In rummaging for the instrument his eye fell upon a bundle of manuscripts; and he suddenly recollected that when he was a mere child, and before he much knew the difference between verse and prose, his mother had pointed to these manuscripts, and said, "One day or other, when you can read nicely, I'll let you look at these, Lenny.

My poor Mark wrote such verses--ah, he was a schollard!" Leonard, reasonably enough, thought that the time had now arrived when he was worthy the privilege of reading the paternal effusions, and he took forth the manuscripts with a keen but melancholy interest.

He recognized his father's handwriting, which he had often seen before in account-books and memoranda, and read eagerly some trifling poems, which did not show much genius, nor much mastery of language and rhythm,--such poems, in short, as a self-educated man, with poetic taste and feeling rather than poetic inspiration or artistic culture, might compose with credit, but not for fame.

But suddenly, as he turned over these "Occasional Pieces," Leonard came to others in a different handwriting,--a woman's handwriting, small and fine and exquisitely formed.

He had scarcely read six lines of these last, before his attention was irresistibly chained.
They were of a different order of merit from poor Mark's; they bore the unmistakable stamp of genius.