AsIcrossedthebridgeovertheAvononmyreturn，Ipausedto
　　contemplatethedistantchurchinwhichthepoetliesburied，and
　　couldnotbutexultinthemalediction，whichhaskepthisashes
　　undisturbedinitsquietandhallowedvaults。Whathonorcouldhis
　　namehavederivedfrombeingmingledindustycompanionshipwiththe
　　epitaphsandescutcheonsandvenaleulogiumsofatitledmultitude？
　　WhatwouldacrowdedcornerinWestminsterAbbeyhavebeen，compared
　　withthisreverendpile，whichseemstostandinbeautiful
　　lonelinessashissolemausoleum！Thesolicitudeaboutthegravemay
　　bebuttheoffspringofanover—wroughtsensibility；buthuman
　　natureismadeupoffoiblesandprejudices；anditsbestand
　　tenderestaffectionsaremingledwiththesefactitiousfeelings。He
　　whohassoughtrenownabouttheworld，andhasreapedafullharvest
　　ofworldlyfavor，willfind，afterall，thatthereisnolove，no
　　admiration，noapplause，sosweettothesoulasthatwhichspringsup
　　inhisnativeplace。Itistherethatheseekstobegatheredinpeace
　　andhonoramonghiskindredandhisearlyfriends。Andwhenthe
　　wearyheartandfailingheadbegintowarnhimthattheeveningof
　　lifeisdrawingon，heturnsasfondlyasdoestheinfanttothe
　　mother’sarms，tosinktosleepinthebosomofthesceneofhis
　　childhood。
　　Howwouldithavecheeredthespiritoftheyouthfulbardwhen，
　　wanderingforthindisgraceuponadoubtfulworld，hecastbacka
　　heavylookuponhispaternalhome，couldhehaveforeseenthat，before
　　manyyears，heshouldreturntoitcoveredwithrenown；thathis
　　nameshouldbecometheboastandgloryofhisnativeplace；thathis
　　ashesshouldbereligiouslyguardedasitsmostprecioustreasure；and
　　thatitslesseningspire，onwhichhiseyeswerefixedintearful
　　contemplation，shouldonedaybecomethebeacon，toweringamidstthe
　　gentlelandscape，toguidetheliterarypilgrimofeverynationtohis
　　tomb！
　　THEEND。
　　1819—20
　　THESKETCHBOOK
　　THEARTOFBOOK—MAKING
　　byWashingtonIrving
　　"IfthatseveredoomofSynesiusbetrue—’Itisagreateroffence
　　tostealdeadmen’slabor，thantheirclothes，’whatshallbecomeof
　　mostwriters？"
　　BURTON’SANATOMYOFMELANCHOLY。
　　IHAVEoftenwonderedattheextremefecundityofthepress，andhow
　　itcomestopassthatsomanyheads，onwhichnatureseemedtohave
　　inflictedthecurseofbarrenness，shouldteemwithvoluminous
　　productions。Asamantravelson，however，inthejourneyoflife，his
　　objectsofwonderdailydiminish，andheiscontinuallyfindingout
　　someverysimplecauseforsomegreatmatterofmarvel。ThushaveI
　　chanced，inmyperegrinationsaboutthisgreatmetropolis，to
　　blunderuponascenewhichunfoldedtomesomeofthemysteriesofthe
　　book—makingcraft，andatonceputanendtomyastonishment。
　　Iwasonesummer’sdayloiteringthroughthegreatsaloonsofthe
　　BritishMuseum，withthatlistlessnesswithwhichoneisaptto
　　saunteraboutamuseuminwarmweather；sometimeslollingoverthe
　　glasscasesofminerals，sometimesstudyingthehieroglyphicsonan
　　Egyptianmummy，andsometimestrying，withnearlyequalsuccess，to
　　comprehendtheallegoricalpaintingsontheloftyceilings。WhilstI
　　wasgazingaboutinthisidleway，myattentionwasattractedtoa
　　distantdoor，attheendofasuiteofapartments。Itwasclosed，
　　buteverynowandthenitwouldopen，andsomestrange—favored
　　being，generallyclothedinblack，wouldstealforth，andglide
　　throughtherooms，withoutnoticinganyofthesurroundingobjects。
　　Therewasanairofmysteryaboutthisthatpiquedmylanguid
　　curiosity，andIdeterminedtoattemptthepassageofthatstrait，and
　　toexploretheunknownregionsbeyond。Thedooryieldedtomyhand，
