Spain.... When in Spain, Mr. Ticknor is busy learning
Spanish and collecting Spanish books, and here he lays the groundwork
for that special literary distinction for which he is now so widely
known.--Adapted from the _Athenaeum_ and _Quarterly Review_.

LI

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

Fitz-Greene Halleck died at a ripe old age in 1867. On the evening of
February 2d, 1869, Bryant delivered an address on the life and
writings of Halleck. The address was given before the New York
Historical Society and was printed the next day in the _New York
Evening Post_. Here is an interesting extract from the address:

"When I look back upon Halleck's literary life I cannot help thinking
that if his death had happened forty years earlier, his life would
have been regarded as a bright morning prematurely overcast. Yet
Halleck's literary career may be said to have ended then. All that
will hand down his name to future years had already been produced. Who
shall say to what cause his subsequent literary inaction was owing? It
was not the decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation showed
that it was not. Was it, then, indifference to fame? Was it because he
had put an humble estimate on what he had written, and therefore
resolved to write no more? Was it because he feared lest what he might
write would be unworthy of the reputation he had been so fortunate to
acquire?

"I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in the
latter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore to
Horace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems by
him that he might give them the last and happiest touches. He had a
tenacious verbal memory, and having composed his poems without
committing them to paper, he revised them in the same manner,
murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering the
enthusiasm with which they were first received, and in this state
heightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression. I remember
that once in crossing Washington Park I saw Halleck before me and
quickened my pace to overtake him. As I drew near I heard him crooning
to himself what seemed to be lines of verse, and as he threw back his
hands in walking I perceived that they quivered with the feeling of
the passage he was reciting. I instantly checked my pace and fell
back, out of reverence for the mood of inspiration which seemed to be
upon him, and fearful lest I should intercept the birth of a poem
d