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and none of her sweetness of character as she approached



maturity. I was impressed with this upon my return from college.

She, too, had pursued those studies deemed necessary to the



acquirement of a good education; she had taken a four years'

course at South Holyoke and had finished at Mrs. Willard's



seminary at Troy. ``You will now,'' said her father, and he

voiced the New England sentimentregarding young womanhood; ``you



will now return to the quiet of your home and under the direction

of your mother study the performance of those weightier duties



which qualify your sex for a realization of the solemn

responsibilities of human life.''



Three or four years ago a fine-looking young fellow walked in

upon me with a letter of introduction from his mother. He was



Captivity Waite's son! Captivity is a widow now, and she is

still living in her native State, within twenty miles of the



spot where she was born. Colonel Parker, her husband, left her a

good property when he died, and she is famous for her charities.



She has founded a village library, and she has written me on

several occasions for advice upon proposed purchases of books.



I don't mind telling you that I had a good deal of malicious

pleasure in sending her not long ago a reminder of old times in



these words: ``My valued friend,'' I wrote, ``I see by the

catalogue recently published that your village library contains,



among other volumes representing the modern school of fiction,

eleven copies of `Trilby' and six copies of `The Heavenly Twins.'



I also note an absence of certain works whose influence upon my

earlier life was such that I make bold to send copies of the same



to your care in the hope that you will kindly present them to the

library with my most cordial compliments. These are a copy each



of the `New England Primer' and Grimm's `Household Stories.' ''

At the age of twenty-three, having been graduated from college



and having read the poems of Villon, the confessions of Rousseau,

and Boswell's life of Johnson, I was convinced that I had



comprehended the sum of human wisdom and knew all there was worth

knowing. If at the present time-- for I am seventy-two--I knew



as much as I thought I knew at twenty-three I should undoubtedly

be a prodigy of learning and wisdom.



I started out to be a philosopher. My grandmother's death during

my second year at college possessed me of a considerable sum of



money and severed every tie and sentimental obligation which had

previously held me to my grandmother's wish that I become a



minister of the gospel. When I became convinced that I knew

everything I conceived a desire to see something, for I had



traveled none and I had met but few people.

Upon the advice of my Uncle Cephas, I made a journey to Europe,



and devoted two years to seeing sights and to acquainting myself

with the people and the customs abroad. Nine months of this time



I spent in Paris, which was then an irregular and unkempt city,

but withal quite as evil as at present. I took apartments in the



Latin Quarter, and, being of a generous nature, I devoted a

large share of my income to the support of certain artists and



students whose talents and time were expended almost exclusively

in the pursuit of pleasure.



While thus serving as a visible means of support to this horde of

parasites, I fell in with the man who has since then been my



intimate friend. Judge Methuen was a visitor in Paris, and we

became boon companions. It was he who rescued me from the



parasites and revived the flames of honorable ambition, which had

well-nigh been extinguished by the wretched influence of Villon



and Rousseau. The Judge was a year my senior, and a wealthy

father provided him with the means for gratifying his wholesome



and refined tastes. We two went together to London, and it was




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