f books like
a vessel without a pilot or a rudder. Nothing perhaps increases by
indulgence more than a desultory habit of reading, especially under such
opportunities of gratifying it. I believe one reason why such numerous
instances of erudition occur among the lower ranks is, that, with the
same powers of mind, the poor student is limited to a narrow circle for
indulging his passion for books, and must necessarily make himself master
of the few he possesses ere he can acquire more. Edward, on the contrary,
like the epicure who only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny
side of a peach, read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his
curiosity or interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of
seeking only this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult
of attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites,
produced by indulgence a sort of satiety.

Ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in a
memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and
miscellaneous information. In English literature he was master of
Shakespeare and Milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many
picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical chronicles,
and was particularly well acquainted with Spenser, Drayton, and other
poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of all themes
the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the passions have
roused themselves and demand poetry of a more sentimental description. In
this respect his acquaintance with Italian opened him yet a wider range.
He had perused the numerous romantic poems, which, from the days of
Pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of Italy, and had
sought gratification in the numerous collections of novelle, which were
brought forth by the genius of that elegant though luxurious nation, in
emulation of the 'Decameron.' In classical literature, Waverley had made
the usual progress, and read the usual authors; and the French had
afforded him an almost exhaustless collection of memoirs, scarcely more
faithful than romances, and of romances so well written as hardly to be
distinguished from memoirs. The splendid pages of Froissart, with his
heart-stirring and eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments,
were among his chief favourites; and from those of Brantome and De la
Noue he learned to compare the wild and loose, yet superstitious,