University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIV
DILETTANTISM (1865–1866)

The campaign of 1864 and the reëlection of Mr. Lincoln
in November set the American Minister on so firm a
footing that he could safely regard his own anxieties as
over, and the anxieties of Earl Russell and the Emperor Napoleon
as begun. With a few months more his own term of four years
would come to an end, and even though the questions still under
discussion with England should somewhat prolong his stay, he
might look forward with some confidence to his return home in
1865. His son no longer fretted. The time for going into the
army had passed. If he were to be useful at all, it must be as a
son, and as a son he was treated with the widest indulgence and
trust. He knew that he was doing himself no good by staying in
London, but thus far in life he had done himself no good anywhere,
and reached his twenty-seventh birthday without having advanced
a step, that he could see, beyond his twenty-first. For the
most part, his friends were worse off than he. The war was about
to end and they were to be set adrift in a world they would find
altogether strange.

At this point, as though to cut the last thread of relation, six
months were suddenly dropped out of his life in England. The London
climate had told on some of the family; the physicians prescribed
a winter in Italy. Of course the private secretary was
detached as their escort, since this was one of his professional
functions; and he passed six months, gaining an education as
Italian courier, while the Civil War came to its end. As far as other
education went, he got none, but he was amused. Travelling in all
possible luxury, at some one else's expense, with diplomatic privileges
and position, was a form of travel hitherto untried. The
Cornice in vettura was delightful; Sorrento in winter offered hills

to climb and grottoes to explore, and Naples near by to visit;
Rome at Easter was an experience necessary for the education of
every properly trained private secretary; the journey north by
vettura through Perugia and Sienna was a dream; the Splügen
Pass, if not equal to the Stelvio, was worth seeing; Paris had
always something to show. The chances of accidental education
were not so great as they had been, since one's field of experience
had grown large; but perhaps a season at Baden Baden in these
later days of its brilliancy offered some chances of instruction,
if it were only the sight of fashionable Europe and America on
the race-course watching the Duke of Hamilton, in the middle,
improving his social advantages by the conversation of Cora
Pearl.

The assassination of President Lincoln fell on the party while
they were at Rome, where it seemed singularly fitting to that nursery
of murderers and murdered, as though America were also
getting educated. Again one went to meditate on the steps of the
Santa Maria in Ara Cœli, but the lesson seemed as shallow as
before. Nothing happened. The travellers changed no plan or
movement. The Minister did not recall them to London. The season
was over before they returned; and when the private secretary
sat down again at his desk in Portland Place before a mass of
copy in arrears, he saw before him a world so changed as to be
beyond connection with the past. His identity, if one could call a
bundle of disconnected memories an identity, seemed to remain;
but his life was once more broken into separate pieces; he was
a spider and had to spin a new web in some new place with a new
attachment.

All his American friends and contemporaries who were still
alive looked singularly commonplace without uniforms, and hastened
to get married and retire into back streets and suburbs until
they could find employment. Minister Adams, too, was going
home "next fall," and when the fall came, he was going home
"next spring," and when the spring came, President Andrew Johnson

was at loggerheads with the Senate, and found it best to keep
things unchanged. After the usual manner of public servants
who had acquired the habit of office and lost the faculty of will,
the members of the Legation in London continued the daily routine
of English society, which, after becoming a habit, threatened
to become a vice. Had Henry Adams shared a single taste with
the young Englishmen of his time, he would have been lost; but
the custom of pounding up and down Rotten Row every day, on
a hack, was not a taste, and yet was all the sport he shared.
Evidently he must set to work; he must get a new education; he
must begin a career of his own.

Nothing was easier to say, but even his father admitted two
careers to be closed. For the law, diplomacy had unfitted him; for
diplomacy he already knew too much. Any one who had held,
during the four most difficult years of American diplomacy, a
position at the centre of action, with his hands actually touching
the lever of power, could not beg a post of Secretary at Vienna or
Madrid in order to bore himself doing nothing until the next
President should do him the honor to turn him out. For once
all his advisers agreed that diplomacy was not possible.

