ted to memory the
whole, or nearly the whole, of the moral songs of Dr. Watts; and many of
them keep their places in my memory to the present day. And though it
may seem incredible to some, I actually committed to memory every hymn
in the Wesleyan Hymn Book. I never knew them all off at one time, but I
got them all off in succession. And I never forgot the better, truer,
simpler, sweeter ones. I can repeat hundreds of them still, with the
exception of here and there a stanza or two. And I committed to memory
all the better portion of the new hymns introduced into the hymn book
by the Methodist New Connection. And I committed to memory choice pieces
of poetry without number. I read Shakespeare till I could quote many of
his best passages, including nearly all his soliloquies, and a number of
long conversations, as readily as I could quote the sacred writings.

I read all Bunyan's works. I could tell the story of his Pilgrim from
beginning to end. I read Robinson Crusoe, and some of the other works of
Defoe. I read Addison and Johnson, Goldsmith and Swift. To get at the
origin and at the primitive meaning of words, I studied French and
German, as well as Latin and Greek. When I met with passages in English
authors that expressed great truths in a style that was not to my taste,
I used to translate them into my own style, just as I did fine passages
from Latin, Greek, or French authors. I also translated poetical
passages into prose. I tried sometimes to translate things into the
language of children, and in some cases I succeeded. I did my best to
keep in mind how I felt, and what I could understand, when I was a child
and a boy, and endeavored to keep my style as near as I could to the
level of my boyish understanding. My first superintendent did not
approve of my plan. "The proper way," said he, "is, not to go down to
the people; but to compel the people to come up to you." He was fond of
a swelling, high-sounding, long-winded style. How far he succeeded in
bringing people up to himself, I cannot say, but I recollect once
hearing a pupil of his talk a whole hour without uttering either a
thought or a feeling that was worth a straw. An old woman, with whom he
had once lived, and with whom he was a great favorite, said to me after
the service, 'Well, how did you like our young man?' 'He talked away,'
said I. 'I think he did,' she answered, 'he grows better and better. _I_
couldn't understand him.' His teacher, my superinte