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VII.

       VIII.

       STUDIES OF LOWELL

       I.

       II.

       III.

       IV.

       V.

       VI.

       VII.

       VIII.

       IX.

       X.

       XI.

       XII.

       CAMBRIDGE NEIGHBORS

       I.

       II.

       III.

       IV.

       V.

       VI.

       VII.

       VIII.

       IX.

       X.

       XI.

       A BELATED GUEST

       I.

       II.

       III.

       IV.

       MY MARK TWAIN

       I.

       II.

       III.

       IV.

       V.

       VI.

       VII.

       VIII.

       IX.

       X.

       XI.

       XII.

       XIII.

       XIV.

       XV.

       XVI.

       XVII.

       XIX.

       XX.

       XXI.

       XXII.

       XXIII.

       XXIV.

       XXV.

I.

       Table of Contents

      If there was any one in the world who had his being more wholly in literature than I had in 1860, I am sure I should not have known where to find him, and I doubt if he could have been found nearer the centres of literary activity than I then was, or among those more purely devoted to literature than myself. I had been for three years a writer of news paragraphs, book notices, and political leaders on a daily paper in an inland city, and I do not know that my life differed outwardly from that of any other young journalist, who had begun as I had in a country printing-office, and might be supposed to be looking forward to advancement in his profession or in public affairs. But inwardly it was altogether different with me. Inwardly I was a poet, with no wish to be anything else, unless in a moment of careless affluence I might so far forget myself as to be a novelist. I was, with my friend J. J. Piatt, the half-author of a little

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