Waverley | Page 4

arose, in part at least,
from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech were for
a long time pronounced positively dangerous. For several weeks I was
confined strictly to my bed, during which time I was not allowed to
speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled

rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. When the
reader is informed that I was at this time a growing youth, with the
spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course,
greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my
disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that I was
abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole
amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that I abused the
indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal.
There was at this time a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I
believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a
most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as
might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. It
exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry and
the ponderous folios of Cyrus and Cassandra, down to the most
approved works of later times. I was plunged into this great ocean of
reading without compass or pilot; and, unless when some one had the
charity to play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing save read
from morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps
erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at
my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children
are indulged to keep them out of mischief. As my taste and appetite
were gratified in nothing else, I indemnified myself by becoming a
glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read almost all the romances,
old plays, and epic poetry in that formidable collection, and no doubt
was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it has been
my lot to be so much employed.
At the same time I did not in all respects abuse the license permitted me.
Familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought
with it some degree of satiety, and I began by degrees to seek in
histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as
wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the
additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true. The
lapse of nearly two years, during which I was left to the exercise of my
own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the country,
where I was again very lonely but for the amusement which I derived

from a good though old-fashioned library. The vague and wild use
which I made of this advantage I cannot describe better than by
referring my reader to the desultory studies of Waverley in a similar
situation, the passages concerning whose course of reading were
imitated from recollections of my own. It must be understood that the
resemblance extends no farther.
Time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and
personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped
for. The severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession
occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and
companions, who were about to enter life along with, me, filled up the
interval with the usual amusements of young men. I was in a situation
which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing, on
the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to
favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the
other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, I
might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less
degree of trouble which I should take to qualify myself as a pleader.
It makes no part of the present story to detail how the success of a few
ballads had the effect of changing all the purpose and tenor of my life,
and of converting a painstaking lawyer of some years' standing into a
follower of literature. It is enough to say, that I had assumed the latter
character for several years before I seriously thought of attempting a
work of imagination in prose, although one or two of my poetical
attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by being written
in verse. But yet I may observe, that about this time (now, alas! thirty
years since) I had nourished the ambitious desire of composing a tale of
chivalry, which was to be in the style of the Castle