　　withthatfacilitywithwhichtheportalsofenchantedcastlesyield
　　totheadventurousknight—errant。Ifoundmyselfinaspacious
　　chamber，surroundedwithgreatcasesofvenerablebooks。Abovethe
　　cases，andjustunderthecornice，werearrangedagreatnumberof
　　black—lookingportraitsofancientauthors。Abouttheroomwereplaced
　　longtables，withstandsforreadingandwriting，atwhichsatmany
　　pale，studiouspersonages，poringintentlyoverdustyvolumes，
　　rummagingamongmouldymanuscripts，andtakingcopiousnotesof
　　theircontents。Ahushedstillnessreignedthroughthismysterious
　　apartment，exceptingthatyoumightheartheracingofpensover
　　sheetsofpaper，oroccasionally，thedeepsighofoneofthesesages，
　　asheshiftedhispositiontoturnoverthepageofanoldfolio；
　　doubtlessarisingfromthathollownessandflatulencyincidentto
　　learnedresearch。
　　Nowandthenoneofthesepersonageswouldwritesomethingona
　　smallslipofpaper，andringabell，whereuponafamiliarwould
　　appear，takethepaperinprofoundsilence，glideoutoftheroom，and
　　returnshortlyloadedwithponderoustomes，uponwhichtheotherwould
　　falltoothandnailwithfamishedvoracity。Ihadnolongeradoubt
　　thatIhadhappeneduponabodyofmagi，deeplyengagedinthestudy
　　ofoccultsciences。ThesceneremindedmeofanoldArabiantale，ofa
　　philosophershutupinanenchantedlibrary，inthebosomofa
　　mountain，whichopenedonlyonceayear；wherehemadethespirits
　　oftheplacebringhimbooksofallkindsofdarkknowledge，sothat
　　attheendoftheyear，whenthemagicportaloncemoreswungopen
　　onitshinges，heissuedforthsoversedinforbiddenlore，astobe
　　abletosoarabovetheheadsofthemultitude，andtocontrolthe
　　powersofnature。
　　Mycuriositybeingnowfullyaroused，Iwhisperedtooneofthe
　　familiars，ashewasabouttoleavetheroom，andbeggedan
　　interpretationofthestrangescenebeforeme。Afewwordswere
　　sufficientforthepurpose。Ifoundthatthesemysterious
　　personages，whomIhadmistakenformagi，wereprincipallyauthors，
　　andintheveryactofmanufacturingbooks。Iwas，infact，inthe
　　reading—roomofthegreatBritishLibrary—animmensecollectionof
　　volumesofallagesandlanguages，manyofwhicharenowforgotten，
　　andmostofwhichareseldomread：oneofthesesequesteredpoolsof
　　obsoleteliterature，towhichmodernauthorsrepair，anddraw
　　bucketsfullofclassiclore，or"pureEnglish，undefiled，"
　　wherewithtoswelltheirownscantyrillsofthought。
　　Beingnowinpossessionofthesecret，Isatdowninacornerand
　　watchedtheprocessofthisbookmanufactory。Inoticedonelean，
　　bilious—lookingwight，whosoughtnonebutthemostworm—eaten
　　volumes，printedinblack—letter。Hewasevidentlyconstructingsome
　　workofprofounderudition，thatwouldbepurchasedbyeverymanwho
　　wishedtobethoughtlearned，placeduponaconspicuousshelfofhis
　　library，orlaidopenuponhistable；butneverread。Iobserved
　　him，nowandthen，drawalargefragmentofbiscuitoutofhispocket，
　　andgnaw；whetheritwashisdinner，orwhetherhewasendeavoring
　　tokeepoffthatexhaustionofthestomachproducedbymuch
　　ponderingoverdryworks，Ileavetoharderstudentsthanmyselfto
　　determine。
　　Therewasonedapperlittlegentlemaninbright—coloredclothes，
　　withachirping，gossipingexpressionofcountenance，whohadall
　　theappearanceofanauthorongoodtermswithhisbookseller。After
　　consideringhimattentively，Irecognizedinhimadiligent
　　getter—upofmiscellaneousworks，whichbustledoffwellwiththe
　　trade。Iwascurioustoseehowhemanufacturedhiswares。Hemade
　　morestirandshowofbusinessthananyoftheothers；dippinginto
