That winter passed very quickly and happily for me, and at the end of the legislative session I had acquitted myself so much to the satisfaction of one of the newspapers which I wrote for that I was offered a place on it.  I was asked to be city editor, as it was called in that day, and I was to have charge of the local reporting.  It was a great temptation, and for a while I thought it the greatest piece of good fortune.  I went down to Cincinnati to acquaint myself with the details of the work, and to fit myself for it by beginning as reporter myself.  One night’s round of the police stations with the other reporters satisfied me that I was not meant for that work, and I attempted it no farther.  I have often been sorry since, for it would have made known to me many phases of life that I have always remained ignorant of, but I did not know then that life was supremely interesting and important.  I fancied that literature, that poetry was so; and it was humiliation and anguish indescribable to think of myself torn from my high ideals by labors like those of the reporter.  I would not consent even to do the office work of the department, and the proprietor and editor who was more especially my friend tried to make some other place for me.  All the departments were full but the one I would have nothing to do with, and after a few weeks of sufferance and suffering I turned my back on a thousand dollars a year, and for the second time returned to the printing-office.

I was glad to get home, for I had been all the time tormented by my old malady of homesickness.  But otherwise the situation was not cheerful for me, and I now began trying to write something for publication that I could sell.  I sent off poems and they came back; I offered little translations from the Spanish that nobody wanted.  At the same time I took up the study of German, which I must have already played with, at such odd times as I could find.  My father knew something of it, and that friend of mine among the printers was already reading it and trying to speak it.  I had their help with the first steps so far as the recitations from Ollendorff were concerned, but I was impatient to read German, or rather to read one German poet who had seized my fancy from the first line of his I had seen.

This poet was Heinrich Heine, who dominated me longer than any one author that I have known.  Where or when I first acquainted myself with his most fascinating genius, I cannot be sure, but I think it was in some article of the Westminster Review, where several poems of his were given in English and German; and their singular beauty and grace at once possessed my soul.  I was in a fever to know more of him, and it was my great good luck to fall in with a German in the village who had his books.  He was a bookbinder, one of those educated artisans whom the revolutions of 1848 sent to us in great numbers.  He was a Hanoverian, and his accent was then, I believe, the standard,