HIS IMAGINATION. 19 Some children, like those of "larger growth," are of a dull and leaden species. As they stretch their heavy and sleepy eyelids to look on any object, so they have to rouse and task their sulky faculties to grasp what, to others, is a palpable fact. In instances of higher grade there is no want of perception or memory, yet the mind has little to do with the ideal; while there are some-though few, comparatively-in which the imagination acquires an absolute predominance. Mrs. Jameson, whose "Revelations of Childhood" it were well for parents studiously to ponder, says: "I have a remembrance that I was always a princess heroine in the disguise of a knight; a sort of Clorinda or Britomart, going about to redress the wrongs of the poor, fight giants, and kill dragons; or founding a society in some far-off, desolate island, which would have rivalled that of Gonsalez, where there were no tears, no tasks, no laws except those which I made myself—no caged birds, nor tormented kittens." Sir James Mackintosh also remarks: "I well remember that 'Echard's Roman History' led me into a ridiculous habit, from which I shall never be totally free. I used to fancy myself emperor of Constantinople; I distributed offices and provinces amongst my schoolfellows; I loaded my favourites with dignity and power, and I often made the objects of my dislike feel the weight of my imperial resentment." Now, it was to this class of beings that George constitutionally belonged. To him, who needed only knowledge as a guide, force was an outrage. Agile as was that little frame, far greater still was the activity of the inner child. Though all the mental powers were in exercise, the imagination was always strongly disposed to assert its supremacy, and often was it successful. Thus was George, then, another Fortunatus, with a wishing-cap that transported him wherever he pleased, and a purse which no demands could impoverish, much less exhaust. It was only to retire within himself to find a theatre, whose stage he could fill with characters, arrayed in costume, performing exploits, and uttering words in accordance with his pleasure. He was absolutely a host, and others were not needed to take their respective parts in a drama which he could act absolutely alone. There is no difficulty in picturing that fair, blueeyed, curly-headed boy. His frame, neither spare nor clumsy, was light, agile, and vigorous. He looked not downwards nor askance, but with eyes sparkling with intelligence, from an open and ingenuous face. As you spake, it became intent with interest or glowing with emotion. A few words, it might be one, would evoke the merry laugh or the trickling tear. Emotion, slight or deep, transient or continuous, was always the product of thought; and, had he been asked, he could have described its origin. He could talk fluently and gracefully, but he had learned to be silent; and, with animal spirits requiring restraint rather than stimulus, he was neither rude nor obtrusive. Towards his companions in childhood he was ever considerate. They never had to complain that he gratified himself at their expense. On the contrary, his treasures were at their service; and, though he liked to be first in all the games he played with children of his own age, their pleasures were always as sweet as his own. They might not have been able to describe the charm that there was about him; but, had you watched them together, you would not have failed to see how great a favourite was George. Mr. Mogridge, when an old man, amusingly remarked: "The first rudiments of education were received by me at a dame-school. In the shadowy school-house of those days I can still discern the dim outline of a certain young gentleman standing on a form behind the door, with a pointed cap on his head; but as to his express identity, the considerate reader will not trouble himself to inquire." George doubtless had his failings; but these did not detract from the general character which truth requires to be given. If he were not what is deemed a prodigy, assuredly he was no ordinary child. But soon-doubtless, he thought too soon-the quietude, comforts, and genial influences of home were to be exchanged for the noise, strife, and temptations of a large school; and these will supply another chapter of his early history. 22 CHAPTER III. SCHOOL DAYS. To fix the volatility of youth there must be impressiveness; to awaken the imagination there must be liveliness; to win the affections there must be tenderness; to make wisdom enter into the heart, and knowledge become pleasant to the soul, everything harsh and gloomy and forbidding must be shunned. Everything gentle, cheerful, and attractive must be associated with the daily lessons of instruction.-JEBB. FIRST GOING TO SCHOOL. THE SCHOOLMASTER AT BOARCOTE.-HIS HIS Ir is generally a dark day to a little boy who leaves home for the first time for school. Though he has more than the usual amount of pocket-money, and a store of good things in his box, and though he has heard much of school games and pleasant playfellows, he has a dismal foreboding of hard tasks and unknown punishments. Southey says: "I can call to mind with how strong and painful an effort it was that I subdued my own emotions. I allude to this as "The first grief I felt, And the first painful smile that clothed my front GEORGE'S SISTER. 23 George kept up bravely when, in the hall, he had a last kiss all round, and was bowled along in the postchaise which bore him, his father, and his elder brother over pleasant roads and lanes; yet, when his father left him at Boarcote, near Bromsgrove, amidst a group of new acquaintances in the playground, never did home, and those who made it what it was, seem so dear. Is it to be wondered at that he hurried as soon as he could behind a bush or a tree and burst into tears? There was one specially tender participant in George's sorrow-his first playfellow-his sister Mary. He had dined with the family before the chaise came up, and the affectionate little girl tied a piece of thread around the knife and fork he last used, to distinguish them from the rest, that she might have them "all the time he was away." And well was it for her as for him that there could be only a faint glimpse of the new arena on which he had entered, or their mutual depression would have been greatly increased. The schoolmaster at Boarcote was a strange being. Had he been satisfied with giving lessons in reading, writing, and the earlier rules of arithmetic, he might have assisted those under his care; but he was of far too enterprising a spirit to be thus restricted. "Vulgar fractions and decimals, algebra, grammar, history, geography, the use of the globes, and Latin," were only a part of the knowledge he fearlessly undertook to communicate. A quickness to discover error |