　　variousbooks，flutteringovertheleavesofmanuscripts，takinga
　　morseloutofone，amorseloutofanother，"lineuponline，precept
　　uponprecept，herealittleandtherealittle。"Thecontentsofhis
　　bookseemedtobeasheterogeneousasthoseofthewitches’caldronin
　　Macbeth。Itwashereafingerandthereathumb，toeoffrogand
　　blind—worm’ssting，withhisowngossippouredinlike"baboon’s
　　blood，"tomakethemedley"slabandgood。"
　　Afterall，thoughtI，maynotthispilferingdispositionbe
　　implantedinauthorsforwisepurposes；mayitnotbethewayinwhich
　　Providencehastakencarethattheseedsofknowledgeandwisdomshall
　　bepreservedfromagetoage，inspiteoftheinevitabledecayof
　　theworksinwhichtheywerefirstproduced？Weseethatnaturehas
　　wisely，thoughwhimsically，providedfortheconveyanceofseeds
　　fromclimetoclime，inthemawsofcertainbirds；sothatanimals，
　　which，inthemselves，arelittlebetterthancarrion，andapparently
　　thelawlessplunderersoftheorchardandthecornfield，are，infact，
　　nature’scarrierstodisperseandperpetuateherblessings。Inlike
　　manner，thebeautiesandfinethoughtsofancientandobsoleteauthors
　　arecaughtupbytheseflightsofpredatorywriters，andcastforth
　　againtoflourishandbearfruitinaremoteanddistanttractof
　　time。Manyoftheirworks，also，undergoakindofmetempsychosis，and
　　springupundernewforms。Whatwasformerlyaponderoushistory
　　revivesintheshapeofaromance—anoldlegendchangesintoamodern
　　play—andasoberphilosophicaltreatisefurnishesthebodyfora
　　wholeseriesofbouncingandsparklingessays。Thusitisinthe
　　clearingofourAmericanwoodlands；whereweburndownaforestof
　　statelypines，aprogenyofdwarfoaksstartupintheirplace：andwe
　　neverseetheprostratetrunkofatreemoulderingintosoil，butit
　　givesbirthtoawholetribeoffungi。
　　Letusnot，then，lamentoverthedecayandoblivionintowhich
　　ancientwritersdescend；theydobutsubmittothegreatlawof
　　nature，whichdeclaresthatallsublunaryshapesofmattershallbe
　　limitedintheirduration，butwhichdecrees，also，thattheir
　　elementsshallneverperish。Generationaftergeneration，bothin
　　animalandvegetablelife，passesaway，butthevitalprincipleis
　　transmittedtoposterity，andthespeciescontinuetoflourish。
　　Thus，also，doauthorsbegetauthors，andhavingproducedanumerous
　　progeny，inagoodoldagetheysleepwiththeirfathers，thatisto
　　say，withtheauthorswhoprecededthem—andfromwhomtheyhad
　　stolen。
　　WhilstIwasindulgingintheseramblingfancies，Ihadleanedmy
　　headagainstapileofreverendfolios。Whetheritwasowingtothe
　　soporificemanationsfromtheseworks；ortotheprofoundquietofthe
　　room；ortothelassitudearisingfrommuchwandering；ortoan
　　unluckyhabitofnappingatimpropertimesandplaces，withwhichIam
　　grievouslyafflicted，soitwas，thatIfellintoadoze。Still，
　　however，myimaginationcontinuedbusy，andindeedthesamescene
　　remainedbeforemymind’seye，onlyalittlechangedinsomeofthe
　　details。Idreamtthatthechamberwasstilldecoratedwiththe
　　portraitsofancientauthors，butthatthenumberwasincreased。The
　　longtableshaddisappeared，and，inplaceofthesagemagi，I
　　beheldaragged，threadbarethrong，suchasmaybeseenplyingabout
　　thegreatrepositoryofcast—offclothes，Monmouth—street。Whenever
　　theyseizeduponabook，byoneofthoseincongruitiescommonto
　　dreams，methoughtitturnedintoagarmentofforeignorantique
　　fashion，withwhichtheyproceededtoequipthemselves。Inoticed，
　　however，thatnoonepretendedtoclothehimselffromanyparticular
　　suit，buttookasleevefromone，acapefromanother，askirtfrom
