shall we find any thing to repay us for the swelling extacy of our young
hearts, as those who have cradled and loved us grow proud in our
successes? For myself, a life that has failed in every prestige of those
that prophesied favourably--years that have followed on each other only
to blight the promise that kind and well-wishing friends foretold--leave
but little to dwell upon, that can be reckoned as success. And yet, some
moments I have had, which half seemed to realize my early dream of
ambition, and rouse my spirit within me; but what were they all compared
to my boyish glories? what the passing excitement one's own heart
inspires in the lonely and selfish solitude, when compared with that
little world of sympathy and love our early home teemed with, as, proud
in some trifling distinction, we fell into a mother's arms, and heard our
father's "God bless you, boy?" No, no; the world has no requital for
this. It is like the bright day-spring, which, as its glories gild the
east, display before us a whole world of beauty and promise--blighted
hopes have not withered, false friendships have not scathed, cold,
selfish interest has not yet hardened our hearts, or dried up our
affections, and we are indeed happy; but equally like the burst of
morning is it fleeting and short-lived; and equally so, too, does it pass
away, never, never to return.

From thoughts like these my mind wandered on to more advanced years,
when, emerging from very boyhood, I half believed myself a man, and was
fully convinced I was in love.

Perhaps, after all, for the time it lasted--ten days, I think--it was the
most sincere passion I ever felt. I had been spending some weeks at a
small watering-place in Wales with some relatives of my mother. There
were, as might be supposed, but few "distractions" in such a place, save
the scenery, and an occasional day's fishing in the little river of