I could not uand een, I rade. Sometimes I t it oy?o be ined by imaginary people full of t one    see in picture books. I e. een or sixteen, my fatold me about Rossetti and Blake and givery to read; & on Liverpool on my o Sligo, "I es Dream in ture painted o?day not very pleasing to me??and its colour, its people, its romantic arcecture ted all otures a; It ual be t my fate painter, noed portraits of t er, cive girl    offis radition,    unfinis by bitand its defence elaborated by young men fres? sc paint    of us, or A man must be of ime, tti t out ell me to admire Carolus Duran and Bastien?Lepage. too, t men; ttered but Kno, being iion against a geion t seemed to ed its time upon so many t myself alone in ing tting toempt for t, ture, but in a feo discover ot as I did, for it is not true t yout s quarrel is not , but ,    if it seem to ten t power.

        Does cultivated youture, y    certainly does e so mucarian roric? I ion iyndall, ed, of t an infallible c of poetic tradition: a fardel of stories, and of personages, and of emotions, a bundle of images and of masks passed eion to geion by poets & painters raditioually, and not in pictures and in poems only, but in tiles round t kept out t. I ed a dogma: Because ted out of t instinan, to be ever I    imagi I    go to truth.

        eo speak of o of teeped in tural. Could even titians Ariosto t I loved beyond otraits, s grave look, as if ing for some perfect fi, if ters, before titian,    learned portraiture, o tions, full of saints and Madonnas, trons? At seventeen years old I    me from going off but a doubt as to my capacity to s straight.
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