all would do, what say, where go.  My confinement tortured me.  I could not go forth from this prison to ask after these friends; I could not make my pillow of the dreams about them which yet I could not forbear to frame.  Thus was I absorbed when my father entered.  He felt it right, before going to rest, to reason with me about my disobedience, shown in a way, as he considered, so insolent.  I listened, but could not feel interested in what he said, nor turn my mind from what engaged it.  He went away really grieved at my impenitence, and quite at a loss to understand conduct in me so unusual.

’—­Often since I have seen the same misunderstanding between parent and child,—­the parent thrusting the morale, the discipline, of life upon the child, when just engrossed by some game of real importance and great leadings to it.  That is only a wooden horse to the father,—­the child was careering to distant scenes of conquest and crusade, through a country of elsewhere unimagined beauty.  None but poets remember their youth; but the father who does not retain poetical apprehension of the world, free and splendid as it stretches out before the child, who cannot read his natural history, and follow out its intimations with reverence, must be a tyrant in his home, and the purest intentions will not prevent his doing much to cramp him.  Each new child is a new Thought, and has bearings and discernings, which the Thoughts older in date know not yet, but must learn.—­

’My attention thus fixed on Shakspeare, I returned to him at every hour I could command.  Here was a counterpoise to my Romans, still more forcible than the little garden.  My author could read the Roman nature too,—­read it in the sternness of Coriolanus, and in the varied wealth of Caesar.  But he viewed these men of will as only one kind of men; he kept them in their place, and I found that he, who could understand the Roman, yet expressed in Hamlet a deeper thought.

’In Cervantes, I found far less productive talent,—­’indeed, a far less powerful genius,—­but the same wide wisdom, a discernment piercing the shows and symbols of existence, yet rejoicing in them all, both for their own life, and as signs of the unseen reality.  Not that Cervantes philosophized,—­his genius was too deeply philosophical for that; he took things as they came before him, and saw their actual relations and bearings.  Thus the work he produced was of deep meaning, though he might never have expressed that meaning to himself.  It was left implied in the whole.  A Coleridge comes and calls Don Quixote the pure Reason, and Sancho the Understanding.  Cervantes made no such distinctions in his own mind; but he had seen and suffered enough to bring out all his faculties, and to make him comprehend the higher as well as the lower part of our nature.  Sancho is too amusing and sagacious to be contemptible; the Don too noble and clear-sighted towards absolute