I Remember with amusement how, at the ripe age of nine, I became imbued with my first great and overwhelming sympathy; it was for the members of my father's congregation; and the reason for this amazing sentiment was that they could not retaliate to my reverend parent's assertions, accusations, and exhortations. The unfairness of it, the tragedy of their silent suffering, as I imagined it then, made my spirit boil. Absurd though these youthful feelings were they served to turn my attention to books. Books, thought I in this spasm of juvenile arrogance, can be discarded if their contents fail to satisfy your moods. The result was an undisciplined romp,—a romp that lasted for nine years,—through the shelves of my father's library.
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