My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early period.  The Village church was attended every Sunday by a neighboring squire—­the lord of the manor, whose park stretched quite to the village, and whose spacious country seat seemed to take the church under its protection.  Indeed, you would have thought the church had been consecrated to him instead of to the Deity.  The parish clerk bowed low before him, and the vergers humbled themselves into the dust in his presence.  He always entered a little late and with some stir, striking his cane emphatically on the ground; swaying his hat in his hand, and looking loftily to the right and left, as he walked slowly up the aisle, and the parson, who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never commenced service until he appeared.  He sat with his family in a large pew gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly on velvet cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco prayer-books.  Whenever the parson spoke of the difficulty of the rich man’s entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congregation would turn towards the “grand pew,” and I thought the squire seemed pleased with the application.

The pomp of this pew and the aristocratical air of the family struck My imagination wonderfully, and I fell desperately in love with a little daughter of the squire’s about twelve years of age.  This freak of fancy made me more truant from my studies than ever.  I used to stroll about the squire’s park, and would lurk near the house to catch glimpses of this little damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawns, or walking out with her governess.

I had not enterprise or impudence enough to venture from my concealment; indeed, I felt like an arrant poacher, until I read one or two of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood nymph of whom I was in pursuit.  There is something extremely delicious in these early awakenings of the tender passion.  I can feel, even at this moment, the thrilling of my boyish bosom, whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frock fluttering among the shrubbery.  I now began to read poetry.  I carried about in my bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from my mother’s library; and I applied to my little fair one all the compliments lavished upon Sacharissa.

At length I danced with her at a school ball.  I was so awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was filled with awe and embarrassment in her presence; but I was so inspired that my poetical temperament for the first time broke out in verse; and I fabricated some glowing lines, in which I be-rhymed the little lady under the favorite name of Sacharissa.  I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church.  The little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma handed them to the squire, the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent them in dudgeon to the school-master; and the school-master, with a barbarity worthy of the dark ages, gave me a sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing upon Parnassus.