torical Society. Some pieces of
wood held sheets of paper in place; other strips of wood kept the pencil
going in fairly straight lines. But sometimes when he used this at
night, or when his eye was bandaged, he would forget to put in a fresh
sheet of paper and would scribble ahead for a long time, writing the
same lines over and across until his secretaries would have a hard time
to find out what he meant. He did not want to waste time by asking to
have the same thing read twice to him, so he trained his memory until he
could carry the exact words on a page in his mind, and after a while he
could repeat whole chapters without a mistake. But it was slow work
making books this way. He was ten years getting his first one, the
history of Ferdinand and Isabella, ready for the publisher.

Prescott did not talk about this work. No one but his parents and the
secretaries knew that he was busy at all, because in his resting hours
he was often seen at balls and parties, laughing and chatting in his own
lively way. And one day one of his relatives drew him aside (this was
when he had been grinding away in his library for eight years) and said:
"William, it seems to me you are wasting your time sadly. Why don't you
stop being so idle and try some kind of work?"

This same relation and all Prescott's friends were astonished and proud
enough when, two years later, three big volumes of Spanish history were
for sale in the book-stores, with William Hickling Prescott's name given
as the author. That season every one who could afford it gave their
friends a Christmas present of the Prescott books. He had compliments
enough to turn his head, but he was too sensible to be vain. He wrote
several other books and soon became famous. When he was in London, he
had many honors shown him.

Prescott was fond of children and always kept a stock of candy and
sweets on hand for small people. His servants adored him and so did his
secretaries. They used to tell how he would frolic, even at his work.
Sometimes when he had got to a place in one of the books where he must
describe a battle scene, he would dash about the room, singing at the
top of his lungs some stirring ballad like: "Oh, give me but my Arab
steed!" And then when he felt he really "had his steam up" he would
begin to write. He was kind and generous and showed so much courtesy to
rich and poor alike that he has been called the finest gentleman of his
time. No doubt he was, but it is tr