that I ever penned any
poetry in my life unless it was to a _tune_; and even in this prose which
I now write there is ever and anon a _cadence_ as of a brook running
along, then rising, anon falling, perceptible to me though not to you,
yet which has many a time been noted down by critics speaking gently of
my work. This induced me to learn betimes an incredible number of songs;
in fact, at the age of ten or eleven I had most of Percy's "Relics" by
heart. This naturally enough led me to read, and reading understand, an
amount of poetry of such varied character that I speak with strictest
truth in saying that I have never met with, and never even read of, any
boy who, as a mere little boy, had mastered such a number and variety of
ballads and minor poems as I had done--as will appear in the course of
this narrative.

While living at Mrs. Eaton's I was sent to a school kept by two very nice
rather young Quaker ladies in Walnut Street. It was just opposite a very
quaint old-fashioned collection of many little dwellings in one (modelled
after the Fuggerei of Augsburg?) known as the Quaker Almshouse. One
morning I played truant, and became so fearfully weary and bored lounging
about, that I longed for the society of school, and never stayed from
study any more. Here I was learning to read, and I can remember "The
History of Little Jack," and discussing with a comrade the question as to
whether the word _history_ really meant _his_ story, or was ingeniously
double and inclusive. I also about this time became familiar with many
minor works, such as are all now sold at high prices as chap-books, such
as "Marmaduke Multiply," "The World Turned Upside Down,"
"Chrononhotonthologos," "The Noble History of the Giants," and others of
Mr. Newberry's gilt-cover toy-books. All of our juvenile literature in
those days was without exception London made, and very few persons can
now realise how deeply Anglicised I was, and how all this reading
produced associations and feelings which made dwelling in England in
later years seem like a return to a half-forgotten home, of which we
have, however, pleasant fairy-tale reminiscences.

The mistress of the school was named Sarah Lewis, and while there,
something of a very extraordinary nature--to me, at least--took place.
One day, while at my little desk, there came into my head with a strange
and unaccountable intensity this thought: "I am I--I am _Myself_--I
myself _I_," and so on. By f