I was a very unprepossessing child, neither good looking nor pleasant tempered; not that I was really ill-tempered, but that ill usage had stupified me. I never entered into play with the children of my own age, nor did I seek the amusements that were even within my reach. I loved to be alone, to lie under a tree near a brook, listening to the babbling and murmuring of the waters, and fancying that I heard my mother talking to me. Little as I was, I used to frame long conversations with her, and they had the effect of soothing me. Her gentle spirit was for ever present, and constantly encouraging me to bear all, and suffer in silence, and that when I was a man I should be rewarded. I bless the good Irishman's memory for having so early and so constantly spoken of my parents; particularly of my mother.
A man finds he cannot make his way in the world without honesty and industry, so that, although his father's example may do much, he has to depend upon his own exertions; he must work, he must be honest, or he cannot attain to any enviable rank. But the tender soothings of a mother, her sympathy, her devotedness, her forgiving temper—all this sinks deep in a child's heart; and let him wander ever so wide, let him err or let him lead a life of virtue, the remembrance of all this comes like a holy calm over his heart, and he weeps that he has offended her, or he rejoices that he has listened to her disinterested, gentle admonition.
When I reached the age of eight years I was taught to read, and the eagerness with which I proceeded, mastering every difficulty, and overcoming every impediment from cold, hunger and chilblain, might have shown to an observer how suitable this occupation was to my character. Poor Patrick used to boast of my acquirements to every one who
