my angel of inspiration—the one sweet muse lighting up my lonely heart."
Hastily he left the churchyard, his pace rapid as his thoughts, which framed, as he went along, his future plans; and to visit London as soon as possible was his last resolve. He soon reached the dilapidated house which called him master; but the ivy, silvered by the moonlight, hid the desolation which was so apparent by day.
His family had left his father a ruined fortune, which a life of adventures did not tend to improve. Mr. Maynard returned home with an orphan boy; and a wound in his side, received while defending his superior officer, led to his premature death. With many to advise, but none to govern, the orphan boy led a desultory life, often wasting his time, but still collecting material for the future productions of a creative and poetical mind.
In one of the most original and thoughtful works of our day, it is said,—
"It is a fatal gift; for, when possessed in its highest quality and strength, what has it
