gentleman, but too much
occupied with graver business, to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a
confidant of my childish mystery.
    When boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and graver
cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction, as if it were by
a species of fatality. My indisposition arose, in part at least, from my having
broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech were for a long time pronounced
positively dangerous. For several weeks I was confined strictly to my bed,
during which time I was not allowed to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a
spoonful or two of boiled rice, or to have more covering than one thin
counterpane. When the reader is informed that I was at this time a growing
youth, with the spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of
course, greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my
disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that I was abandoned
to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole amusement) was
concerned, and still less so, that I abused the indulgence which left my time so
much at my own disposal.
    There was at this time a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I
believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a most
respectable collection of books of every description, was, as might have been
expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. It exhibited specimens of every
kind from the romances of chivalry, and the ponderous folios of Cyrus and
Cassandra, down to the most approved works of later times. I was plunged into
this great ocean of reading without compass or pilot; and unless when some one
had the charity to play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing save read,
from morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps erroneous,
however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at my own pleasure,
upon the same principle that the humours of children are indulged to keep them
out of mischief. As my taste and appetite were gratified in nothing else, I
indemnified myself by becoming a glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read
almost all the romances, old plays, and epic poetry, in that formidable
collection, and no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in
which it has been my lot to be so much employed.
    At the same time I did not in all respects abuse the license permitted me.
Familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought with it some