In any ordinary system he would have been called back to
serve in the State Department, but, between the President and
the Senate, service of any sort became a delusion. The choice of
career was more difficult than the education which had proved impracticable.
Adams saw no road; in fact there was none. All his
friends were trying one path or another, but none went a way
that he could have taken. John Hay passed through London in
order to bury himself in second-rate Legations for years, before he
drifted home again to join Whitelaw Reid and George Smalley
on the Tribune. Frank Barlow and Frank Bartlett carried Major-Generals'
commissions into small law business. Miles stayed in
the army. Henry Higginson, after a desperate struggle, was forced
into State Street; Charles Adams wandered about, with brevet-brigadier
rank, trying to find employment. Scores of others tried

experiments more or less unsuccessful. Henry Adams could see
easy ways of making a hundred blunders; he could see no likely
way of making a legitimate success. Such as it was, his so-called
education was wanted nowhere.

One profession alone seemed possible—the press. In 1860 he
would have said that he was born to be an editor, like at least a
thousand other young graduates from American colleges who
entered the world every year enjoying the same conviction; but
in 1866 the situation was altered; the possession of money had
become doubly needful for success, and double energy was essential
to get money. America had more than doubled her scale.
Yet the press was still the last resource of the educated poor who
could not be artists and would not be tutors. Any man who was
fit for nothing else could write an editorial or a criticism. The
enormous mass of misinformation accumulated in ten years of
nomad life could always be worked off on a helpless public, in
diluted doses, if one could but secure a table in the corner of a
newspaper office. The press was an inferior pulpit; an anonymous
schoolmaster; a cheap boarding-school; but it was still
the nearest approach to a career for the literary survivor of a
wrecked education. For the press, then, Henry Adams decided to
fit himself, and since he could not go home to get practical training,
he set to work to do what he could in London.

He knew, as well as any reporter on the New York Herald, that
this was not an American way of beginning, and he knew a certain
number of other drawbacks which the reporter could not see so
clearly. Do what he might, he drew breath only in the atmosphere
of English methods and thoughts; he could breathe none other.
His mother—who should have been a competent judge, since
her success and popularity in England exceeded that of her husband
—averred that every woman who lived a certain time in
England came to look and dress like an Englishwoman, no matter
how she struggled. Henry Adams felt himself catching an English
tone of mind and processes of thought, though at heart more hostile

to them than ever. As though to make him more helpless and
wholly distort his life, England grew more and more agreeable and
amusing. Minister Adams became, in 1866, almost a historical
monument in London; he held a position altogether his own. His
old opponents disappeared. Lord Palmerston died in October,
1865; Lord Russell tottered on six months longer, but then vanished
from power; and in July, 1866, the conservatives came into
office. Traditionally the Tories were easier to deal with than the
Whigs, and Minister Adams had no reason to regret the change.
His personal relations were excellent and his personal weight increased
year by year. On that score the private secretary had no
cares, and not much copy. His own position was modest, but it
was enough; the life he led was agreeable; his friends were all he
wanted, and, except that he was at the mercy of politics, he felt
much at ease. Of his daily life he had only to reckon so many
breakfasts; so many dinners; so many receptions, balls, theatres,
and country-parties; so many cards to be left; so many Americans
to be escorted—the usual routine of every young American in a
Legation; all counting for nothing in sum, because, even if it had
been his official duty—which it was not—it was mere routine,
a single, continuous, unbroken act, which led to nothing and nowhere
except Portland Place and the grave.

The path that led somewhere was the English habit of mind
which deepened its ruts every day. The English mind was like the
London drawing-room, a comfortable and easy spot, filled with
bits and fragments of incoherent furnitures, which were never
meant to go together, and could be arranged in any relation without
making a whole, except by the square room. Philosophy
might dispute about innate ideas till the stars died out in the sky,
but about innate tastes no one, except perhaps a collie dog, has
the right to doubt; least of all, the Englishman, for his tastes are
his being; he drifts after them as unconsciously as a honey-bee
drifts after his flowers, and, in England, every one must drift with
him. Most young Englishmen drifted to the race-course or the

moors or the hunting-field; a few towards books; one or two followed
some form of science; and a number took to what, for want
of a better name, they called Art. Young Adams inherited a certain
taste for the same pursuit from his father who insisted that he
had it not, because he could not see what his son thought he saw
in Turner. The Minister, on the other hand, carried a sort of æsthetic
rag-bag of his own, which he regarded as amusement, and
never called art. So he would wander off on a Sunday to attend
service successively in all the city churches built by Sir Christopher
Wren; or he would disappear from the Legation day after day to
attend coin sales at Sotheby's, where his son attended alternate sales
of drawings, engravings, or water-colors. Neither knew enough to
talk much about the other's tastes, but the only difference between
them was a slight difference of direction. The Minister's mind
like his writings showed a correctness of form and line that his
son would have been well pleased had he inherited.

