It is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favourite characters in them--as I did--and by putting Mr.and Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones--which I did too.

I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together.

I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe.

I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels--I forget what, now--that were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees--the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price.
The Captain never lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the Latin Grammar.

I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero, in despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the world, dead or alive.
This was my only and my constant comfort.