Is this a malady?
or is it rather a providential gift to alleviate the tedious hours of the sick bed, and cheer the lonely sufferer, whose thoughts are his only realm?
My school-boy days, in all their holiday excitement; the bank where I had culled the earliest cowslips of the year; the clear but rapid stream, where days long I have watched the speckled trout, as they swam peacefully beneath, or shook their bright fins in the gay sunshine; the gorgeous dragon-fly that played above the water, and dipped his bright wings in its ripple--they were all before me.

And then came the thought of school itself, with its little world of boyish cares and emulations; the early imbibed passion for success; the ardent longing for superiority; the high and swelling feeling of the heart, as home drew near, to think that I had gained the wished for prize--the object of many an hour's toil--the thought of many a long night's dream; my father's smile; my mother's kiss! Oh! what a very world of tender memory that one thought suggests; for what are all our later successes in life--how bright soever our fortune be--compared with the early triumphs of our infancy?
Where, among the jealous rivalry of some, the cold and half-wrung praise of others, the selfish and unsympathising regard of all, shall we find any thing to repay us for the swelling extacy of our young hearts, as those who have cradled and loved us grow proud in our successes?
For myself, a life that has failed in every prestige of those that prophesied favourably--years that have followed on each other only to blight the promise that kind and well-wishing friends foretold--leave but little to dwell upon, that can be reckoned as success.

And yet, some moments I have had, which half seemed to realize my early dream of ambition, and rouse my spirit within me; but what were they all compared to my boyish glories?
what the passing excitement one's own heart inspires in the lonely and selfish solitude, when compared with that little world of sympathy and love our early home teemed with, as, proud in some trifling distinction, we fell into a mother's arms, and heard our father's "God bless you, boy ?" No, no; the world has no requital for this.

It is like the bright day-spring, which, as its glories gild the east, display before us a whole world of beauty and promise--blighted hopes have not withered, false friendships have not scathed, cold, selfish interest has not yet hardened our hearts, or dried up our affections, and we are indeed happy; but equally like the burst of morning is it fleeting and short-lived; and equally so, too, does it pass away, never, never to return.
From thoughts like these my mind wandered on to more advanced years, when, emerging from very boyhood, I half believed myself a man, and was fully convinced I was in love.
Perhaps, after all, for the time it lasted--ten days, I think--it was the most sincere passion I ever felt.

I had been spending some weeks at a small watering-place in Wales with some relatives of my mother.