Of all supposed English tastes, that of art was the most alluring
and treacherous. Once drawn into it, one had small chance of
escape, for it had no centre or circumference, no beginning, middle,
or end, no origin, no object, and no conceivable result as education.
In London one met no corrective. The only American who came
by, capable of teaching, was William Hunt, who stopped to paint
the portrait of the Minister which now completes the family
series at Harvard College. Hunt talked constantly, and was, or
afterwards became, a famous teacher, but Henry Adams did not
know enough to learn. Perhaps, too, he had inherited or acquired
a stock of tastes, as young men must, which he was slow to outgrow.
Hunt had no time to sweep out the rubbish of Adams's
mind. The portrait finished, he went.

As often as he could, Adams ran over to Paris, for sunshine, and
there always sought out Richardson in his attic in the Rue du
Bac, or wherever he lived, and they went off to dine at the Palais
Royal, and talk of whatever interested the students of the Beaux
Arts. Richardson, too, had much to say, but had not yet seized his

style. Adams caught very little of what lay in his mind, and the
less, because, to Adams, everything French was bad except the
restaurants, while the continuous life in England made French art
seem worst of all. This did not prove that English art, in 1866,
was good; far from it; but it helped to make bric-à-brac of all art,
after the manner of England.

Not in the Legation, or in London, but in Yorkshire at Thornes,
Adams met the man that pushed him furthest in this English
garden of innate disorder called taste. The older daughter of
the Milnes Gaskells had married Francis Turner Palgrave. Few
Americans will ever ask whether any one has described the Palgraves,
but the family was one of the most describable in all England
at that day. Old Sir Francis, the father, had been much the
greatest of all the historians of early England, the only one who
was un-English; and the reason of his superiority lay in his name,
which was Cohen, and his mind which was Cohen also, or at least
not English. He changed his name to Palgrave in order to please
his wife. They had a band of remarkable sons: Francis Turner,
Gifford, Reginald, Inglis; all of whom made their mark. Gifford
was perhaps the most eccentric, but his "Travels" in Arabia were
famous, even among the famous travels of that generation. Francis
Turner—or, as he was commonly called, Frank Palgrave—
unable to work off his restlessness in travel like Gifford, and stifled
in the atmosphere of the Board of Education, became a critic.
His art-criticisms helped to make the Saturday Review a terror to
the British artist. His literary taste, condensed into the "Golden
Treasury," helped Adams to more literary education than he ever
got from any taste of his own. Palgrave himself held rank as one
of the minor poets; his hymns had vogue. As an art-critic he was
too ferocious to be liked; even Holman Hunt found his temper
humorous; among many rivals, he may perhaps have had a right
to claim the much-disputed rank of being the most unpopular
man in London; but he liked to teach, and asked only for a docile
pupil. Adams was docile enough, for he knew nothing and liked

to listen. Indeed, he had to listen, whether he liked or not, for
Palgrave's voice was strident, and nothing could stop him. Literature,
painting, sculpture, architecture were open fields for his
attacks, which were always intelligent if not always kind, and when
these failed, he readily descended to meaner levels. John Richard
Green, who was Palgrave's precise opposite, and whose Irish
charm of touch and humor defended him from most assaults, used
to tell with delight of Palgrave's call on him just after he had
moved into his new Queen Anne house in Kensington Square:
"Palgrave called yesterday, and the first thing he said was, 'I've
counted three anachronisms on your front doorstep.' "

Another savage critic, also a poet, was Thomas Woolner, a type
almost more emphatic than Palgrave in a society which resounded
with emphasis. Woolner's sculpture showed none of the rough
assertion that Woolner himself showed, when he was not making
supernatural effort to be courteous, but his busts were remarkable,
and his work altogether was, in Palgrave's clamorous opinion, the
best of his day. He took the matter of British art—or want of
art—seriously, almost ferociously, as a personal grievance and
torture; at times he was rather terrifying in the anarchistic wrath
of his denunciation. As Henry Adams felt no responsibility for
English art, and had no American art to offer for sacrifice, he
listened with enjoyment to language much like Carlyle's, and
accepted it without a qualm. On the other hand, as a third member
of this critical group, he fell in with Stopford Brooke whose
tastes lay in the same direction, and whose expression was modified
by clerical propriety. Among these men, one wandered off
into paths of education much too devious and slippery for an
American foot to follow. He would have done better to go on the
race-track, as far as concerned a career.

