He may, however, seem even more than bold in one thing, and that is in
describing regions where the wise and the imaginative and the immortal
have been before him. For that he never can be contrite enough. And
yet, in spite of the renown of these regions, he can present neither
map nor chart of them, latitude nor longitude: can affirm only that
their frontier stretches just this side of Dream; that they border
Impossibility; lie parallel with Peace.

But since it is his, and only his, journey and experiences, his wonder
and delight in these lands that he tells of--a mere microcosm, as it
were--he entreats forgiveness of all who love them and their people as
much as he loves them--scarce "on this side idolatry."

H.B.




I

_Oh, what land is the Land of Dream?_

--WILLIAM BLAKE.


I lived, then, in the great world once, in an old, roomy house beside
a little wood of larches, with an aunt of the name of Sophia. My
father and mother died a few days before my fourth birthday, so that I
can conjure up only fleeting glimpses of their faces by which to