my mind to Mr. Poe's wonderful bird and for years it meant the "Raven"
to me. How curious are childish impressions. Years afterward when I saw
a copy of the music and read the translation, "The Dream" under the
title, I felt a distinct shock of resentment as if the French language
had been treacherous to my sacred ideas. Then there was the romantic
name of "Ellerslie," which, notwithstanding considerable precocity in
reading and spelling I carried off as "Elleressie" Yeas afterward when
the actual syllables confronted me in a historical sketch of Wallace,
the truth entered like a stab and I closed the book. O sacred first
illusions of childhood, you are sweeter than a thousand year of fame! It
is God's providence that hardens us to endure the throwing of them down
to our eyes and strengthens us to keep their memory sweet in our hearts.


* * * * *

It would be an affront then, not to assume that every reputable novel
reader has read "Scottish Chiefs." If there is any descendant or any
personal friend of that admirable lady, Miss Jane Porter, who may now be
in pecuniary distress, let that descendant call upon me privately with
perfect confidence. There are obligations that a glacial evolutionary
period can not lessen. I make no conditions but the simple proof of
proper identity. I am not rich but I am grateful.

It was a Saturday evening when I became aware, as by prescience, that
there hung over Sir William Wallice and Helen Mar some terrible shadow
of fate. And the piano-forte across the hall played "La Reve." My heart
failed me and I closed the book. If you can't do that, my friend, then
you waste your time trying to be a novel reader. You have not the true
touch of genius for it. It is the miracle of eating your cake and having