How shall I describe the emotions with which I read the first novel I ever
perused! A school-fellow had secretly brought with him from home after the
holidays, the novel of Peregrine Pickle, which he carefully concealed in
his trunk. He at first lent it to some of the elder boys, who read it, and
enlarging on some of the most despicable incidents to be found, disgusted
my meek spirit of it, by their report. It seemed to violate all my
cherished ideas of beauty and soft luxury. I was then about fourteen years
of age, and my companions persuaded me to a perusal. I took it up
listlessly, expecting but little pleasure, but what language can paint the
manner in which I was entranced by it? I read it over and over with
increased delight, my entire soul and frame of mind and passions seemed to
be suddenly changed and remodelled. I forgot Ariadne and Telemachus, and
Tom Pipes and Hatchway became my idols, the undivided objects of my
admiration.

I had hitherto been a remarkably quiet and inoffensive boy; Telemachus I
considered never took delight in robbing orchards. I had the confidence of
my teachers from my uniform rejection of any participation in the rude
affrays, the catastrophe of which dramas was in general an almost universal
flogging match. My admiration naturally led to its probable result, a
desire to imitate--I firmly resolved to become a Peregrine. I soon promoted
myself to be the leader of every mad prank that the wit of a spirit
suddenly excited to activity could devise. In the first fortnight I got
flogged for tying a huge mass of brown paper to the tail of the favourite
cat of the master's lady, with which she rushed with an insane and
terrifying distraction into the drawing-room. We owed a spite to a
neighbouring milkman for tale-bearing, and we rendered his pump, the great
source of profit, useless, by filling it with soot and mire. The old woman