which, under other circumstances, might have ripened thought, was turned to learn the thoughts of others.  This was not a tame state, for the energies brought out by rapid acquisition gave glow enough.  I thought with rapture of the all-accomplished man, him of the many talents, wide resources, clear sight, and omnipotent will.  A Caesar seemed great enough.  I did not then know that such men impoverish the treasury to build the palace.  I kept their statues as belonging to the hall of my ancestors, and loved to conquer obstacles, and fed my youth and strength for their sake.

* * * * *

’Still, though this bias was so great that in earliest years I learned, in these ways, how the world takes hold of a powerful nature, I had yet other experiences.  None of these were deeper than what I found in the happiest haunt of my childish years,—­our little garden.  Our house, though comfortable, was very ugly, and in a neighborhood which I detested,—­every dwelling and its appurtenances having a mesquin and huddled look.  I liked nothing about us except the tall graceful elms before the house, and the dear little garden behind.  Our back door opened on a high flight of steps, by which I went down to a green plot, much injured in my ambitious eyes by the presence of the pump and tool-house.  This opened into a little garden, full of choice flowers and fruit-trees, which was my mother’s delight, and was carefully kept.  Here I felt at home.  A gate opened thence into the fields,—­a wooden gate made of boards, in a high, unpainted board wall, and embowered in the clematis creeper.  This gate I used to open to see the sunset heaven; beyond this black frame I did not step, for I liked to look at the deep gold behind it.  How exquisitely happy I was in its beauty, and how I loved the silvery wreaths of my protecting vine!  I never would pluck one of its flowers at that time, I was so jealous of its beauty, but often since I carry off wreaths of it from the wild-wood, and it stands in nature to my mind as the emblem of domestic love.

’Of late I have thankfully felt what I owe to that garden, where the best hours of my lonely childhood were spent.  Within the house everything was socially utilitarian; my books told of a proud world, but in another temper were the teachings of the little garden.  There my thoughts could lie callow in the nest, and only be fed and kept warm, not called to fly or sing before the time.  I loved to gaze on the roses, the violets, the lilies, the pinks; my mother’s hand had planted them, and they bloomed for me.  I culled the most beautiful.  I looked at them on every side.  I kissed them, I pressed them to my bosom with passionate emotions, such as I have never dared express to any human being.  An ambition swelled my heart to be as beautiful, as perfect as they.  I have not kept my vow.  Yet, forgive, ye wild asters, which gleam so sadly amid the fading grass; forgive me, ye golden autumn