hink　was　admirable。　I　was　to　climb　upon　a　chair；　while；　standing　at　my　side；　with　a　pencil　and　a　sheet　of　paper；　he　was　to　draw　a　chart　of　the　markings　on　the　carpet。　Then；　when　I　understood　the　system；　another　chart　on　a　smaller　scale　of　the　furniture　in　the　room；　then　of　a　floor　of　the　house；　then　of　the　back…garden；　then　of　a　section　of　the　street。　The　result　of　this　was　that　geography　came　to　me　of　itself；　as　a　perfectly　natural　miniature　arrangement　of　objects；　and　to　this　day　has　always　been　the　science　which　gives　me　least　difficulty。　My　father　also　taught　me　the　simple　rules　of　arithmetic；　a　little　natural　history；　and　the　elements　of　drawing；　and　he　laboured　long　and　unsuccessfully　to　make　me　learn　by　heart　hymns；　psalms　and　chapters　of　Scripture；　in　which　I　always　failed　ignominiously　and　with　tears。　This　puzzled　and　vexed　him；　for　he　himself　had　an　extremely　retentive　textual　memory。　He　could　not　help　thinking　that　I　was　naughty；　and　would　not　learn　the　chapters；　until　at　last　he　gave　up　the　effort。　All　this　sketch　of　an　education　began；　I　believe；　in　my　fourth　year；　and　was　not　advanced　or　modified　during　the　rest　of　my　Mother's　life。
  Meanwhile；　capable　as　I　was　of　reading；　I　found　my　greatest　pleasure　in　the　pages　of　books。　The　range　of　these　was　limited；　for　story…books　of　every　description　were　sternly　excluded。　No　fiction　of　any　kind；　religious　or　secular；　was　admitted　into　the　house。　In　this　it　was　to　my　Mother；　not　to　my　Father；　that　the　prohibition　was　due。　She　had　a　remarkable；　I　confess　to　me　still　somewhat　unaccountable　impression　that　to　'tell　a　story'；　that　is；　to　compose　fictitious　narrative　of　any　kind；　was　a　sin。　She　carried　this　conviction　to　extreme　lengths。　My　Father；　in　later　years；　gave　me　some　interesting　examples　of　her　firmness。　As　a　young　man　in　America；　he　had　been　deeply　impressed　by　'Salathiel'；　a　pious　prose　romance　by　that　then　popular　writer；　the　Rev。　George　Croly。　When　he　first　met　my　Mother；　he　recommended　it　to　her；　but　she　would　not　consent　to　open　it。　Nor　would　she　read　the　chivalrous　tales　in　verse　of　Sir　Walter　Scott；　obstinately　alleging　that　they　were　not　'true'。　She　would　read　none　but　lyrical　and　subjective　poetry。　Her　secret　diary　reveals　the　history　of　this　singular　aversion　to　the　fictitious；　although　it　cannot　be　said　to　explain　the　cause　of　it。　As　a　child；　however；　she　had　possessed　a　passion　for　making　up　stories；　and　so　considerable　a　skill　in　it　that　she　was　constantly　being　begged　to　indulge　others　with　its　exercise。　But　I　will；　on　so　curious　a　point；　leave　her　to　speak　for　herself：
  'When　I　was　a　very　little　child；　I　used　to　amuse　myself　and　my　brothers　with　inventing　stories；　such　as　I　read。　Having；　as　I　suppose；　naturally　a　restless　mind　and　busy　imagination；　this　soon　became　the　chief　pleasure　of　my　life。　Unfortunately；　my　brothers　were　always　fond　of　encouraging　this　propensity；　and　I　found　in　Taylor；　my　maid；　a　still　greater　tempter。　I　had　not　known　there　was　any　harm　in　it；　until　Miss　Shore　＇a　Calvinist　governess＇；　finding　it　out；　lectured　me　severely；　and　told　me　it　was　wicked。　From　that　time　forth　I　considered　that　to　invent　a　story　of　any　kind　was　a　sin。　But　the　desire　to　do　so　was　too　deeply　rooted　in　my　affections　to　be　resisted　in　my　own　strength　＇she　was　at　that　time　nine　years　of　age＇；　and　unfortunately　I　knew　neither　my　corruption　nor　my　weakness；　nor　did　I　know　where　to　gain　strength。　The　longing　to　invent　stories　grew　with　violence；　everything　I　heard　or　read　became　food　for　my　distemper。　The　simplicity　of　truth　was　not　sufficient　for　me；　I　must　needs　embroider　imagination　upon　it；　and　the　folly；　vanity　and　wickedness　which　disgraced　my　heart　are　snore　than　I　am　able　to　express。　Even　now　＇at　the　age　of　twenty…nine＇；　tho'　watched；　prayed　and　striven　against；　this　is　still　the　sin　that　most　easily　besets　me。　It　has　hindered　my　prayers　and　prevented　my　improvement；　and　therefore；　has　humbled　me　very　much。
  This　is；　surely；　a　very　painful　instance　of　the　repression　of　an　instinct。　There　seems　to　have　been；　in　this　case；　a　vocation　such　as　is　rarely　heard；　and　still　less　often　wilfully　disregarded　and　silenced。　Was　my　Mother　intended　by　nature　to　be　a　novelist？　I　have　often　thought　so；　and　her　talents　and　vigour　of　purpose；　directed　along　the　line　which　was　ready　to　form　'the　chief　pleasure　of　her　life'；　could　hardly　have　failed　to　conduct　her　to　great　success。　She　was　a　little　younger　than　Bulwer　Lytton；　a　little　older　than　Mrs　Gaskellbut　these　are　vain　and　trivial　speculations！
