I have never been made a misanthrope by this cause. I have never
been stung by any insult, nor wounded by any jest upon my crooked
figure. As a child I was melancholy and timid, but that was
because the gentle consideration paid to my misfortune sunk deep
into my spirit and made me sad, even in those early days. I was
but a very young creature when my poor mother died, and yet I
remember that often when I hung around her neck, and oftener still
when I played about the room before her, she would catch me to her
bosom, and bursting into tears, would soothe me with every term of
fondness and affection. God knows I was a happy child at those
times, - happy to nestle in her breast, - happy to weep when she
did, - happy in not knowing why.
These occasions are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that they
seem to have occupied whole years. I had numbered very, very few
when they ceased for ever, but before then their meaning had been
revealed to me.
I do not know whether all children are imbued with a quick
perception of childish grace and beauty, and a strong love for it,
but I was. I had no thought that I remember, either that I
possessed it myself or that I lacked it, but I admired it with an
intensity that I cannot describe.
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