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.  There were, as might be supposed, but few “distractions” in such a place, save the scenery, and an occasional day’s fishing in the little river of Dolgelly, which ran near.  In all these little rambles which the younger portion of the family made together, frequent mention was ever being made of a visit from a very dear cousin, and to which all looked forward with the greatest eagerness—­the elder ones of the party with a certain air of quiet pleasure, as though they knew more than they said, and the younger with all the childish exuberance of youthful delight.  Clara Mourtray seemed to be,