Lamb, to Wordsworth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to Hawthorne, to Montaigne, to Baudelaire and to Obermann.[3] I remember one of these monkey tricks, which was called The Vanity of Morals:  it was to have had a second part, The Vanity of Knowledge; and as I had neither morality nor scholarship, the names were apt; but the second part was never attempted, and the first part was written (which is my reason for recalling it, ghostlike, from its ashes) no less than three times:  first in the manner of Hazlitt, second in the manner of Ruskin,[4] who had cast on me a passing spell, and third, in a laborious pasticcio of Sir Thomas Browne.  So with my other works:  Cain, an epic, was (save the mark!) an imitation of Sordello:  Robin Hood, a tale in verse, took an eclectic middle course among the fields of Keats, Chaucer and Morris:  in Monmouth, a tragedy, I reclined on the bosom of Mr. Swinburne; in my innumerable gouty-footed lyrics, I followed many masters; in the first draft of The King’s Pardon, a tragedy, I was on the trail of no lesser man than John Webster; in the second draft of the same piece, with staggering versatility, I had shifted my allegiance to Congreve, and of course conceived my fable in a less serious vein—­for it was not Congreve’s verse, it was his exquisite prose, that I admired and sought to copy.  Even at the age of thirteen I had tried to do justice to the inhabitants of the famous city of Peebles[5] in the style of the Book of Snobs.  So I might go on for ever, through all my abortive novels, and down to my later plays,[6] of which I think more tenderly, for they were not only conceived at first under the bracing influence of old Dumas, but have met with, resurrections:  one, strangely bettered by another hand, came on the stage itself and was played by bodily actors; the other, originally known as Semiramis:  a Tragedy, I have observed on bookstalls under the alias of Prince Otto.  But enough has been said to show by what arts of impersonation, and in what purely ventriloquial efforts I first saw my words on paper.

That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write; whether I have profited or not, that is the way.  It was so Keats learned,[7] and there was never a finer temperament for literature than Keats’s; it was so, if we could trace it out, that all men have learned; and that is why a revival of letters is always accompanied or heralded by a cast back to earlier and fresher models.  Perhaps I hear someone cry out:  But this is not the way to be original!  It is not; nor is there any way but to be born so.  Nor yet, if you are born original, is there anything in this training that shall clip the wings of your originality.  There can be none more original than Montaigne,[8] neither could any be more unlike Cicero; yet no craftsman can fail to see how much the one must have tried in his time to imitate the other.  Burns[9] is the very type of a prime force in letters: