Iconfess，however，thatIdonotthinkofhimasapatriotandasocialistwhenIreadhim;heisthenpurelyapoet，whosegiftholdsmeraptabovetheworldwhereIhaveleftmytroublesomeandwearisomeselfforthetime。Idonotknowofanynovelsthatayoungendeavorerinfictioncouldmoreprofitablyreadthanhisfortheirlargeandsimplemethod，theirtrustofthereader’sintelligence，theirsympathywithlife。Withhimtheproblemsareallsolublebytheenlightenedandregeneratewill;thereisnobafflingFate，butahelpingGod。InBjornsonthereisnothingofIbsen’sscornfuldespair，nothingofhisanarchisticcontempt，buthisartisfullofthewarmthandcolorofapoeticsoul，withnotouchoftheicycynicismwhichfreezesyouintheother。IhavefeltthecoldfascinationofIbsen，too，andIshouldbefarfromdenyinghismightymastery，buthehasneverpossessedmewiththedelightthatBjornsonhas。
InthosedaysIreadnotonlyallthenewbooks，butImademanyforaysintothepast，andcamebacknowandthenwithrichspoil，thoughI
confessthatforthemostpartIhadmytroubleformypains;andIwishnowthatIhadgiventhetimeIspentontheEnglishclassicstocontemporaryliterature，whichIhavenottheleasthesitationinsayingIlikevastlybetter。Infact，Ibelievethatthepreferencefortheliteratureofthepast，exceptinthecaseofthegreatestmasters，ismainlytheaffectationofpeoplewhocannototherwisedistinguishthemselvesfromtheherd，andwhowishverymuchtodoso。
Thereismuchtobelearnedfromtheminornovelistsandpoetsofthepastaboutpeople’swaysofthinkingandfeeling，butnotmuchthatthemastersdonotgiveyouinbetterqualityandfullermeasure;andI
shouldsay，Readtheoldmastersandlettheirschoolsgo，ratherthanneglectanypossiblemasterofyourowntime。Aboveall，Iwouldnothaveanyonereadanoldauthormerelythathemightnotbeignorantofhim;thatismostbeggarly，andnogoodcancomeofit。Whenliteraturebecomesadutyitceasestobeapassion，andalltheschoolmasteringintheworld，solemnlyaddressedtotheconscience，cannotmakethefactotherwise。Itiswelltoreadforthesakeofknowingacertaingroundifyouaretomakeuseofyourknowledgeinacertainway，butitwouldbeamistaketosupposethatthisisaloveofliterature。