　　athird，thusdeckinghimselfoutpiecemeal，whilesomeofhis
　　originalragswouldpeepoutfromamonghisborrowedfinery。
　　Therewasaportly，rosy，well—fedparson，whomIobservedogling
　　severalmouldypolemicalwritersthroughaneye—glass。Hesoon
　　contrivedtosliponthevoluminousmantleofoneoftheold
　　fathers，and，havingpurloinedthegraybeardofanother，endeavored
　　tolookexceedinglywise；butthesmirkingcommonplaceofhis
　　countenancesetatnaughtallthetrappingsofwisdom。One
　　sickly—lookinggentlemanwasbusiedembroideringaveryflimsygarment
　　withgoldthreaddrawnoutofseveraloldcourt—dressesofthereign
　　ofQueenElizabeth。Anotherhadtrimmedhimselfmagnificentlyfrom
　　anilluminatedmanuscript，hadstuckanosegayinhisbosom，culled
　　from"TheParadiseofDaintieDevices，"andhavingputSirPhilip
　　Sidney’shatononesideofhishead，struttedoffwithanexquisite
　　airofvulgarelegance。Athird，whowasbutofpunydimensions，had
　　bolsteredhimselfoutbravelywiththespoilsfromseveralobscure
　　tractsofphilosophy，sothathehadaveryimposingfront；buthewas
　　lamentablytatteredinrear，andIperceivedthathehadpatchedhis
　　small—clotheswithscrapsofparchmentfromaLatinauthor。
　　Thereweresomewell—dressedgentlemen，itistrue，whoonly
　　helpedthemselvestoagemorso，whichsparkledamongtheirown
　　ornaments，withouteclipsingthem。Some，too，seemedtocontemplate
　　thecostumesoftheoldwriters，merelytoimbibetheirprinciples
　　oftaste，andtocatchtheirairandspirit；butIgrievetosay，that
　　toomanywereapttoarraythemselvesfromtoptotoeinthepatchwork
　　mannerIhavementioned。Ishallnotomittospeakofonegenius，in
　　drabbreechesandgaiters，andanArcadianhat，whohadaviolent
　　propensitytothepastoral，butwhoseruralwanderingshadbeen
　　confinedtotheclassichauntsofPrimroseHill，andthesolitudes
　　oftheRegent’sPark。Hehaddeckedhimselfinwreathsandribbons
　　fromalltheoldpastoralpoets，and，hanginghisheadononeside，
　　wentaboutwithafantasticallack—a—daisicalair，"babblingabout
　　greenfields。"Butthepersonagethatmoststruckmyattentionwasa
　　pragmaticaloldgentleman，inclericalrobes，witharemarkably
　　largeandsquare，butbaldhead。Heenteredtheroomwheezingand
　　puffing，elbowedhiswaythroughthethrong，withalookofsturdy
　　self—confidence，andhavinglaidhandsuponathickGreekquarto，
　　clappedituponhishead，andsweptmajesticallyawayina
　　formidablefrizzledwig。
　　Intheheightofthisliterarymasquerade，acrysuddenly
　　resoundedfromeveryside，of"Thieves！thieves！"Ilooked，andlo！
　　theportraitsaboutthewallbecameanimated！Theoldauthorsthrust
　　out，firstahead，thenashoulder，fromthecanvas，lookeddown
　　curiously，foraninstant，uponthemotleythrong，andthen
　　descendedwithfuryintheireyes，toclaimtheirrifledproperty。The
　　sceneofscamperingandhubbubthatensuedbafflesalldescription。
　　Theunhappyculpritsendeavoredinvaintoescapewiththeir
　　plunder。Ononesidemightbeseenhalfadozenoldmonks，strippinga
　　modernprofessor；onanother，therewassaddevastationcarriedinto
　　theranksofmoderndramaticwriters。BeaumontandFletcher，sideby
　　side，ragedroundthefieldlikeCastorandPollux，andsturdyBen
　　Jonsonenactedmorewondersthanwhenavolunteerwiththearmyin
　　Flanders。Astothedapperlittlecompileroffarragos，mentionedsome
　　timesince，hehadarrayedhimselfinasmanypatchesandcolorsas
　　Harlequin，andtherewasasfierceacontentionofclaimantsabout
　　him，asaboutthedeadbodyofPatroclus。Iwasgrievedtoseemany
　　men，towhomIhadbeenaccustomedtolookupwithaweand
　　reverence，faintostealoffwithscarcearagtocovertheir
