ONCE when I was very young, about twelve years of age, I stumbled against a problem in criticism. I had been reading somewhere a list of authors of great adventure stories. Scott, Stevenson, Blackmore, Kingsley, Defoe, were all there; so were Dumas and Hugo; even Kipling, Henty, Ballantyne, Rider Haggard and Jules Verne had intruded into the fold. With all of these I had some acquaintance—although I had neither the advantage of money nor yet access to the libraries which children of to‐day take all too fatally for granted—and I loved each of them with a steady or a frantic devotion.
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