"When I think what a thing of shreds and patches I am, I wonder that I have any sort of individual temperament or consciousness at all. But I know that I have, and that you wrote me with pleasure and like me still. You think I have form, and that, if I am not very serious, I am sincere, and that somehow I represent a phase of our droll American civilization truly enough. I know you were vexed when some people said I did not go far enough, and insisted that the coast of Bohemia ought to have been the whole kingdom. As if I should have cared to be that! There are shady places inland where I should not have liked my girls to be, and where I think my young men would not have liked to meet them; and I am glad you kept me within the sweet, pure breath of the sea. I think I am all the better book for that, and, if you are fond of me, you have your reasons. I----" "Upon my word," I interrupted at this point, "it seems to me that you are saying rather more for yourself than I could say for you, if you _are_ one of my spoiled children. Don't you think we had both better give the reader a chance, now?" "Oh, if there are to be any readers!" cried the book, and lapsed into the silence of print. [Illustration: W. D. Howells.] Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader. TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter I. XXI. II. XXII. III. XXIII. IV. XXIV. V. XXV. VI. XXVI. VII. XXVII. VIII. XXVIII. IX. XXIX. X. XXX. XI. XXXI. XII. XXXII. XIII. XXXIII. XIV. XXXIV. XV. XXXV. XVI. XXXVI. XVII. XXXVII. XVIII. XXXVIII. XIX. XXXIX. XX. THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. I.