The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-09-29
A LITERARY SCAMP.

"My soul, 80 lar as l understand 1t
 has very kindly taken color and form from the many various modes of life that self-will and an impetuous tenn. perament have forced me to indulge in. Therefore may say that I am free from original qualities, defects
 tastes, etc. What I have I acquire
 or, to speak more exactly, chance be- slowed, and still bestows, upon me
 I came into the world apparently with nature like a smooth sheet of wax
 bearing no impress, but capable of re- ceiving any of being molded into all shapes. Nor am exaggerating when I say think that 1 might equally have been Pharaoh, an ostler, an arch bishop, and that in the fulfillment o1 the duties of each certain measure oi success would have been mine. Ihave felt the goad of many impulses, I have hunted many trail; when one scent failed another was taken up, and pur- sued with the pertinacity of an in- stinct, rather than the fervor of req soned conviction. Sometimes, it is true, there came moments of weari- ness, of despondency, but they were not enduring: a word spoken, book read, or yielding to the attraction of environment, was soon off in another direction, forgetful of past failul es. Intricate, indeed, was the labyrinth of my desires; all lights were followed with the same ardor, all cries were eagerly responded to they came from the right, they came from the lett, from every side. But one cry was more persistent, and as the years passed learned to follow it with in-
 creasing vigor, and my strayings grew fewer and the way wider. I was eleven years old when I first heard and obeyed this cry, or, shall l say, echo- auguryP Scene: A great family coach, drawn by two powerful coun-
 try horses, lumbers along narrow Irish road. The ever-recurrent signs long ranges of blue mountains, the streak of bog, the rotting cabin, the flock of blower rising from the deso-
 late water. Inside the coach there are two children. They are smart, with new jackets and neckties; their faces are pale with sleep, and the rolling of the coach makes them feel little sick. It is seven o'clock in the morning. Opposite the children are their par
 ents, and they are talking of a novel the world is reading. Did Lady Aud
 leg murder her husband? Lady Aadley! What beautiful name; and she, who is slender, pale, fairy-like woman, killed her husband! Such thoughts flash through the boys mind his im-
 agination is stirred and quickened, and he begs for an explanation. The coach lumbers along, it arrives at it's desti-
 nation, and Lady Audley is forgotten in the delight of tearing down fruit trees and killing a cat. But when we returned home took the first oppor- tunity of stealing the novel in ques- tion. read it eagerly, passionately, vehemently. I read its successor, and it's successor. read until came to a book called 'The Doctors Wife'-a lady who loved Shelley and Byron. There was magic, there was revelation in the name, and Shelley became my souls divinity. Why did I love Shel- ley? Why was not attracted to Byron2 1 cannot say. Shelley Oh
 that crystal name. and his poetry also crystalline. must see it, I must know him. Escaping from the school room
 I ransacked the library, and at last my ardor was rewarded. The book-s small pocket edition in red boards, no doubt long out of print-opened at the Sensitive Plant Was I disap- pointed? I think I had expected to understand better; but had no diffi- culty in assuming that was satisfied and delighted. And henceforth the little volume never left my pocket
 and read the dazzling stanzas by the shores of pale green Irish lake, com- pretending little, and loving great deal. Byron, too, was often with me
 and these poets were the ripening in. fiuence of years otherwise merely ner- vous and boisterous. And my poets were taken to school, because it pleased me to read Queen Nab and Cain.
 And there my poets saved me from in- tellectual savagery 7; for I was incapa- ble at that time of learning anything
 What determined and incorrigible idleness! l used to gaze fondly on 6 book, holding my head between my hands, and allowing my thoughts to wander far into dreams and thin inn sginings. Neither Latin, nor Greek
 nor French, nor history, nor English composition could learn, unless, in- deed, my curiosity or personal inter- est was excited-then I made rapid strides in that branch of knowledge tc which my attention was directed. A mind hitherto dark seemed suddenly to grow clear, and it remained cleaI and bright enough so long as passion was in me but as it died, so the mind clouded, and recoiled to it's original obtuseness. Couldn't with wouldn't was, in my case, curiously involved