hout much discrimination, and I
really believe I have read as much nonsense of this class as any man
now living. Everything which touched on knight-errantry was
particularly acceptable to me, and I soon attempted to imitate what I
so greatly admired. My efforts, however, were in the manner of the
tale-teller, not of the bard.

My greatest intimate, from the days of my school-tide, was {p.038}
Mr. John Irving, now a Writer to the Signet. We lived near each other,
and by joint agreement were wont, each of us, to compose a romance for
the other's amusement. These legends, in which the martial and the
miraculous always predominated, we rehearsed to each other during our
walks, which were usually directed to the most solitary spots about
Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags. We naturally sought seclusion, for
we were conscious no small degree of ridicule would have attended our
amusement, if the nature of it had become known. Whole holidays were
spent in this singular pastime, which continued for two or three
years, and had, I believe, no small effect in directing the turn of my
imagination to the chivalrous and romantic in poetry and prose.

Meanwhile, the translations of Mr. Hoole having made me acquainted
with Tasso and Ariosto, I learned from his notes on the latter, that
the Italian language contained a fund of romantic lore. A part of my
earnings was dedicated to an Italian class which I attended twice a
week, and rapidly acquired some proficiency. I had previously renewed
and extended my knowledge of the French language, from the same
principle of romantic research. Tressan's romances, the Bibliotheque
Bleue, and Bibliotheque de Romans, were already familiar to me, and I
now acquired similar intimacy with the works of Dante, Boiardo, Pulci,
and other eminent Italian authors. I fastened also, like a tiger, upon
every collection of old songs or romances which chance threw in my
way, or which my scrutiny was able to discover on the dusty shelves of
James Sibbald's circulating library in the Parliament Square. This
collection, now dismantled and dispersed, contained at that time many
rare and curious works, seldom found in such a collection. Mr. Sibbald
himself, a man of rough manners but of some taste and judgment,
cultivated music and poetry, and in his shop I had a distant view of
some literary characters, besides {p.039} the privilege of
ransacking the stores of old French and Italian books, which were in
little demand