reading lessons of meekness and lowliness of spirit out of splendid
gold and morocco prayer-books. Whenever the parson spoke of the
difficulty of the rich man's entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes
of the congregation would turn towards the "grand pew," and I thought
the squire seemed pleased with the application.

The pomp of this pew and the aristocratical air of the family struck My
imagination wonderfully, and I fell desperately in love with a little
daughter of the squire's about twelve years of age. This freak of fancy
made me more truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll about
the squire's park, and would lurk near the house to catch glimpses of
this little damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawns, or
walking out with her governess.

I had not enterprise or impudence enough to venture from my
concealment; indeed, I felt like an arrant poacher, until I read one or
two of Ovid's Metamorphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvan
deity, and she a coy wood nymph of whom I was in pursuit. There is
something extremely delicious in these early awakenings of the tender
passion. I can feel, even at this moment, the thrilling of my boyish
bosom, whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frock
fluttering among the shrubbery. I now began to read poetry. I carried
about in my bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from my
mother's library; and I applied to my little fair one all the
compliments lavished upon Sacharissa.

At length I danced with her at a school ball. I was so awkward a booby,
that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was filled with awe and
embarrassment in her presence; but I was so inspired that my poetical
temperament for the first time broke out in verse; and I fabricated
some glowing lines, in which I be-rhymed the little lady under the
favorite name of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and
blushing, into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. The
little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma handed them to the
squire, the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent them in dudgeon to
the school-master; and the school-master, with a barbarity worthy of
the dark ages, gave me a sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for
thus trespassing upon Parnassus.

This was a sad outset for a votary of the muse. It ought to have cured
me of my passion for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for I felt the
spirit of a martyr rising within me. What was