AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL DELINEATION.
By ROBERT SULLIVAN.
I Lost my parents when I was about twelve years old, and the care of my education devolved upon a maiden aunt, an individual belonging to a species which generally speaking, may be divided into two classes—the cross, crabbed, feared, and detested , and the fond, indulgent, disobeyed, and dearly beloved. Unfortunately for me and many others, mine was of the latter class. In her youth, (I speak it with reverence) she had been a soft-hearted baggage, much given to the tender passion, and always dying of broken vows. Consumptions were as common with her as colds with other people; and every month the standing conversation at the county meetings used to be poor Miss 's new disappointment, and expected demise. I do not know how it was; I believe the thread of my aunt's existence was made of Indian rubber, and possessed the faculty of stretching to the tugs of fate, when that of other folks would probably have snapped short. She contrived to get over all her trials and all her consumptions; and the first I recollect of her was a little fat, sentimental lady, dotingly fond of nursing children, and sighing over blighted anticipations. My poor, dear aunt! She was godmother to all the brats in the parish, and would often apply for the office before they were born, or thought of amongst other worthies whom she bore to the font, was the ill-starred carcass of her darling little nephew. Happy had it been for her had she drowned me in it, like a blind puppy; for, when the clergyman splashed the holy water in my face, I set up a shout, which made the old ladies augur bad things, and declare their firm opinion that I was never born to be a Christian. Sooth to say, their predictions, for many years of my life, were not far from the mark.
When I was twelve years old, as I have said, my aunt possessed the whole and sole title to me. Her fortune was ample; and she took me to a beautiful weeping-willow sort of a residence in one of the most romantic spots of England, where she continued to cultivate her mind with poetry and novels, and hang over the budding talents of her protégé. They were, indeed, the pride of her heart; had never been submitted to any tuition but her own; and she looked upon my proficiency with perfect astonishment. I could almost say my catechism, read Jack the Giant killer with fluency, and my hand-writing was pretty nearly legible.
From this period till I was fifteen, I contrived to drink the fountain of my aunt's knowledge to the lees, and, perhaps, could have given her some trifle in return, for I was a youth of high spirit, and very fond of seeing the world, from which her repeated consumptions had shut her out till she was too old to profit by it. Alas! I could almost be serious when I ask what is likely to be the fate of a boy (supposing him not to be an absolute lout, who will be the same under all circumstances) brought up at a home in the country, without companions and without restriction. It is morally impossible that he can be anything but a vagabond. His first friends are the groom and the cow-boy; his first pursuits are bird's-nesting and rat catching; and his prime emulation is to rob orchards, and be thought a clever fellow by all the thieves in his neighbourhood.
I know not whether my taste for notoriety of this description might not, in some degree, have been encouraged by the peculiar line of study to which I was directed. At all events, I am anxious to make it appear that it did not come entirely by nature. My aunt, it must be known, having somewhat outlived the admiration of mankind as they existed, had thought fit to remove her views into an ideal world, in which she was less likely to meet with mortifications. She was a great admirer of romance, and had a happy knack at realizing to herself whatever she read. There was not a knight in the whole history of chivalry whom she could not describe, even to the tone of his voice, and the colour of his eyes; and I am pretty sure that she carried on intrigues with all the Seven Champions of Christendom at the same time. I have seen the dear little woman sit sor hours on the ottoman, in the middle of the drawing-room, in perfect abstraction, showing evidently, by her actions, that she was presiding over a tournament, and crowning her favourite knight; and then she would stretch forth her hand to be kissed, and raise her handkerchief to her eyes, till some wicked vagary of mine awakened her to all the miseries of reality. It was no wonder, then, that she wished to make a cavalier of me, and held up all these itinerants of old as models for my imitation. Alas! I was doomed to be another proof of the futility of encouraging characters for which the world has ceased to afford their fair field of action. If we light a fire without providing a vent for it, we must not be surprised to see it finding its way through cracks and crannies which were never contemplated; and thus it was that, being unable to subdue kingdoms, I had very nearly become a highwayman.