　　nakedness。Justthenmyeyewascaughtbythepragmaticalold
　　gentlemanintheGreekgrizzledwig，whowasscramblingawayinsore
　　affrightwithhalfascoreofauthorsinfullcryafterhim！Theywere
　　closeuponhishaunches：inatwinklingoffwenthiswig；atevery
　　turnsomestripofraimentwaspeeledaway；untilinafewmoments，
　　fromhisdomineeringpomp，heshrunkintoalittle，pursy，"chopped
　　baldshot，"andmadehisexitwithonlyafewtagsandragsfluttering
　　athisback。
　　Therewassomethingsoludicrousinthecatastropheofthis
　　learnedTheban，thatIburstintoanimmoderatefitoflaughter，which
　　brokethewholeillusion。Thetumultandthescufflewereatanend。
　　Thechamberresumeditsusualappearance。Theoldauthorsshrunk
　　backintotheirpictureframes，andhunginshadowysolemnityalong
　　thewalls。Inshort，Ifoundmyselfwideawakeinmycorner，with
　　thewholeassemblageofbookwormsgazingatmewithastonishment。
　　Nothingofthedreamhadbeenrealbutmyburstoflaughter，asound
　　neverbeforeheardinthatgravesanctuary，andsoabhorrenttothe
　　earsofwisdom，astoelectrifythefraternity。
　　Thelibrariannowsteppeduptome，anddemandedwhetherIhada
　　cardofadmission。AtfirstIdidnotcomprehendhim，butIsoonfound
　　thatthelibrarywasakindofliterary"preserve，"subjectto
　　game—laws，andthatnoonemustpresumetohunttherewithout
　　speciallicenseandpermission。Inaword，Istoodconvictedof
　　beinganarrantpoacher，andwasgladtomakeaprecipitateretreat，
　　lestIshouldhaveawholepackofauthorsletlooseuponme。
　　THEEND。
　　1819—20
　　THESKETCHBOOK
　　THEAUTHOR’SACCOUNTOFHIMSELF
　　byWashingtonIrving
　　"IamofthismindwithHomer，thatasthesnailethatcreptout
　　ofhershelwasturnedeftsoonsintoatoad，andtherebywasforcedto
　　makeastooletositon；sothetravellerthatstraglethfromhisowne
　　countryisinashorttimetransformedintosomonstrousashape，that
　　heisfainetoalterhismansionwithhismanners，andtolivewhere
　　hecan，notwherehewould。"
　　LYLY’SEUPHUES。
　　IWASalwaysfondofvisitingnewscenes，andobservingstrange
　　charactersandmanners。EvenwhenamerechildIbeganmytravels，and
　　mademanytoursofdiscoveryintoforeignpartsandunknownregionsof
　　mynativecity，tothefrequentalarmofmyparents，andtheemolument
　　ofthetown—crier。AsIgrewintoboyhood，Iextendedtherangeof
　　myobservations。Myholidayafternoonswerespentinramblesaboutthe
　　surroundingcountry。Imademyselffamiliarwithallitsplacesfamous
　　inhistoryorfable。Ikneweveryspotwhereamurderorrobberyhad
　　beencommitted，oraghostseen。Ivisitedtheneighboringvillages，
　　andaddedgreatlytomystockofknowledge，bynotingtheirhabitsand
　　customs，andconversingwiththeirsagesandgreatmen。Ieven
　　journeyedonelongsummer’sdaytothesummitofthemostdistant
　　hill，whenceIstretchedmyeyeovermanyamileofterraincognita，
　　andwasastonishedtofindhowvastaglobeIinhabited。
　　Thisramblingpropensitystrengthenedwithmyyears。Booksof
　　voyagesandtravelsbecamemypassion，andindevouringtheir
　　contents，Ineglectedtheregularexercisesoftheschool。How
　　wistfullywouldIwanderaboutthepier—headsinfineweather，and
　　watchthepartingships，boundtodistantclimes—withwhatlonging
　　eyeswouldIgazeaftertheirlesseningsails，andwaftmyselfin
　　imaginationtotheendsoftheearth！
　　Furtherreadingandthinking，thoughtheybroughtthisvague
　　inclinationintomorereasonablebounds，onlyservedtomakeitmore
　　decided。Ivisitedvariouspartsofmyowncountry；andhadIbeen
　　merelyaloveroffinescenery，Ishouldhavefeltlittledesireto
　　seekelsewhereitsgratification，foronnocountryhavethecharmsof
