Roundabout Papers - Penn State University

Thackeraywere novels—ah! I trouble you to find such novels inthe present day! O Scottish Chiefs, didn’t we weep overyou! O Mysteries of Udolpho, didn’t I and Briggs Minordraw pictures out of you, as I have said? Efforts, feebleindeed, but still giving pleasure to us and our friends.“I say, old boy, draw us Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition,”or, “Draw us Don Quixote and the windmills, youknow,” amateurs would say, to boys who had a love ofdrawing. “Peregrine Pickle” we liked, our fathers admiringit, and telling us (the sly old boys) it was capitalfun; but I think I was rather bewildered by it, though“Roderick Random” was and remains delightful. I don’tremember having Sterne in the school library, no doubtbecause the works of that divine were not considereddecent for young people. Ah! not against thy genius, Ofather of Uncle Toby and Trim, would I say a word indisrespect. But I am thankful to live in times when menno longer have the temptation to write so as to callblushes on women’s cheeks, and would shame to whisperwicked allusions to honest boys. Then, above all,we had Walter Scptt, the kindly, the generous, the pure—the companion of what countless delightful hours; thepurveyor of how much happiness; the friend whom werecall as the constant benefactor of our youth! Howwell I remember the type and the brownish paper of theold duodecimo “Tales of my Landlord!” I have never daredto read the “Pirate,” and the “Bride of Lammermoor,” or“Kenilworth,” from that day to this, because the finaleis unhappy, and people die, and are murdered at theend. But “Ivanhoe,” and “Quentin Durward!” Oh! for ahalf-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of those booksagain! Those books, and perhaps those eyes with whichwe read them; and, it may be, the brains behind theeyes! It may be the tart was good; but how fresh theappetite was! If the gods would give me the desire ofmy heart, I should be able to write a story which boyswould relish for the next few dozen of centuries. Theboy-critic loves the story: grown up, he loves the authorwho wrote the story. Hence the kindly tie is establishedbetween writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearlyfor life. I meet people now who don’t care for WalterScott, or the “Arabian Nights;” I am sorry for them,73