172 RECOLLECTIONS OF POVERTY. 



stream, which runs across the road to empty itself into an adjacent 

 river, there stands a neat cottage. The natural beauties that every 

 where surround it, and the rich profusion of roses and jessamine that 

 cover its white-washed walls impart to it an air of rustic simplicity and 

 elegance that attracts oft the notice of the passing stranger, as he 

 loiters awhile amid the beautiful and romantic scenery. That was 

 my home. There, in the spring-time of youth, rejoicing in health 

 and strength, I sported gaily over the green meadows, or, climbing the 

 mountain side, gazed on the vast expanse of country which, arrayed 

 in all the varied beauties of nature, was spread out before me. 

 Happy were those days, happy was that home would that I had 

 known no other! 



"My father was a smith; he was a steady and obliging man, and much 

 beloved by the members of our village community. Unlike those who 

 in drunken debauch and wretched company seek for that happiness 

 which is denied them at home, he found ever in the bosom of his 

 family that lively pleasure which, resulting from the union of hearts 

 constituted alike and actuated by the same feelings, delights with its 

 innocency and purity. I well remember the smile of contentment 

 and happiness that would illumine his dark-burnt countenance when 

 he returned from work on a Saturday evening ; how delighted would 

 he seem with the air of cleanliness and comfort that pervaded all 

 around ! How tenderly would he take me on his knee, and, kissing 

 me fondly, call me his dear, dear child. 



" Weeks and months rapidly passed away, and I had not known sor- 

 row. Like some placid stream on whose tranquil bosom scarce a ripple 

 heaves but soon it dies away, such then was life ; and, as I glided 

 smoothly over its calm and unruffled surface, pleasures ever new re- 

 joiced me on my way. Soon, alas! misfortunes unforeseen disturbed 

 its peaceful course, and the rude blasts of adversity, heaping in wild 

 confusion its troubled waters, hurry me to the grave.'' As she ut- 

 tered these words, her countenance beamed with supernatural fer- 

 vour. The heated flush that mantled her sunken cheeks glowed with 

 a deeper hue, and her dark and brilliant eyes seemed to extend their 

 gaze far beyond the bounds of time to the mysterious and unknown 

 regions of futurity. So true is it that during the febrile paroxysms 

 which ever attend this disease, the powers of the mind are invigo- 

 rated, and there beam forth as it were from the hidden recesses of the 

 soul brilliant, but transient, flashes of intelligence. And oft at these 

 times, among the humble and unlearned, have I observed indications 

 of a lofty genius, which, if nurtured with care and trained by instruc- 

 tion, might have figured in the pages of history, or adorned the 

 paths of science. But insurmountable obstacles forbade this; they lie 

 beneath the cold sod ; there is no stone to tell even their names. 

 Passing near their resting places, often have I said of them, in the 

 beautiful language of Gray, 



" In this neglected spot is laid 



Hearts once pregnant with celestial fire, 

 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 

 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre." 



A hurried message called me away. 



