hatred; I made no progress in it, and was consequently little regarded in the family, of which I sank by degrees into the common drudge."
Whilst at Ashburton his dreary life had been cheered by making friends with some of his schoolfellows. One of these was young Hoppner, afterwards a famous portrait painter, a rival of Sir Thomas Lawrence, and in after years he looked back to this friendship with pleasure, and wrote to him, on the death of Sir Joshua Reynolds—
One Sun is set, one Glorious Sun, whose rays
Long gladdened Britain with no common blaze;
O may'st thou soon (for clouds begin to rise)
Assert thy station in the Eastern skies,
Glow with his fires, and give the world to see
Another Reynolds rise, my friend, in thee!
But dearer still to him had been the Ashburton butcher's son, John Ireland, afterwards Dean of Westminster, and to him he wrote—
Sure if our fates hang on some hidden Power,
And take their colour from the natal hour,
Then, Ireland ! the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose!
Thou know'st how soon we felt this influence bland,
And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand,
And shaped rude bows, and uncouth whistles blew,
And paper kites (a last great effort) flew;
And when the day was done, retired to rest,
Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast.
But in Exeter he had no friends, none who would associate with him. He was utterly alone and miserable. He had not a penny wherewith to bless himself. One only little streak of sunlight entered his gloomy life, and this was the cheery notice of a young woman, a neighbour, who daily gave the depressed boy, as he passed her door, a smile and a kindly greeting, and the gratitude he felt for this slight encouragement was
