the treasures of India. I should perhaps be astonished, were it
possible to ascertain the date, at which a favourite tale was
engraved, by frequent repetition, in my memory: the Cavern of the
Winds; the Palace of Felicity; and the fatal moment, at the end of
three months or centuries, when Prince Adolphus is overtaken by
Time, who had worn out so many pair of wings in the pursuit. Before
I left Kingston school I was well acquainted with Pope's Homer and
the Arabian Nights Entertainments, two books which will always
please by the moving picture of human manners and specious miracles:
nor was I then capable of discerning that Pope's translation is a
portrait endowed with every merit, excepting that of likeness to the
original. The verses of Pope accustomed my ear to the sound of
poetic harmony: in the death of Hector, and the shipwreck of
Ulysses, I tasted the new emotions of terror and pity; and seriously
disputed with my aunt on the vices and virtues of the heroes of the
Trojan war. From Pope's Homer to Dryden's Virgil was an easy
transition; but I know not how, from some fault in the author, the
translator, or the reader, the pious Aeneas did not so forcibly
seize on my imagination; and I derived more pleasure from Ovid's
Metamorphoses, especially in the fall of Phaeton, and the speeches
of Ajax and Ulysses. My grand-father's flight unlocked the door of
a tolerable library; and I turned over many English pages of poetry
and romance, of history and travels. Where a title attracted my
eye, without fear or awe I snatched the volume from the shelf; and
Mrs. Porten, who indulged herself in moral and religious
speculations, was more prone to encourage than to check a curiosity
above the strength of a boy. This year (1748), the twelfth of my
age, I shall note as the most propitious to the growth of my
intellectual stature.