I hoarded my scanty allowance to subscribe to a circulating library, which I had heard was to be found at some four miles distance. It was occasionally expedient to send hither, to supply the domestic exigencies of the family. I offered myself as volunteer for all messages, errands, and parcels, and I returned laden with the produce of this contaminated and contaminating receptacle of trash. I had however a friend, whose kindness and judgment preserved me from any mighty mischief. My master had a daughter. It is not impossible that she may yet live, nor is it utterly improbable that she may peruse this narrative. Be it so. I do not less willingly pay the debt of gratitude. This young lady distinguished me above my fellows, cheered me, encouraged my desire for books, directed me in the choice of them, nor did I venture to read any without the sanction of her awful fiat. Qui semel imbuerit rugas nutricis amabat. CHAPTER III. Shall I say which was the first book that most strongly excited my curiosity, and interested my sensibility? It was Tom Jones. My female Mentor tantalized me without mercy. She would let me have but one volume at a time; and not only would not afford me any clue to the concluding catastrophe, but rather put me upon a wrong scent. Sometimes too when my impatience of expectation was at the very highest point possible, the succeeding volume was mislaid, was lent, was not impossibly lost. However, after a long and most severe trial, after hating Blifil with no common hatred, forming a most friendly intimacy with Partridge, loving Sophia with rapturous extravagance, I complacently accompanied dear wicked Tom to the nuptial altar. I endeavoured of course to procure the other productions of this popular author, but I well remember that I did not peruse any of them, no not within a hundred degrees of the satisfaction, which the Foundling communicated. The next book which chance threw in my way rendered me important service. It enlarged my mind, multiplied my ideas, inflamed my ambition, and gave my curiosity and desire of knowledge, a proper direction. I by accident picked up in a closet, little frequented, the first volume of Pope’s translation of the Iliad. It was a mean edition, which I do not remember to have since seen; but it had notes and illustrations, which were to me extremely necessary. It is not possible to express the enthusiasm, with which I hurried through it, nor the anxious impatience with which I hastened to my female adviser to supply the continuation.—Alas! no more volumes were to be found in the house. What was to be done? I could not endure the idea of beginning any other book. I made the attempt, indeed, but it was impossible. My mind was too elevated, to descend from gods and heroes, (from goddesses more particularly, for I adored Pallas) to the humdrum of common authors, and the incidents of ordinary life.