ON MEMORY.
In the days of chill November,
How the blackbird on the ———
I forget the rest. It is the beginning of the first piece of poetry I ever learnt; for
The cat and the fiddle,"
I take no note of, it being of a frivolous character, and lacking in the qualities of true poetry. I collected fourpence by the recital of "I remember, I remember." I knew it was fourpence, because they told me that if I kept it until I got twopence more I should have sixpence, which argument, albeit undeniable, moved me not, and the money was squandered, to the best of my recollection, on the very next morning, although upon what memory is a blank.
That is just the way with Memory; nothing that she brings to us is complete. She is a wilful child; all her toys are broken. I remember tumbling into a huge dusthole, when a very small boy, but I have not the faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and, if memory were all we had to trust to, I should be
