Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct as the clouds mirrored in some placid lake do the events of my life float by.
Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let me trace distinctly as your wavelets sweep over my soul the causes which have brought me here!
A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah whither have they led me!
My God—to a mad-house! But I am not mad!
At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored to me—for remember I am not mad!
I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the all that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.
I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn from her majestic mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of God—and the insignificance of man!
It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright, the beautiful star of my destiny.
Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness of all save Fanny and love!
A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she, ministering angel, came with him.