For I had not first made up my mind to write a history, and then cast about to take up a subject.  My subject had taken me up, drawn me on, and absorbed me into itself.  It was necessary for me, it seemed, to write the book I had been thinking much of, even if it were destined to fall dead from the press, and I had no inclination or interest to write any other.  When I had made up my mind accordingly, it then occurred to me that Prescott might not be pleased that I should come forward upon his ground.  It is true that no announcement of his intentions had been made, and that he had not, I believe, even commenced his preliminary studies for Philip.  At the same time I thought it would be disloyal on my part not to go to him at once, confer with him on the subject, and if I should find a shadow of dissatisfaction on his mind at my proposition, to abandon my plan altogether.

“I had only the slightest acquaintance with him at that time.  I was comparatively a young man, and certainly not entitled on any ground to more than the common courtesy which Prescott never could refuse to any one.  But he received me with such a frank and ready and liberal sympathy, and such an open-hearted, guileless expansiveness, that I felt a personal affection for him from that hour.  I remember the interview as if it had taken place yesterday.  It was in his father’s house, in his own library, looking on the garden-house and garden,—­honored father and illustrious son,—­alas! all numbered with the things that were!  He assured me that he had not the slightest objection whatever to my plan, that he wished me every success, and that, if there were any books in his library bearing on my subject that I liked to use, they were entirely at my service.  After I had expressed my gratitude for his kindness and cordiality, by which I had been in a very few moments set completely at ease, —­so far as my fears of his disapprobation went,—­I also very naturally stated my opinion that the danger was entirely mine, and that it was rather wilful of me thus to risk such a collision at my first venture, the probable consequence of which was utter shipwreck.  I recollect how kindly and warmly he combated this opinion, assuring me that no two books, as he said, ever injured each other, and encouraging me in the warmest and most earnest manner to proceed on the course I had marked out for myself.

“Had the result of that interview been different,—­had he distinctly stated, or even vaguely hinted, that it would be as well if I should select some other topic, or had he only sprinkled me with the cold water of conventional and commonplace encouragement,—­I should have gone from him with a chill upon my mind, and, no doubt, have laid down the pen at once; for, as I have already said, it was not that I cared about writing a history, but that I felt an inevitable impulse to write one particular history.

“You know how kindly he always