When I drew Riley out to talk still further of those interesting days,
and the strange experiences which came to him therein, the conversation
finally turned on the subject of his youthful ambitions. “I think my
earliest remembered one,” he said, “was an insatiate longing to become
a baker. I don’t know what prompted it, unless it was the vision of
the mountains of alluring ‘goodies,’ which, as they are ranged in the
windows of the pastry shops, appear doubly tempting to the youth whose
mother not only counsels moderation, but enforces it.
“Next, I imagined that I would like to become a showman of some sort,
and then my shifting fancy conjured up visions of how grand it would be
to work as a painter, and decorate houses and fences in glowing colors,
but finally, as I grew a little older, there returned my old longing to
become an actor. When, however, my dreams were realized, and I became
a member of a traveling theatrical company, I found that the life was
full of hardships, with very little chances of rising in the world. I
never had any literary ambition whatever, so far as I can remember. I
wrote, primarily, simply because I desired to have something to read,
and could not find selections that exactly suited me. Gradually I found
a demand for my little efforts springing up, and so my brother, who
could write legibly, transcribed them.”