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.
This was a sad outset for a votary of the muse. It ought to have cured
me of my passion for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for I felt the
spirit of a martyr rising within me. What was as well, perhaps, it
cured me of my passion for the young lady; for I felt so indignant at
the ignominious horsing I had incurred in celebrating her charms, that
I could not hold up my head in church.
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