setts, I was assigned, after examination, to the most advanced classes in algebra and geometry, and not only kept pace easily with young men who were my seniors by several years, but carried off the prize at the first commencement. In the little country school this same teacher directed some of my earliest lessons in composition. Prior to coming under his tuition I had evolved from my inner consciousness-whatever that might be in an uninformed child-a variety of crude essays and verses, some of which, before learning to write, I had traced upon paper by printing out the words with a pen. I was delighted with the practice of composing, in which every pupil, from the oldest to the youngest, was presently drilled. Our productions were laughed at, criticised, and commended; but in whatever light they were viewed, we were always inspired to try again. The master brought out and systematized such talent as he perceived, and taught the child how to utilize it. He introduced many novel exercises, one of which I remember with more than ordinary interest, as I never met with it elsewhere. He selected a few words that had no possible bearing upon one another—from eight to a dozen usually—and as he recited them to the class these were written swiftly by each pupil at the top of a blank page, for reference; then, without a second for thought or preparation, and in a limited number of minutes, we were required to construct a paragraph, including every word named, which should make good sense.

It was during this period of my school life that my passion for reading was brought into harness, so to speak. Hitherto I had seized upon such books and papers as were most accessible, and my mind was crowded with a vast accumulation of miscellany. No flood of children's literature had then devastated the country. I had never seen a book written expressly for a child, except those at our Sunday school, which failed to interest me. Poetry was my delight. Numerous little antique volumes in the household library, including Watts's hymns and Pope's Essay on Man," were literally worn out in my small playhouse under the sweet apple tree in the garden, where, reclining on the grass in the bright Summer sunshine, I could pore over them by the hour undisturbed. But a new light dawned in my

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horizon when I was called upon at school to recite Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," memorized long before, and its beauties suddenly were made clear to me. The poems of Tennyson were then in everybody's hands, and from "The May Queen" to "The Princess" I had already found my way. I had also pried into Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Cowper, Spenser, Burns, Southey, and Campbell, and had read the greater part of Milton's "Paradise Lost," Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel," and Byron's "The Prisoner of Chillon." What portion of all this would have remained in my memory and proved of any permanent advantage, I know not, if the teacher had not unpacked the mass and re-arranged it in good order. Extracts from these poetical works, and from many others, were turned to profitable account as reading lessons, and many of the gems of the great poets were recited in concert by the whole school.

My first romantic love of nature was awakened by the poems of William Cullen Bryant, then in the zenith of their popularity. There was something tangible in the pictures that he drew; his themes pointed out the charms of the woods and the mountains and the fields, which were all about me-before my eyes on every side. The distinguished poet was our neighbor, or, to be more exact, his birthplace was on a picturesque hillside in sight of my own birthplace, and he usually came to the old homestead every Summer. When a boy, he attended school with my father, and I had asked so many questions about how he looked in his youth and what he said and did, that I almost fancied I had actually seen him write "Thanatopsis." His "Monument Mountain" was one of our special school recitations, and I was never satisfied until I had visited the ragged precipice which suggested the production. His "Forest Hymn" and "Song of the Stars" were as familiar to me as the alphabet; while "The Death of the Flowers " brought vividly before my vision Bryant's beautiful sister, whose rare loveliness I had often heard described in our family circle, and to whom he refers as

"The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side." Professor Burgess was a classical scholar, fresh from one of the notable colleges of the country, and ere long had formed a small class in Latin, of which I was a voluntary member. He

smiled when I asked permission to join it, and told me how dry and tiresome I should find the lessons. But I was resolute, and he did not object; and I have no recollection that his predictions proved true. In the mean time the ordinary branches of a child's education were by no means neglected. Geography in particular was taught in the most interesting fashion. The rudiments of drawing were brought into service, and prizes were given for the best outline maps of States that could be made at a moment's notice upon the blackboard. Very little attention, I am sorry to say, was paid to history, and yet we were guided through the tales of Peter Parley and taught some useful statistics about the early Indian wars in America. I learned the story of the Revolution from the lips of my grandfather. As in many another school of later date, it was esteemed much more advisable to instruct in the whole range of English literature than to look after the affairs of our own country.

