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.
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