y the report of fame by admiring populaces.
Do you remember the asinine time in your own life, my boy,--do you remember it? I know that you do, my boy, for I can feel your blush on my own cheeks.
Of the few women of America who looked upon me with favor, there was one--Ellen--whom I really loved, I think; for of all the girls, the mention of her name, alone, gave me that peculiar feeling in which instinctive impulse blends undefinably and perpetually with a sense of reverent respect; or, rather, with a sense of some unworthiness of self. Ellen died before I had known her a year. I thought afterwards, like any other youngster, that I loved half-a-dozen different girls; but, even in maturer years, second love is a poor imitation. Say what you will about second love, my boy, in the breast of him truly a man, it is but an imperium in imperio--a flower on the grave of the first.
There was one young woman of America in our village, my boy, about whom the chaps teased me not a little; a