetoutoftheReisebilder，ofhisknowledge，orofhisdream。WhenIreachedhomeitwasuselesstogotobed。Ishutmyselfintomylittlestudy，andwentoverwhatwehadread，tillmybrainwassofullofitthatwhenIcreptuptomyroomatlast，itwastoliedowntoslumberswhichwereoftenamerephantasmagoryofthosewitchingPicturesofTravel。
Iwasawakeatmyfather’scallinthemorning，andbeforemymotherhadbreakfastreadyIhadrecitedmylessoninOllendorfftohim。Totellthetruth，Ihatedthosegrammaticalstudies，andnothingbuttheloveofliterature，andthehopeofgettingatit，couldeverhavemademegothroughthem。Naturally，InevergotanyscholarlyuseofthelanguagesIwasworryingat，andthoughIcouldoncewriteapassableliteraryGerman，ithasallgonefrommenow，exceptforthepurposesofreading。
Itcostmesomuchtrouble，however，todigthesenseoutofthegrammarandlexicon，asIwentonwiththeauthorsIwasimpatienttoread，thatIrememberthewordsverywellinalltheirformsandinflections，andI
havestillwhatIthinkImaycallafairGermanvocabulary。
TheGermanofHeine，whenonceyouareinthejokeofhiscapriciousgenius，isverysimple，andinhispoetryitissimplefromthefirst，sothathewas，perhaps，thebestauthorIcouldhavefalleninwithifI
wantedtogofastratherthanfar。Ifoundthisoutlater，whenI
attemptedotherGermanauthorswithouttheglitterofhiswitorthelambentglowofhisfancytolightmeonmyhardway。Ishouldfindithardtosayjustwhyhispeculiargeniushadsuchanabsolutefascinationformefromtheveryfirst，andperhapsIhadbettercontentmyselfwithsayingsimplythatmyliteraryliberationbeganwithalmosttheearliestwordfromhim;forifhechainedmetohimselfhefreedmefromallotherbondage。Ihadbeenatinfinitepainsfromtimetotime，nowupononemodelandnowuponanother，toliterarifymyself，ifImaymakeawordwhichdoesnotquitesaythethingforme。WhatImeanisthatIhadsupposed，withthesenseattimesthatIwasallwrong，thattheexpressionofliteraturemustbedifferentfromtheexpressionoflife;
thatitmustbeanattitude，apose，withsomethingofstateoratleastofformalityinit;thatitmustbethisstyle，andnotthat;thatitmustbelikethatsortofactingwhichyouknowisactingwhenyouseeitandnevermistakeforreality。Thereareagreatmanychildren，apparentlygrown—up，andlargelyacceptedascriticalauthorities，whoarestillofthisyouthfulopinionofmine。ButHeineatonceshowedmethatthisidealofliteraturewasfalse;thatthelifeofliteraturewasfromthespringsofthebestcommonspeechandthattheneareritcouldbemadetoconform，invoice，lookandgait，tograceful，easy，picturesqueandhumorousorimpassionedtalk，thebetteritwas。
Hedidnotimpartthesetruthswithoutimpartingcertaintrickswiththem，whichIwascarefultoimitateassoonasIbegantowriteinhismanner，thatistosayinstantly。Histrickshehadmostlyatsecond—
hand，andmainlyfromSterne，whomIdidnotknowwellenoughthentoknowtheirorigin。Butinallessentialshewashimself，andmyfinallessonfromhim，orthefinaleffectofallmylessonsfromhim，wastofindmyself，andtobeforgoodorevilwhatsoeverIreallywas。
IkeptonwritingasmuchlikeHeineasIcouldforseveralyears，though，andforamuchlongertimethanIshouldhavedoneifIhadeverbecomeequallyimpassionedofanyotherauthor。
SometracesofhismethodlingeredsolonginmyworkthatnearlytenyearsafterwardsMr。Lowellwrotemeaboutsomethingofminethathehadbeenreading："YoumustsweattheHeineoutofyourbonesasmendomercury，"andhiskindnessformewouldnotbecontentwithlessthantheentireexpulsionofthepoisonthathadinitsgoodtimesavedmylife。Idaresayitwasallwellenoughnottohaveitinmybonesafterithaddoneitsoffice，butitdiddoitsoffice。
ItwasinsomeprosesketchofminethathiskeenanalysishadfoundtheHeine，buttheforeignpropertyhadbeensoprevalentinmyearlierworkinversethathekeptthefirstcontributionheacceptedfrommefortheAtlanticMonthlyalongtime，orlongenoughtomakesurethatitwasnotatranslationofHeine。Thenheprintedit，andIamboundtosaythatthepoemnowjustifieshisdoubttome，insomuchthatIdonotseewhyHeineshouldnothavehadthenameofwritingitifhehadwanted。Hispotentspiritbecameimmediatelysowhollymy"control，"asthemediumssay，thatmypoemsmightaswellhavebeencommunicationsfromhimsofarasanyauthorityofmyownwasconcerned;andtheywerequitelikeotherinspirationsfromtheotherworldinbeingsoinferiortotheworkofthespiritbeforeithadthemisfortunetobedisembodiedandobligedtouseamedium。ButIdonotthinkthateitherHeineorIhadmuchlastingharmfromit，andIamsurethatthegood，inmycaseatleast，wasonethatcanonlyendwithme。Heundidmyhands，whichhadtakensomuchpainstotiebehindmyback，andheforeverpersuadedmethatthoughitmaybeingeniousandsurprisingtodanceinchains，itisneitherprettynoruseful。
