But since it is his, and only his, journey and experiences, his wonder
and delight in these lands that he tells of--a mere microcosm, as it
were--he entreats forgiveness of all who love them and their people as
much as he loves them--scarce "on this side idolatry."
H.B.
I
_Oh, what land is the Land of Dream?_
--WILLIAM BLAKE.
I lived, then, in the great world once, in an old, roomy house beside
a little wood of larches, with an aunt of the name of Sophia. My
father and mother died a few days before my fourth birthday, so that I
can conjure up only fleeting glimpses of their faces by which to
remember what love was then lost to me. Both were youthful at death,
but my Aunt Sophia was ever elderly. She was keen, and just, seldom
less than kind; but a child was to her something of a little animal,
and it was nothing more. In consequence, well fed, warmly clad, and in
freedom, I grew up almost in solitude between my angels, hearkening
with how simple a curiosity to that everlasting warfare of persuasion
and compulsion, terror and delight.
Which of them it was that guided me, before even I could read, to the
little room dark with holly trees that had been of old my uncle's
library, I know not.
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