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Books That I Loved As A Boy
by
“But there was still a good deal of unoccupied time on my hands between the first of October and the first of May, and having learned to read (in the old-fashioned way, by wrestling with the alphabet and plain spelling), at the age of about five years, I was willing enough to give some of my juvenile leisure to books and try to find out what they had to say about various things which interested me. I did not go to school until my tenth year, and so there was quite a long period left free for general reading, beginning with the delightful old-fashioned books of fairy tales without a moral, and closing with ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Don Quixote,’ and Plutarch’s ‘Lives of Illustrious Men.’ In the last two books I took a real and vivid interest, though I now suspect that it was strictly limited in range. They seemed to open a new world to me, the world of the past, in which I could see men moving about and doing the most remarkable things. Both of these books appeared to me equally historical; I neither doubted the truth of their narratives nor attended to the philosophical reflections with which they were padded. The meaning of the long words I guessed at.
“My taste at this time was most indiscriminate. I could find some kind of enjoyment in almost anything that called itself a book–even a Sunday-school story, or a child’s history of the world–provided only it gave something concrete for imagination to work upon. The mere process of reading, with the play of fancy that it quickened, became an agreeable pastime. I got a great deal of pleasure, and possibly some good, out of Bunyan’s ‘Holy War’ (which I perversely preferred to ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’) and Livingstone’s ‘Missionary Journals and Researches,’ and a book about the Scotch Covenanters. These volumes shortened many a Sunday. I also liked parts of ‘The Compleat Angler,’ but the best parts I skipped.
“With the coming of school days the time for reading was reduced, and it became necessary to make a choice among books. The natural instincts of youth asserted themselves, and I became a devotee of Captain Mayne Reid and R. M. Ballantyne, whose simple narratives of wild adventure offered a refuge from the monotony of academic life. It gave me no concern that the names of these authors were not included in the encyclopaedias of literature nor commented upon in the critical reviews. I had no use for the encyclopaedias or reviews; but ‘The Young Voyageurs,’ ‘The White Chief,’ ‘Osceola the Seminole,’ ‘The Bush Boys,’ ‘The Coral Island,’ ‘Red Eric,’ ‘Ungava,’ and ‘The Gorilla Hunters’ gave me unaffected delight.
“After about two years of this innocent dissipation I began to feel the desire for a better life, and turned, by my father’s advice, to Sir Walter Scott. ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘The Pirate’ pleased me immensely; ‘Waverley’ and ‘The Heart of Midlothian’ I accepted with qualifications; but the two of Scott’s novels that gave me the most pleasure, I regret to state, were ‘Quentin Durward’ and ‘Count Robert of Paris.’ Then Dickens claimed me, and I yielded 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.”