Works of fiction were not at that day permitted a place under our Puritan roof, and although I had seen Cooper's, Captain Marryatt's, and Sir Walter Scott's novels, and the works of Washington Irving, occasionally in the houses of friends, I had not yet learned the nature of their contents. But there came a time one bright morning when I flitted away to school with a strange-looking, unbound book hidden in my sachel. I had surreptitiously borrowed it from my brother's table, where he had left it by accident. It was "The Scottish Chiefs," by Miss Porter, a work that was destined to create within me a new want, and to turn my thoughts to the reading and study of history. Turning points in life are not always mere accidents, and I cannot designate this simple event as really a turning point, but its influence is still with me. I read the book by stealth, concealing it under my text book during school hours, when my quiet attitude led my teacher and others to suppose I was absorbed in study. The book opened to me a bewildering view of gorgeous castles among the grand cliffs of beautiful mountains, with Gothic. arches, central towers, and circular flanking ramparts of stone; and of handsome knights in armor, literally iron-clad, with hosts of followers, prancing about the Scottish country on fine horses at all times and seasons, with their long plaids streaming in the

wind. The story introduced me to an age when danger was the pastime and arms were the occupation of the European nations, and when gray hairs were seldom seen under a Scotchman's bonnet. Sir William Wallace, as described in this novel, was less than twenty-five years old, but a man of gigantic frame, larger even than Washington, and of great personal beauty and magnetism. He was a marvelous and magnanimous hero, as I found him, and my wonder was that I had never heard of him before. I immediately started on a crusade into the past, in quest of more knowledge. In exploring my father's library I found upon the top shelf two dilapidated volumes of ancient date, entitled "The History of Scotland," which I brought down in much excitement and examined with the greatest care. They were poorly printed in old-fashioned type, and from their appearance probably had not been opened in a generation. But I eagerly read them, from cover to cover. They were intensely disappointing books, dull and commonplace, telling me very little about Sir William Wallace, for whom I was searching; yet they increased my appetite for further information, and taught me forcibly the great truth that we draw all our learning from the past that to-day is the pupil of yesterday, this year of last year, and that drop by drop the activities of each successive year are distilled from the experiences of the centuries gone by. Henceforward I sought historical books on all occasions, until the pursuit became a fascination. I was naturally at first interested in Scotland. I shall never forget the singular impression made upon my mind by perusing "The Life of James V.," upon which was founded the historical novel "Jane Seton." I soon had in my hands the story of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, which led me with celerity into England's history. I was so fortunate as to discover, here and there, odd volumes which I could borrow-there was then no public library within my reach and ere very long I had faithfully traced the English chronicles from Julius Cæsar to Queen Victoria. In the mean time I had learned something of old Rome, and I could not rest until I had tripped through her printed history. There was not a country in Europe to which I was not similarly drawn, and whose history I did not secure, in one way or another, for perusal.

In this historical reading I had very little help or sympathy, either at home or at school. Both parents and teachers seemed to look upon it as a mere matter of childish fancy that would soon wear itself out. I encountered many works of a different character, while hunting for histories, which I did not omit to read. Sometimes it was a novel which I would enjoy in secret, then a work of travel or a poem. I read Irving's “Knickerbocker's History of New York" twice, and wondered how much of it was true; and among the American stories that fell in my way and captivated me for the time were Paulding's "The Puritan and his Daughter" and Kennedy's "Horseshoe Robinson," the latter of which I should like even now to read again, if I could find it. My opportunities for reading were greatly facilitated by the isolation of our home, and the consequent absence of distracting diversions. We were near enough to the metropolis to partake of its literary culture, and sufficiently remote to escape its dissipating wastes, while the atmosphere acted like a tonic in stimulating intellectual industry.

In my subsequent experiences in educational institutions I seem to have been conducted by the same or by a similar momentum, constantly broadening, it is true, but diverging very little from the current of my apparent destiny. Mathematics was given the first place in my curriculum every time, for there was always more in the science that I wished to learn. Then followed the languages, in which I became greatly interested, and philosophy and English literature; after which I was agreeable to any other pursuit that the teacher might suggest. History-as jotted in my little note book-was "to be read at my convenience, as my own private affair." American history was not then in my mind apart from general history. It was long after I had left school before I discovered its manifold and picturesque attractions, and became impressed with its singular neglect by educators.

When, finally, in the drift of remarkable events, I found myself engaged in the production of an historical work of great magnitude, having for its subject an American metropolis and one of the most important cities on the globe, I recognized my early attainments as my strongest pillar of support. My work was issued in parts of forty-eight pages each, that it might have the benefit