John Hay 



my own incapacity of memory the 

 evenings by my fireside, when he 

 poured out in inexhaustible profusion 

 his stores of fancy and invention. 

 There were scores of short stories 

 full of color and life, sketches of thrill- 

 ing adventure, not less than half a 

 dozen complete novels, boldly planned 

 and brilliantly wrought out, — all ready 

 for the type or the pen ; which now — 

 an infinite pity ! — are only of the stuff 

 that dreams are made of. 



Few men had so quick and so sure 

 an eye for art. In that first visit to 

 Europe, to which I have alluded, he 

 seemed like one to whom all the scenes 

 he visited had been familiar in some 

 antecedent state. His time was lim- 

 ited, and his pace, therefore, amaz- 

 ingly rapid. He swept through Spain 

 like a breeze. He had apparently no 

 preferences. In the space of a few 

 weeks, he covered the whole field ; he 

 knew the masterpieces of classic and 

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