Six weeks passed before the ship was again ready for sea; and during that time I resided at the captain's house, and was the constant companion of his little daughter, Lenore. In the interval, my kind protector asked me--whether I would not like to go to Dublin for a few days, and see my mother. I told him that the "Hope" would then be in Dublin; and that I would certainly be handed over to Captain Brannon. He reflected for a moment; and then allowed the subject to drop. I did feel some anxiety concerning my relatives; but was too happy in Liverpool, to change my condition by going to visit them. In order to satisfy my conscience, I thought of several reasons why I should not go home. They were easily found: for very idiotic, indeed, is that mind that cannot find arguments, in support of desires emanating from itself--whether they be right or wrong. I knew that in whatever state I might find my relatives--or whatever might have been the conduct of Mr Leary towards them--I would be powerless either to aid them or punish him. I strove my best to make as little trouble as possible in my new home, and to gain the good will of Mrs Hyland. I had every reason to believe that my efforts were successful. In justice to her, I should state that my task was not so difficult, as it would have been with most women: for she was a kind-hearted lady, who had the discernment to perceive that I was anxious to deserve, as well as obtain her esteem. Before the ship was ready to sail, Lenore had learnt to call me _brother_; and when parting with her to go on board, her sorrow was expressed in a manner that gave me much gratification. Perhaps it is wrong for any one to feel pleasure at the demonstrations of another's grief; but there are circumstances when such will be the case, whether wrong or not. Unfortunate, indeed, is that lonely being, who has not in the wide world one acquaintance from whom he can part, with eyes dimmed by the bright drops of sorrow. There are thousands of seamen, who have wandered long and far from every early tie of kindred and friendship. They form no others; but wander over the earth unloving, unloved and unknown--as wretched, reckless and lone, as the "last man," spoken of by the poet Campbell. There is ever a bright spot in the soul of that man, who has reason to believe that there is some one, who thinks of him with kindness when far away; and that one bright spot will often point out the path of virtue-- which otherwise might have been passed, undiscovered, or unheeded. Volume One, Chapter VII. CHOOSING A HORSE. The reader may justly say that I have dwelt too long on the incidents of my early years. As my excuse for having done so, I can only urge, that the first parts we play on the stage of life appear of more importance to us than what they really are; and are consequently remembered more distinctly and with greater interest than those of later occurrence.