respectable subscription library, a circulating
library of ancient standing, and some private book-shelves, were open
to my random perusal, and I waded into the stream like a blind man
into a ford, without the power of searching my way, unless by groping
for it. My appetite for books was as ample and indiscriminating as it
was indefatigable, and I since have had too frequently reason to
repent that few ever read so much, and to so little purpose.

Among the valuable acquisitions I made about this time was an
acquaintance with Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, through the flat medium
of Mr. Hoole's translation. But above all, I then first became
acquainted with Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry. As I had
been from infancy devoted to legendary lore of this nature, and only
reluctantly withdrew my attention, from the {p.032} scarcity of
materials and the rudeness of those which I possessed, it may be
imagined, but cannot be described, with what delight I saw pieces of
the same kind which had amused my childhood, and still continued in
secret the Delilahs of my imagination, considered as the subject of
sober research, grave commentary, and apt illustration, by an editor
who showed his poetical genius was capable of emulating the best
qualities of what his pious labor preserved. I remember well the spot
where I read these volumes for the first time. It was beneath a huge
platanus-tree, in the ruins of what had been intended for an
old-fashioned arbor in the _garden_ I have mentioned. The summer day
sped onward so fast that, notwithstanding the sharp appetite of
thirteen, I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety,
and was still found entranced in my intellectual banquet. To read and
to remember was in this instance the same thing, and henceforth I
overwhelmed my schoolfellows, and all who would hearken to me, with
tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop Percy. The first time,
too, I could scrape a few shillings together, which were not common
occurrences with me, I bought unto myself a copy of these beloved
volumes; nor do I believe I ever read a book half so frequently, or
with half the enthusiasm. About this period, also, I became acquainted
with the works of Richardson, and those of Mackenzie--(whom in later
years I became entitled to call my friend)--with Fielding, Smollett,
and some others of our best novelists.

To this period, also, I can trace distinctly the awaking of that
delightful feeli