, I had found a singular
antidote against the look of the evil eye in the ceiling. What I am
going to relate may be startling, and for a child ten years old, appear
incredible; but it is the bare unembellished truth. This was my
antidote alluded to. In the church where we went, there was a strongly
painted altar-piece. The Virgin Mother bent, with ineffable sweetness,
over the sleeping Jesus. The pew in which I sat was distant enough to
give the full force of illusion to the power of the artist, and the
glory round the Madonna much assisted my imagination. I certainly
attended to that face, and to that beneficent attitude, more than to be
service. When the terrors of my desolate situation used to begin to
creep over me in my lonely bed, I could, without much effort of
imagination, bring that sweet motherly face before me, and view it
visibly in the gloom of the room, and thus defy the dread glance of the
visage above me. I used to whisper to myself these words--"Lady with
the glory, come an sit by me." And I could then close my eyes, and
fancy, nay, almost feel assured of her presence, and sleep in peace.

But, in the night that I had seen my godmother, when I crept under my
clothes disconsolately, I no longer whispered for the lady with the
glory; it was for my sweet mamma. And she, too, came and blessed my
gentle slumbers. Surely, that beautiful creature must have been my
mother, for long did she come and play the seraph's part over her child,
and watched by his pillow, till he sank in the repose of innocence.

Lately, at the age of forty, I visited that church. I looked earnestly
at the altar-piece. I was astonished, hurt, disgusted. It was a coarse
daub. The freshness of the painting had been long changed by the dark
tarnish of years, and the blighting of damp atmosphere. There were some
remains of beauty in the expression, and elegance in the attitude; but,
as a piece of art it was but a second-rate performance. Age dispels
many illusions, and suffers for it. Truly youth and enthusiasm are the
best painters.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

RALPH LECTURETH ON DIVINITY AND LITTLE BOYS' NETHER GARMENTS--DESPONDETH
EXCEEDINGLY--AND BEING THE WEAKEST GOETH TO THE WALL, AND THERE FINDETH
CONSOLATION--AN OLD FRIEND WITH AN OLD FACE AND EXCELLENT PROVENT.

The next morning I arose the possessor of eight shillings, a box of
playthings, a plum-cake, and a heavy heart. It is most true, that which
Wordsworth hath