But the writer of this history is actuated by no such motives. He, good soul, uses no guile with his readers, wishes to deprive no one of needful sleep, and would shrink with horror from tampering with any one’s business or intellect.
When the writer was a boy, he read a strong and exciting romance, written by a master-hand. There were no idle dissertations in it; every chapter, every paragraph, every sentence, every line, rang with meaning; and it was so forcibly written that it would captivate a stronger mind than his. He [your humble servant, “the writer,”] was not content with one perusal, but read it again, and then lent it to three other boys, who read it with equal avidity. When returned, he might have been tempted to read it for the third time; but, alas! those boys, in their eagerness to read, had apparently neglected to wash their hands; and had turned over the leaves so hurriedly that it was in a state of dilapidation.
The writer has nothing to say against that romance. He learned many things from it, and unhesitatingly pronounces it the best he ever read. It is still green in his memory—in fact, he looks back on it to-day with feelings of respect and admiration. But it distracted his thoughts from his lessons, and muddled his wits to such an extent that he fears sometimes they are muddled yet.
Behold the result. A reaction set in, and all preposterous romances, that one excepted, have become to him an abomination.
Hence outbursts like the one above.
Chapter XX.
A Glorious Triumph.
We have strayed so far from our subject that the reader may be at a loss to take our original meaning. If so, when the boys are saved let him refer to Will’s soliloquy and what immediately follows, and light will burst upon him.