Every
single word must have its roots deep down in a personal past so remote
for him as to be almost unremembered; the very sound and printed aspect
of each must be rich in childish memories of home; in all the countless,
nameless, priceless associations that make it sweet and fresh and
strong, and racy of the soil.
Oh! Porthos, Athos, and D'Artagnan--how I loved you, and your immortal
squires, Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton! How well and wittily you spoke
the language I adored--better even than good Monsieur Lallemand, the
French master at Bluefriars, who could wield the most irregular
subjunctives as if they had been mere feathers--trifles light as air.
Then came the Count of Monte-Cristo, who taught me (only too well) his
terrible lesson of hatred and revenge; and _Les Mysteres de Paris, Le
Juif Errant_, and others.
But no words that I can think of in either mother-tongue can express
what I felt when first, through these tear-dimmed eyes of mine, and deep
into my harrowed soul, came silently flowing the never-to-be-forgotten
history of poor Esmeralda,[A] my first love! whose cruel fate filled
with pity, sorrow, and indignation the last term of my life at school.
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