I subsequently came across a piece of criticism which was written on me as a novelist by a brother novelist very much greater than myself, and whose brilliant intellect and warm imagination led him to a kind of work the very opposite of mine. This was Nathaniel Hawthorne, the American, whom I did not then know, but whose works I knew. Though it praises myself highly, I will insert it here, because it certainly is true in its nature: 鈥淚t is odd enough,鈥?he says, 鈥渢hat my own individual taste is for quite another class of works than those which I myself am able to write. If I were to meet with such books as mine by another writer, I don鈥檛 believe I should be able to get through them. Have you ever read the novels of Anthony Trollope? They precisely suit my taste 鈥?solid and substantial, written on the strength of beef and through the inspiration of ale, and just as real as if some giant had hewn a great lump out of the earth and put it under a glass case, with all its inhabitants going about their daily business, and not suspecting that they were being made a show of. And these books are just as English as a beef-steak. Have they ever been tried in America? It needs an English residence to make them thoroughly comprehensible; but still I should think that human nature would give them success anywhere.鈥? "Let's not go anywhere for a change," said Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library, and sit and talk." Lathrop shook his head emphatically. 多赢彩票平台官网下载 "Let's not go anywhere for a change," said Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library, and sit and talk." She woke from brief and troubled slumbers to see this smiling shore, and at first she fancied they must have sailed back to Cornwall, and that this was some unknown bay upon that rock-bound coast; but the sapphire sea and the summer-like sunshine suggested a fairer clime than rugged Britain. 3 He died two years after these words were written. Opposite the entry was the word 鈥楶ropert,鈥?and he recollected that this was the Miss Propert who had lately come to live with her brother. Presently, in answer to his summons, she came in, and, as his custom was with his employees, he remained seated while she stood. "You told me you were sick of all this." "Sure, I see him," she replied in scornful accents. "Didn't he get out and walk up and down gapping and stretching like he was tired of waiting for you!" "Let's not go anywhere for a change," said Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library, and sit and talk." There was one spot she loved better than any other in the city of mighty memories. It was not hallowed by the blood of saint or hero, sage or martyr. It had no classical associations. He whose heart lay buried there under the shadow of the tribune's mighty monument, perished in the pride of manhood, in the freshness and glory of life; and that heart鈥攕o warm and generous to his fellow-men鈥攈ad hardened itself against the God of saint and martyr, the God of Peter and Paul, Lawrence and Gregory, Benedict and Augustine. Yet for Isola there was no grave in Rome so fraught with spiritual thoughts as Shelley's grave, no sweeter memory[Pg 252] associated with the eternal city than the memory of his wanderings and meditations amidst the ruined walls of the Baths of Caracalla, where his young genius drank in the poetry of the long past, and fed upon the story of the antique dead.