by Gordon Weare
When did he for a moment cease to think of his late home and the dear friends & familiar faces cannot be told.
To prepare the mind for such a heavy sleep, its growth must be stopped by rigour and cruelty in childhood. There there must be years of misery and suffering lightened by no ray of hope.
The chords of the heart, which beat a quick response to the voice of gentleness and affection, must have rusted and broken in the secret places, and bear the lingering echo of no old word of love and kindness. Gloomy indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the long, long twilight, preceding such a night of intellect as his...
There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but their welcome tones could not penetrate there, and he crept to his palet the same listless, hopeless, blighted creature, that wandered the deserted moors.