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Rh Though I had learned the piece in my reading-book at school, I came into the world a little too late on the one hand—and I daresay a little too early on the other—to think much of Byron; and the sonorous verse, prodigiously well delivered, struck me with surprise.

“You are fond of poetry, too?” I asked.

“I am a great reader,” he replied. “At one time I had begun to amass quite a small but well selected library; and when that was scattered, I still managed to preserve a few volumes—chiefly of pieces designed for recitation—which have been my travelling companions.”

“Is that one of them?” I asked, pointing to the volume in his hand.

“No, sir,” he replied, showing me a translation of the The Sorrows of YoungWerther, “that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has afforded me great pleasure, though immoral.”

“Oh, immoral!” cried I, indignant as usual at any complication of art and ethics.

“Surely you cannot deny that, sir—if you know the book,” he said. “The passion is illicit, although certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos. It is not a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady; which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not know how it may strike you; but it seems to me—as a depiction, if I make myself clear—to rise high above its compeers—even famous compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment of love appears to me to be frequently done less justice to.”

“You are expressing a very general opinion,” said I.

“Is that so, indeed, sir?” he exclaimed, with unmistakable excitement. “Is the book well known? and who was Go-eath? I am interested in that, because upon the title-page the usual initials are