, withonelurchtorightandleftoftheshoulders, broughthimtothetable, ' names, readfragmentsoftext, caressingthevolumeswithhiseyesandhands,and, once, , , forgetfulofwherehewas, ! , ? Washedeadahundredyearsorso, likemostofthepoets? Orwashealivestill, andwriting? Heturnedtothetitle-page...yes, hehadwrittenotherbooks; well, hewouldgotothefreelibrarythefirstthinginthemorningandtrytogetholdofsomeofSwinburne''svoicesaying:-

"Ruth, ."

Thebookwasclosedonhisforefinger, andbeforeheturnedhewasthrillingtothefirstnewimpression, whichwasnotofthegirl, butofherbrother', histhoughts, sympathies, , whilehisimagination, pitchedhigh, waseveratworkestablishingrelationsoflikenessanddifference."," waswhathehadthrilledto—hewhohadbeencalled "Eden," or "MartinEden," orjust "Martin," "Mister!" Itwascertainlygoingsome, , ontheinstant, intoavastcameraobscura, andhesawarrayedaroundhisconsciousnessendlesspicturesfromhislife, ofstoke-holesandforecastles, campsandbeaches, jailsandboozingkens, fever-hospitalsandslumstreets, whereinthethreadofassociationwasthefashioninwhichhehadbeenaddressedinthosevarioussituations.