literary existence than is generally attained by those who seek
immortality from the judgments of full-grown men.



CHAPTER 1.

When Edward Temple was about eight or nine years old he was afflicted
with a disorder of the eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was
naturally so delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the
boy should become totally blind. He therefore gave strict directions to
keep him in a darkened chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray
of the blessed light of heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad.

This was a sad thing for Edward. It was just the same as if there were
to be no more sunshine, nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire,
nor light of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for
months,--a longer and drearier night than that which voyagers are
compelled to endure when their ship is icebound, throughout the winter,
in the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother George,
and the sweet face of little Emily Robinson must all vanish and leave
him in utter darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps, it is
true, would be heard around him; he would feel his mother's embrace and
the kind pressure of all their hands; but still it would seem as if they
were a thousand miles away.

And then his studies,--they were to be entirely given up. This was
another grievous trial; for Edward's memory hardly went back to the
period when he had not known how to read. Many and many a holiday had
he spent at his hook, poring over its pages until the deepening twilight