　　naturebeenmoreprodigallylavished。Hermightylakes，likeoceansof
　　liquidsilver；hermountains，withtheirbrightaerialtints；her
　　valleys，teemingwithwildfertility；hertremendouscataracts，
　　thunderingintheirsolitudes；herboundlessplains，wavingwith
　　spontaneousverdure；herbroaddeeprivers，rollinginsolemn
　　silencetotheocean；hertracklessforests，wherevegetationputs
　　forthallitsmagnificence；herskies，kindlingwiththemagicof
　　summercloudsandglorioussunshine；—no，neverneedanAmerican
　　lookbeyondhisowncountryforthesublimeandbeautifulofnatural
　　scenery。
　　ButEuropeheldforththecharmsofstoriedandpoetical
　　association。Thereweretobeseenthemasterpiecesofart，the
　　refinementsofhighly—cultivatedsociety，thequaintpeculiarities
　　ofancientandlocalcustom。Mynativecountrywasfullofyouthful
　　promise：Europewasrichintheaccumulatedtreasuresofage。Hervery
　　ruinstoldthehistoryoftimesgoneby，andeverymoulderingstone
　　wasachronicle。Ilongedtowanderoverthescenesofrenowned
　　achievement—totread，asitwere，inthefootstepsofantiquity—to
　　loiterabouttheruinedcastle—tomeditateonthefallingtower—to
　　escape，inshort，fromthecommonplacerealitiesofthepresent，and
　　losemyselfamongtheshadowygrandeursofthepast。
　　Ihad，besideallthis，anearnestdesiretoseethegreatmenof
　　theearth。Wehave，itistrue，ourgreatmeninAmerica：notacity
　　buthasanampleshareofthem。Ihavemingledamongtheminmy
　　time，andbeenalmostwitheredbytheshadeintowhichtheycastme；
　　forthereisnothingsobalefultoasmallmanastheshadeofagreat
　　one，particularlythegreatmanofacity。ButIwasanxioustosee
　　thegreatmenofEurope；forIhadreadintheworksofvarious
　　philosophers，thatallanimalsdegeneratedinAmerica，andmanamong
　　thenumber。AgreatmanofEurope，thoughtI，mustthereforebeas
　　superiortoagreatmanofAmerica，asapeakoftheAlpstoa
　　highlandoftheHudson；andinthisideaIwasconfirmed，byobserving
　　thecomparativeimportanceandswellingmagnitudeofmanyEnglish
　　travellersamongus，who，Iwasassured，wereverylittlepeoplein
　　theirowncountry。Iwillvisitthislandofwonders，thoughtI，and
　　seethegiganticracefromwhichIamdegenerated。
　　Ithasbeeneithermygoodorevillottohavemyrovingpassion
　　gratified。Ihavewanderedthroughdifferentcountries，and
　　witnessedmanyoftheshiftingscenesoflife。IcannotsaythatI
　　havestudiedthemwiththeeyeofaphilosopher；butratherwiththe
　　saunteringgazewithwhichhumbleloversofthepicturesquestroll
　　fromthewindowofoneprint—shoptoanother；caughtsometimesby
　　thedelineationsofbeauty，sometimesbythedistortionsof
　　caricature，andsometimesbythelovelinessoflandscape。Asitisthe
　　fashionformoderntouriststotravelpencilinhand，andbringhome
　　theirportfoliosfilledwithsketches，Iamdisposedtogetupafew
　　fortheentertainmentofmyfriends。When，however，Ilookoverthe
　　hintsandmemorandumsIhavetakendownforthepurpose，myheart
　　almostfailsmeatfindinghowmyidlehumorhasledmeasidefromthe
　　greatobjectsstudiedbyeveryregulartravellerwhowouldmakea
　　book。IfearIshallgiveequaldisappointmentwithanunlucky
　　landscapepainter，whohadtravelledonthecontinent，but，
　　followingthebentofhisvagrantinclination，hadsketchedin
　　nooks，andcorners，andby—places。Hissketchbookwasaccordingly
　　crowdedwithcottages，andlandscapes，andobscureruins；buthehad
　　neglectedtopaintSt。Peter’s，ortheColiseum；thecascadeofTerni，
　　orthebayofNaples；andhadnotasingleglacierorvolcanoinhis
　　wholecollection。
　　THEEND