ded to the spell of
'Oliver Twist,' 'David Copperfield,' and 'Pickwick Papers.'

"By this time it had begun to dawn upon me that there was a difference
among books, not only in regard to the things told, but also in regard
to the way of the telling. Unconsciously I became sensitive to the
magic of style, and, wandering freely through the library, was drawn to
the writers whose manner and accent had a charm for me. Emerson and
Carlyle I liked no better than I liked caviar; but Lamb's Essays and
Irving's Sketches were fascinating. For histories of literature, thank
Heaven, I never had any appetite. I preferred real books to books about
books. My only idea of literature was a vivid reflection of life in the
world of fancy or in the world of fact.

"In poetry, Milton's 'Comus' was about the first thing that took hold
of me; I cannot tell why--perhaps it was because I liked my father's
reading of it. But even he could not persuade me to anything more than
a dim respect for 'Paradise Lost.' Some of Shakespeare's plays
entranced me; particularly 'The Tempest,' 'Romeo and Juliet,' and 'As
You Like It;' but there were others which made no real impression upon
my wayward mind. Dryden and Pope and Cowper I tried in vain to
appreciate; the best that I could attain to was a respectful
admiration. 'The Lady of the Lake' and 'The Ancient Mariner,' on the
contrary, were read without an effort and with sincere joy. The first
book of poetry that I bought for myself was Tennyson's 'Enoch Arden,'
and I never regretted the purchase, for it led me on, somehow or other,
into the poetic studies and the real intimacy with books which enabled
me to go through college without serious damage.

"I cannot remember just when I first read 'Henry Esmond;' perhaps it
was about the beginning of sophomore year. But, at all events, it was
then that I ceased to love books as a boy and began to love them as a
man."

"And do you still love 'Henry Esmond'?" I asked.

"I do indeed," said my Uncle Peter, "and I call it the greatest of
English novels. But very close to it I put 'Lorna Doone,' and 'The
Heart of Midlothian,' and 'The Cloister and the Hearth,' and 'The
Ordeal of Richard Feverel,' and 'John Inglesant.'"

"If you love 'John Inglesant,'" said I, "you must be getting old, Uncle
Peter."

"Oh, no," he answered, comfortably lighting his pipe with a live coal
of wood from the hearth, "I am only growing up."

AMONG THE QUANTOCK HILLS

My