  My　own　state；　however；　was；　I　should　think；　almost　unique　among　the　children　of　cultivated　parents。　In　consequence　of　the　stern　ordinance　which　I　have　described；　not　a　single　fiction　was　read　or　told　to　me　during　my　infancy。　The　rapture　of　the　child　who　delays　the　process　of　going　to　bed　by　cajoling　'a　story'　out　of　his　mother　or　his　nurse；　as　he　sits　upon　her　knee；　well　tucked　up；　at　the　corner　of　the　nursery　fire　this　was　unknown　to　me。　Never　in　all　my　early　childhood　did　anyone　address　to　me　the　affecting　preamble；　'Once　upon　a　time！'　I　was　told　about　missionaries；　but　never　about　pirates；　I　was　familiar　with　hummingbirds；　but　I　had　never　heard　of　fairies　Jack　the　Giant…　Killer；　Rumpelstiltskin　and　Robin　Hood　were　not　of　my　acquaintance；　and　though　I　understood　about　wolves；　Little　Red　Ridinghood　was　a　stranger　even　by　name。　So　far　as　my　'dedication'　was　concerned；　I　can　but　think　that　my　parents　were　in　error　thus　to　exclude　the　imaginary　from　my　outlook　upon　facts。　They　desired　to　make　me　truthful；　the　tendency　was　to　make　me　positive　and　sceptical。　Had　they　wrapped　me　in　the　soft　folds　of　supernatural　fancy；　my　mind　might　have　been　longer　content　to　follow　their　traditions　in　an　unquestioning　spirit。
  Having　easily　said　what；　in　those　early　years；　I　did　not　read；　I　have　great　difficulty　in　saying　what　I　did　read。　But　a　queer　variety　of　natural　history；　some　of　it　quite　indigestible　by　my　undeveloped　mind；　many　books　of　travels；　mainly　of　a　scientific　character；　among　them　voyages　of　discovery　in　the　South　Seas；　by　which　my　brain　was　dimly　filled　with　splendour；　some　geography　and　astronomy；　both　of　them　sincerely　enjoyed；　much　theology；　which　I　desired　to　appreciate　but　could　never　get　my　teeth　into　（if　I　may　venture　to　say　so）；　and　over　which　my　eye　and　tongue　learned　to　slip　without　penetrating；　so　that　I　would　read；　and　read　aloud；　and　with　great　propriety　of　emphasis；　page　after　page　without　having　formed　an　idea　or　retained　an　expression。　There　was；　for　instance；　a　writer　on　prophecy　called　Jukes；　of　whose　works　each　of　my　parents　was　inordinately　fond；　and　I　was　early　set　to　read　Jukes　aloud　to　them。　I　did　it　glibly；　like　a　machine；　but　the　sight　of　Jukes'　volumes　became　an　abomination　to　me；　and　I　never　formed　the　outline　of　a　notion　what　they　were　about。　Later　on；　a　publication　called　The　Penny　Cyclopaedia　became　my　daily；　and　for　a　long　time　almost　my　sole　study；　to　the　subject　of　this　remarkable　work　I　may　presently　return。
  It　is　difficult　to　keep　anything　like　chronological　order　in　recording　fragments　of　early　recollection；　and　in　speaking　of　my　reading　I　have　been　led　too　far　ahead。　My　memory　does　not；　practically；　begin　till　we　returned　from　certain　visits；　made　with　a　zoological　purpose；　to　the　shores　of　Devon　and　Dorset；　and　settled；　early　in　my　fifth　year；　in　a　house　at　Islington；　in　the　north　of　London。　Our　circumstances　were　now　more　easy；　my　Father　had　regular　and　well…paid　literary　work；　and　the　house　was　larger　and　more　comfortable　than　ever　before；　though　still　very　simple　and　restricted。　My　memories；　some　of　which　are　exactly　dated　by　certain　facts；　now　become　clear　and　almost　abundant。　What　I　do　not　remember；　except　from　having　it　very　often　repeated　to　me；　is　what　may　be　considered　the　only　'clever'　thing　that　I　said　during　an　otherwise　unillustrious　childhood。　It　was　not　startlingly　'clever'；　but　it　may　pass。　A　ladywhen　I　was　just　fourrather　injudiciously　showed　me　a　large　print　of　a　human　skeleton；　saying；　'There！　you　don't　know　what　that　is；　do　you？'　Upon　which；　immediately　and　very　archly；　I　replied；　'Isn't　it　a　man　with　the　meat　off？'　This　was　thought　wonderful；　and；　as　it　is　supposed　that　I　had　never　had　the　phenomenon　explained　to　me；　it　certainly　displays　some　quickness　in　seizing　an　analogy。　I　had　often　watched　my　Father；　while　he　soaked　the　flesh　off　the　bones　of　fishes　and　small　mammals。　If　I　venture　to　repeat　this　trifle；　it　is　only　to　point　out　that　the　system　on　which　I　was　being　educated　deprived　all　things；　human　life　among　the　rest；　of　their　mystery。　The　'bare…grinning　skeleton　of　death'　was　to　me　merely　a　prepared　specimen　of　that　featherless　plantigrade　vertebrate；　'homo　sapiens'。
  As　I　have　said　that　this　anecdote　was　thought　worth　repeating；　I　ought　to　proceed　to　say　that　there　was；　so　far　as　I　can　recollect；　none　of　that　flattery　of　childhood　which　is　so　often　merely　a　backhanded　way　of　indulging　the　vanity　of　parents。　My　Mother；　indeed；　would　hardly　have　been　human　if　she　had　not　occasionally　entertained　herself　with　the　delusion　that　her　solitary　duckling　was　a　cygnet。　This　my　Father　did　not　encourage；　remarking；　with　great　affection；　and　chucking　me　under　the　chin；　that　I　was　'a　nice　little　ordinary　boy'。　My　Mother；