I could not understand een, I rade. Sometimes I t it oy?o be ined by imaginary people full of t one can see in picture books. I e. een or sixteen, my fatold me about Rossetti and Blake and given me try to read; amp; once in Liverpool on my o Sligo, quot;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 comer, 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 in reaction against a generation 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 come so mucarian roric? I ion in one tyndall, 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 on from generation to generation by poets amp; painters radition perpetually, 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 instinct of man, to be ever I can imagine t I can go to truth.

    ened to speak of one t of teeped in tural. Could even titians Ariosto t I loved beyond otraits, s grave look,