Fortunately for him he knew too little ever to be an art-critic,
still less an artist. For some things ignorance is good, and art is
one of them. He knew he knew nothing, and had not the trained
eye or the keen instinct that trusted itself; but he was curious, as

he went on, to find out how much others knew. He took Palgrave's
word as final about a drawing of Rembrandt or Michael Angelo,
and he trusted Woolner implicitly about a Turner; but when he
quoted their authority to any dealer, the dealer pooh-poohed it,
and declared that it had no weight in the trade. If he went to a
sale of drawings or paintings, at Sotheby's or Christie's, an hour
afterwards, he saw these same dealers watching Palgrave or Woolner
for a point, and bidding over them. He rarely found two
dealers agree in judgment. He once bought a water-color from
the artist himself, out of his studio, and had it doubted an hour
afterwards by the dealer to whose place he took it for framing.
He was reduced to admit that he could not prove its authenticity;
internal evidence was against it.

One morning in early July, 1867, Palgrave stopped at the Legation
in Portland Place on his way downtown, and offered to take
Adams to Sotheby's, where a small collection of old drawings was
on show. The collection was rather a curious one, said to be that
of Sir Anthony Westcomb, from Liverpool, with an undisturbed
record of a century, but with nothing to attract notice. Probably
none but collectors or experts examined the portfolios. Some
dozens of these were always on hand, following every sale, and
especially on the lookout for old drawings, which became rarer
every year. Turning rapidly over the numbers, Palgrave stopped
at one containing several small drawings, one marked as Rembrandt,
one as Rafael; and putting his finger on the Rafael, after
careful examination; "I should buy this," he said; "it looks to me
like one of those things that sell for five shillings one day, and
fifty pounds the next." Adams marked it for a bid, and the next
morning came down to the auction. The numbers sold slowly, and
at noon he thought he might safely go to lunch. When he came
back, half an hour afterwards, the drawing was gone. Much
annoyed at his own stupidity, since Palgrave had expressly said
he wanted the drawing for himself if he had not in a manner
given it to Adams, the culprit waited for the sale to close, and then

asked the clerk for the name of the buyer. It was Holloway, the art-dealer,
near Covent Garden, whom he slightly knew. Going at
once to the shop he waited till young Holloway came in, with
his purchases under his arm, and without attempt at preface,
he said: "You bought to-day, Mr. Holloway, a number that I
wanted. Do you mind letting me have it?" Holloway took out
the parcel, looked over the drawings, and said that he had bought
the number for the sake of the Rembrandt, which he thought
possibly genuine; taking that out, Adams might have the rest for
the price he paid for the lot—twelve shillings.

Thus, down to that moment, every expert in London had probably
seen these drawings. Two of them—only two—had thought
them worth buying at any price, and of these two, Palgrave chose
the Rafael, Holloway the one marked as Rembrandt. Adams, the
purchaser of the Rafael, knew nothing whatever on the subject,
but thought he might credit himself with education to the value
of twelve shillings, and call the drawing nothing. Such items of
education commonly came higher.

He took the drawing to Palgrave. It was closely pasted to an
old, rather thin, cardboard mount, and, on holding it up to the
window, one could see lines on the reverse. "Take it down to Reed
at the British Museum," said Palgrave; "he is Curator of the
drawings, and, if you ask him, he will have it taken off the mount."
Adams amused himself for a day or two by searching Rafael's
works for the figure, which he found at last in the Parnasso, the
figure of Horace, of which, as it happened—though Adams did
not know it—the British Museum owned a much finer drawing.
At last he took the dirty, little, unfinished red-chalk sketch to
Reed whom he found in the Curator's room, with some of the finest
Rafael drawings in existence, hanging on the walls. "Yes!" said
Mr. Reed; "I noticed this at the sale; but it's not Rafael!" Adams,
feeling himself incompetent to discuss this subject, reported the
result to Palgrave, who said that Reed knew nothing about it.
Also this point lay beyond Adams's competence; but he noted that

Reed was in the employ of the British Museum as Curator of the
best—or nearly the best—collection in the world, especially of
Rafaels, and that he bought for the Museum. As expert he had
rejected both the Rafael and the Rembrandt at first-sight, and
after his attention was recalled to the Rafael for a further opinion
he rejected it again.

