loft, where we boys slept, and in the loft were stored in barrels the books that had now begun to overflow the bookcase. I do not know why I chose the loft to renew my
a great passion with me. It was a sobered affection at best, which came from my sympathy with his love of nature, and the whole kindly and humane keeping of his genius.
I was taken into the office as a compositor. In this way I came into living contact with literature again, and the daydreams began once more over the familiar cases of
imperfectly, and which I associate with the first rumor of the Rochester Knockings, then just beginning to reverberate through a world that they have not since left
reading the novels of Captain Marryat. I read them after him with a great deal of amusement, but without the passion that I bestowed upon my favorite authors. I believe
tongue. But he smiled upon us all, and I had no chance to distinguish myself from the rest by any act of devotion before the blessed vision faded, though for long
a time from its attribution to Fray Antonio Agapida, the pious monk whom he feigns to have written it, just as in reading ¡®Don Quixote¡¯ I suffered from Cervantes
day there were few salaried editors in the country outside of New York, and the only hope we could have was of some place as printers in an office which we might