"You are fond of poetry too?" I asked.
"I am a great reader," he replied. "At one time I had
begun to amass quite a small but well selected library;
and when that was scattered, I still managed to
preserve a few volumes--chiefly of pieces designed for
recitation--which have been my travelling companions.
"Is that one of them?" I asked, pointing to the volume
in his hand.
"No, sir," he replied, showing me a translation of the
SORROWS OF WERTHER; "that is a novel I picked up
some time ago. It has afforded me great pleasure,
though immoral."
"O, immoral!" cried I, indignant as usual at any
complication of art and ethics.
"Surely you cannot deny that, sir--if you know the
book," he said. "The passion is illicit, although
certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos. It is not
a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady;
which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not
know how it may strike you; but it seems to me--as a
depiction, if I make myself clear--to rise high above
its compeers--even famous compeers.
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