The first large book besides the Bible that I
remember reading was Morse's 'History of New England,' which I
devoured with insatiable greediness, particularly those parts which
relate to Indian wars and witchcraft. I was in the habit of applying
to my grandmother for explanations, and she would relate to me, while
I listened with breathless attention, long stories from Mather's
'Magnalia' or (Mag-nilly, as she used to call it), a work which I
earnestly longed to read, but of which, I never got sight till after
my twentieth year. Very early there fell into my hands an old school-
book, called 'The Art of Speaking,' containing numerous extracts from
Milton and Shakespeare. There was little else in the book that
interested me, but these extracts from the two great English poets,
though there were many things in them that I did not well understand,
I read again and again, with increasing pleasure at every perusal,
till I had nearly committed them to memory, and almost thumbed the old
book into nonenity. But of all the books that I read at this period,
there was none that went to my heart like Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's
Progress.' I read it and re-read it night and day; I took it to bed
with me and hugged it to my bosom while I slept; every different
edition that I could find I seized upon and read with as eager a
curiosity as if it had been a new story throughout; and I read with
the unspeakable satisfaction of most devoutly believing that
everything which 'Honest John' related was a real verity, an actual
occurrence.
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