of good sense; and it
will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome guest where I
visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or three met
together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of
my heart was a leaning toward the adorable half of humankind. My heart
was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or
other; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was
various; sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was
mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook I feared
no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; and as I never
cared further for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I
spent the evenings in the way after my own heart.

Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my mind
and manners was that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast,
a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn mensuration,
surveying, dialling, etc., in which I made a pretty good progress. But
I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband
trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me
to fall with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and
roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to me; but I was no enemy
to social life.

My reading meantime was enlarged with the very important addition of
Thomson's and Shenstone's Works. I had seen human nature in a new
phase; and I engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary
correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had met
with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and
pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters
that pleased me, and a comparison between them and the composition of
most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so
far that, though I had not three farthings' worth of business in the
world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had
been a broad plodding son of the day-book and ledger.

My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year.
The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure:
Sterne and Mackenzie--"Tristram Shandy" and the "Man of Feeling"--were
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but
it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had
usually h