A week later, Adams returned for the drawing, which Mr.
Reed took out of his drawer and gave him, saying with what
seemed a little doubt or hesitation: "I should tell you that the
paper shows a water-mark, which I find the same as that of paper
used by Marc Antonio." A little taken back by this method of
studying art, a method which even a poor and ignorant American
might use as well as Rafael himself, Adams asked stupidly:
"Then you think it genuine?" "Possibly!" replied Reed; "but
much overdrawn."

Here was expert opinion after a second revise, with help of watermarks!
In Adams's opinion it was alone worth another twelve
shillings as education; but this was not all. Reed continued:
"The lines on the back seem to be writing, which I cannot read,
but if you will take it down to the manuscript-room, they will
read it for you."

Adams took the sheet down to the keeper of the manuscripts
and begged him to read the lines. The keeper, after a few minutes'
study, very obligingly said he could not: "It is scratched with
an artist's crayon, very rapidly, with many unusual abbreviations
and old forms. If any one in Europe can read it, it is the old man
at the table yonder, Libri! Take it to him!"

This expert broke down on the alphabet! He could not even
judge a manuscript; but Adams had no right to complain, for he
had nothing to pay, not even twelve shillings, though he thought
these experts worth more, at least for his education. Accordingly
he carried his paper to Libri, a total stranger to him, and asked the
old man, as deferentially as possible, to tell him whether the lines
had any meaning. Had Adams not been an ignorant person he

would have known all about Libri, but his ignorance was vast, and
perhaps was for the best. Libri looked at the paper, and then
looked again, and at last bade him sit down and wait. Half an hour
passed before he called Adams back and showed him these lines:—

As far as Adams could afterwards recall it, this was Libri's
reading, but he added that the abbreviations were many and
unusual; that the writing was very ancient; and that the word he
read as "elleria" in the first line was not Italian at all.

By this time, one had got too far beyond one's depth to ask
questions. If Libri could not read Italian, very clearly Adams
had better not offer to help him. He took the drawing, thanked
everybody, and having exhausted the experts of the British Museum,
took a cab to Woolner's studio, where he showed the figure
and repeated Reed's opinion. Woolner snorted: "Reed's a fool!"
he said; "he knows nothing about it; there may be a rotten line
or two, but the drawing's all right."

For forty years Adams kept this drawing on his mantelpiece,
partly for its own interest, but largely for curiosity to see whether
any critic or artist would ever stop to look at it. None ever did,
unless he knew the story. Adams himself never wanted to know
more about it. He refused to seek further light. He never cared
to learn whether the drawing was Rafael's, or whether the verse
were Rafael's, or whether even the water-mark was Rafael's.
The experts—some scores of them including the British Museum,
—had affirmed that the drawing was worth a certain moiety of
twelve shillings. On that point, also, Adams could offer no opinion,
but he was clear that his education had profited by it to that
extent—his amusement even more.

Art was a superb field for education, but at every turn he met
the same old figure, like a battered and illegible signpost that
ought to direct him to the next station but never did. There was
no next station. All the art of a thousand—or ten thousand—
years had brought England to stuff which Palgrave and Woolner
brayed in their mortars; derided, tore in tatters, growled at, and
howled at, and treated in terms beyond literary usage. Whistler
had not yet made his appearance in London, but the others did
quite as well. What result could a student reach from it? Once,
on returning to London, dining with Stopford Brooke, some one
asked Adams what impression the Royal Academy Exhibition
made on him. With a little hesitation, he suggested that it was
rather a chaos, which he meant for civility; but Stopford Brooke
abruptly met it by asking whether chaos were not better than
death. Truly the question was worth discussion. For his own
part, Adams inclined to think that neither chaos nor death was
an object to him as a searcher of knowledge—neither would
have vogue in America—neither would help him to a career.
Both of them led him away from his objects, into an English
dilettante museum of scraps, with nothing but a wall-paper to
unite them in any relation of sequence. Possibly English taste was
one degree more fatal than English scholarship, but even this question
was open to argument. Adams went to the sales and bought
what he was told to buy; now a classical drawing by Rafael or
Rubens; now a water-color by Girtin or Cotman, if possible unfinished
because it was more likely to be a sketch from nature; and
he bought them not because they went together—on the contrary,
they made rather awkward spots on the wall as they did on
the mind—but because he could afford to buy those, and not
others. Ten pounds did not go far to buy a Michael Angelo, but
was a great deal of money to a private secretary. The effect was
spotty, fragmentary, feeble; and the more so because the British
mind was constructed in that way—boasted of it, and held it to
be true philosophy as well as sound method.