XXV。DEQUINCEY，GOETHE，LONGFELLOW
AnotherauthorwhowasaprimefavoritewithmeaboutthistimewasDeQuincey，whosebooksItookoutoftheStateLibrary，oneafteranother，untilIhadreadthemall。Wewhowereyoungpeopleofthatdaythoughthisstylesomethingwonderful，andsoindeeditwas，especiallyinthosepassages，abundanteverywhereinhiswork，relatingtohisownlifewithanintimacywhichwasalways—moreratherthanless。Hisrhetoricthere，andincertainofhishistoricalstudies，hadasortofluminousrichness，withoutlosingitscolloquialease。Ikeenlyenjoyedthissubtlespirit，andtheplayofthatbrilliantintelligencewhichlightedupsomanywaysofliteraturewithitslambentgloworitstricksyglimmer，andIhadadeepsympathywithcertainmorbidmoodsandexperiencessolikemyown，asIwaspleasedtofancy。IhavenotlookedathisTwelveCaesarsfortwiceasmanyyears，butIshouldbegreatlysurprisedtofinditotherthanoneofthegreatesthistoricalmonographseverwritten。Hisliterarycriticismsseemedtomenotonlyexquisitelyhumorous，butperfectlysaneandjust;anditdelightedmetohavehimpersonallypresent，withthewarmthofhisowntemperamentinregionsofcoldabstraction;IamnotsurethatIshouldlikethatsomuchnow。DeQuinceywashardlylessautobiographicalwhenhewroteofKant，ortheFlightoftheCrim—Tartars，thanwhenhewroteofhisownboyhoodorthemiseriesoftheopiumhabit。Hehadthehospitablegiftofmakingyouathomewithhim，andappealingtoyoursenseofcomraderywithsomethingoftheflatteringconfidentialityofThackeray，butwithawhollydifferenteffect。
Infact，althoughDeQuinceywasfromtimetotimeperfunctorilyTory，andalwaysagoodandfaithfulBritishsubject，hewassoeliminatedfromhistimeandplacebyhissingleloveforbooks，thatonecouldbeinhiscompanythroughthewholevastrangeofhiswritings，andcomeawaywithoutatouchofsnobbishness;andthatissayingagreatdealforanEnglishwriter。Hewasagreatlittlecreature，andthroughhisintensepersonalityheachievedasortofimpersonality，sothatyoulovedtheman，whowasforevertalking—ofhimself，forhismodestyandreticence。
Heleftyoufeelingintimatewithhimbutbynomeansfamiliar;withallhisfrailties，andwithallthosefreedomshepermittedhimselfwiththelivesofhiscontemporaries，heistomeafigureofdelicatedignity，andwinningkindness。Ithinkitamisfortuneforthepresentgenerationthathisbookshavefallenintoakindofneglect，andIbelievethattheywillemergefromitagaintotheadvantageofliterature。
InspiteofHeineandTennyson，DeQuinceyhadalargeplaceinmyaffections，thoughthiswasperhapsbecausehewasnotapoet;formorethanthosetwogreatpoetstherewasthennotmuchroom。IreadhimthefirstwinterIwasatColumbus，andwhenIwentdownfromthevillagethenextwinter，totakeupmylegislativecorrespondenceagain，Ireadhimmorethanever。Butthatwasdestinedtobeformeaverydishearteningtime。Ihadjustpassedthrougharheumaticfever，whichleftmyhealthmorebrokenthanbefore，andonemorningshortlyafterIwassettledinthecapital，Iwoketofindtheroomgoingroundmelikeawheel。Itwasthebeginningofavertigowhichlastedforsixmonths，andwhichIbegantofightwithvariousdevicesandmustyieldtoatlast。Itriedmedicineandexercise，butitwasuseless，andmyfathercametotakemylettersoffmyhandswhileIgavemyselfsomeineffectualrespites。
ImadealittlejourneytomyoldhomeinsouthernOhio，butthereandeverywhere，thesureandfirm—setearthwavedandbillowedundermyfeet，andIcamebacktoColumbusandtriedtoforgetinmyworkthefactthatIwasnobetter。Ididnotgiveuptryingtoread，asusual，andpartofmyendeavorthatwinterwaswithSchiller，andUhland，andevenGoethe，whose’Wahlverwandschaften，’hardlyyieldedupitsmysterytome。Totellthetruth，IdonotthinkthatIfoundmyaccountinthatnovel。
ItmustneedsbeadisappointmentafterWilhelmMeister，whichIhadreadinEnglish;butIdaresaymydisappointmentwaslargelymyownfault;
IhadcertainlynorighttoexpectsuchconstantproofsandinstancesofwisdominGoetheastheunwisdomofhiscriticshadledmetohopefor。
Irememberlittleornothingofthestory，whichItriedtofindverymemorable，asIheldmy，sickwaythroughit。Longfellow’s"MilesStandish"cameoutthatwinter，andIsuspectthatIgotvastlymorerealpleasurefromthatonepoemofhisthanIfoundinallmyGermanauthorsputtogether，theadoredHeinealwaysexcepted;thoughcertainlyIfelttheromanticbeautyof’Uhland，’andwasawareofsomethingofSchiller’sgenerousgrandeur。