The Author’s Account of Himself
华盛顿·欧文 / Washington Irving
I was always fond of visiting new scenes， and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels， and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city， to the frequent alarm of my parents， and the emolument of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood I extended my range of observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in ramble about the surrounding country I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been committed， or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages， and added greatly to my stock of knowledge， by noting their habits and customs， and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer’s day to the summit of the most distant hill， where I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita， and was astonished to f？ind how vast a globe I inhabited.
This rambling propensity strengthened with years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion， and in devouring their contents I neglected the regular exercises of the schools. How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in f？ine weather and watch the parting ships bound to distant climes—with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails， and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth！
Further reading and thinking， though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds， only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country； and had I been merely a lover of f？ine scenery， I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratif？ication， for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes like oceans of liquid silver； her mountains with their bright aerial tints； her valleys， teeming with wild fertility； her tremendous cataracts， thundering in their solitudes； her boundless plains， waving with spontaneous verdure； her broad deep rivers， rolling in solemn silence to the ocean； her trackless forests， where vegetation puts forth all its magnif？icence； her skies， kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine， —no， never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.
But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art， the ref？inement of highly， cultivated society， the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise； Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by， and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement—to tread， as it were， in the footsteps of antiquity—to loiter about the ruined castle—to meditate on the falling tower—to escape， in short， from the commonplace realities of the present， and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past.
