You know that my mother was Spanish, and that my father was one of that
old race of which so few scions remain, who, living in a distant country,
have been little influenced by the changes of fashion, and, priding
themselves on the antiquity of their names, have looked with contempt
upon the modern distinctions and the mushroom nobles which have sprung up
to discountenance and eclipse the plainness of more venerable and solid
respectability. In his youth my father had served in the army. He had
known much of men and more of books; but his knowledge, instead of
rooting out, had rather been engrafted on his prejudices. He was one of
that class (and I say it with a private reverence, though a public
regret), who, with the best intentions, have made the worst citizens, and
who think it a duty to perpetuate whatever is pernicious by having learnt
to consider it as sacred. He was a great country gentleman, a great
sportsman, and a great Tory; perhaps the three worst enemies which a
country can have. Though beneficent to the poor, he gave but a cold
reception to the rich; for he was too refined to associate with his
inferiors, and too proud to like the competition of his equals. One ball
and two dinners a-year constituted all the aristocratic portion of our
hospitality, and at the age of twelve, the noblest and youngest
companions that I possessed were a large Danish dog and a wild mountain
pony, as unbroken and as lawless as myself. It is only in later years
that we can perceive the immeasurable importance of the early scenes and
circumstances which surrounded us. It was in the loneliness of my
unchecked wanderings that my early affection for my own thoughts was
conceived. In the seclusion of nature--in whatever court she presided--
the education of my mind was begun; and, even at that early age, I
rejoiced (like the wild heart the Grecian poet [Eurip. Bambae, 1. 874.]
has described) in the stillness of the great woods, and the solitudes
unbroken by human footstep.