What was worse, no one had a right to denounce the English
as wrong. Artistically their mind was scrappy, and every one
knew it, but perhaps thought itself, history, and nature, were
scrappy, and ought to be studied so. Turning from British art to
British literature, one met the same dangers. The historical school
was a playground of traps and pitfalls. Fatally one fell into the
sink of history—antiquarianism. For one who nourished a natural
weakness for what was called history, the whole of British literature
in the nineteenth century was antiquarianism or anecdotage,
for no one except Buckle had tried to link it with ideas, and commonly
Buckle was regarded as having failed. Macaulay was the
English historian. Adams had the greatest admiration for Macaulay,
but he felt that any one who should even distantly imitate
Macaulay would perish in self-contempt. One might as well imitate
Shakespeare. Yet evidently something was wrong here, for
the poet and the historian ought to have different methods, and
Macaulay's method ought to be imitable if it were sound; yet the
method was more doubtful than the style. He was a dramatist; a
painter; a poet, like Carlyle. This was the English mind, method,
genius, or whatever one might call it; but one never could quite
admit that the method which ended in Froude and Kinglake
could be sound for America where passion and poetry were eccentricities.
Both Froude and Kinglake, when one met them at dinner,
were very agreeable, very intelligent; and perhaps the English
method was right, and art fragmentary by essence. History,
like everything else, might be a field of scraps, like the refuse about
a Staffordshire iron-furnace. One felt a little natural reluctance
to decline and fall like Silas Wegg on the golden dust-heap of
British refuse; but if one must, one could at least expect a degree
from Oxford and the respect of the Athenæum Club.

While drifting, after the war ended, many old American friends
came abroad for a holiday, and among the rest, Dr. Palfrey, busy
with his "History of New England." Of all the relics of childhood,
Dr. Palfrey was the most sympathetic, and perhaps the more so

because he, too, had wandered into the pleasant meadows of antiquarianism,
and had forgotten the world in his pursuit of the New
England Puritan. Although America seemed becoming more and
more indifferent to the Puritan except as a slightly rococo ornament,
he was only the more amusing as a study for the Monkbarns
of Boston Bay, and Dr. Palfrey took him seriously, as his
clerical education required. His work was rather an Apologia in
the Greek sense; a justification of the ways of God to Man, or,
what was much the same thing, of Puritans to other men; and the
task of justification was onerous enough to require the occasional
relief of a contrast or scapegoat. When Dr. Palfrey happened on
the picturesque but unpuritanic figure of Captain John Smith,
he felt no call to beautify Smith's picture or to defend his moral
character; he became impartial and penetrating. The famous
story of Pocahontas roused his latent New England scepticism.
He suggested to Adams, who wanted to make a position for himself,
that an article in the North American Review on Captain John
Smith's relations with Pocahontas would attract as much attention,
and probably break as much glass, as any other stone that
could be thrown by a beginner. Adams could suggest nothing
better. The task seemed likely to be amusing. So he planted
himself in the British Museum and patiently worked over all the
material he could find, until, at last, after three or four months
of labor, he got it in shape and sent it to Charles Norton, who
was then editing the North American. Mr. Norton very civilly
and even kindly accepted it. The article appeared in January,
1867.

Surely, here was something to ponder over, as a step in education;
something that tended to stagger a sceptic! In spite of personal
wishes, intentions, and prejudices; in spite of civil wars and
diplomatic education; in spite of determination to be actual,
daily, and practical, Henry Adams found himself, at twenty-eight,
still in English society, dragged on one side into English dilettantism,
which of all dilettantism he held the most futile; and,

on the other, into American antiquarianism, which of all antiquarianism
he held the most foolish. This was the result of five
years in London. Even then he knew it to be a false start. He had
wholly lost his way. If he were ever to amount to anything, he
must begin a new education, in a new place, with a new purpose.