n duty taught me to consider his interests as my own.

CHAPTER VIII.

UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY.

There is a period in every young man's first outset in life, which
gives a colouring to his future destiny. It is the time for action, for
mental and moral improvement, and the manner in which it is applied or
neglected, will decide his character, or leave him weak and vacillating
all the days of his life.

If this precious portion of existence be wasted in frivolous
amusements, time gets the start of us, and no after-exertion will
enable us to overtake him in his flight. This important era was mine;
and I lost no opportunity of turning it to the best advantage. I worked
early and late in the office, and made myself master of the nature of
the work which employed my hands. I learned the philosophy of those law
forms, which hitherto I had only copied mechanically, and looked upon
as a weary task, and I soon reaped the benefit of my increased stock of
knowledge. Grave men, in the absence of my uncle, often applied to me
for information and advice, which I felt proud and happy in being able
to supply.

Thus, I found that in serving my employer faithfully, I conferred the
greatest benefit on myself; and the hours devoted to study, while they
formed a pleasant recreation from the day labours of the office, were
among the happiest and most sinless of my life.

I was seldom admitted into my uncle's drawing-room, and never allowed
to mingle with evening parties, which, during the brief visits of
Theophilus to his home, were not only frequent, but very brilliant.
This I felt as a great hardship. My solitary and companionless youth
had deeply imbued my mind with romance. I was fond of castle-building;
I pictured to myself the world as a paradise, and fancied that I was an
illustrious actor in scenes of imaginary splendour, which bore no
analogy to the dull realities of my present life.

I was a dreamer of wild dreams, and suffered my enthusiasm to get the
master of reason, and betray me into a thousand absurdities. My love
for poetry and music was excessive. I played upon the flute by ear, and
often when alone dissipated my melancholy thoughts by breathing them
into the instrument.

Through this medium, Harrison became an adept at discovering the state
of my feelings. "My flute told tales," he said. "It always spoke the
language of my heart." Yet from him I had few concealments. He was my
friend and bosom-counsellor, in