I had my little bench, on which I sat at her feet, and read
aloud to her as she sewed, something which she had selected for me.
Though I never had an opportunity of knowing her in years when I was
more capable of judging of character (for we were separated, first by
distance, and now, alas, by death), I am sure that she must at that time
have been of more than the average taste and cultivation among young
ladies. Sure I am that she opened to me many a sealed fountain. My range
of reading had been limited to infant story-books and easy
school-lessons. She took from her book-shelves Cowper, and made me
acquainted with his hares, _Tiny_ and _Bess_, and enlisted my sympathies
for his imprisoned bullfinch. She turned over many leaves of the
_Spectator_ and _Rambler_, till she found for me allegories and tales of
Bagdad and Balsora, and showed me the Vision of Mirza, the Valley of
Human Miseries, and the Bridge of Human Life; I caught something of
their meaning, though I could not grasp the whole, and became so
enamored of them that when I returned home nothing would satisfy me but
the loan of my favorites, that I might share the great pleasure of these
wonderful stories with my friends there. How great was my surprise to
find that the same books held a conspicuous place in the library at
home!
The little pieces of needlework, too, which filled a part of every day,
unlike the tedious, never-ending patchwork of school, were pleasant.
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