with the small-pox; he wore a very large
frill at the bosom of his shirt, and he took
snuff copiously, which he carried, not
fastidiously in a box, but loosely in his
waistcoat-pocket. But you soon lost sight of these
little notabilities, when you came to know
him better, in the goodness of his heart, and
the grave simplicity of his character. He
was allowed to take ten private pupils, in
addition to the forty regular scholars. I
became a private pupil; being still too young
to be enrolled among the blue-coated
fraternity. And so began the quiet routine of
my school-life, unmarked for some years in
the calendar of my recollections by any
noteworthy event.

The garden was my great delight, and my
happiest hours were spent in labouring in it;
for my lameness prevented me from joining
in any of the more active games of childhood,
and I had thus much leisure at my command.
I cultivated nothing but flowers; and as
Mr. Carnforth was a great botanist, I had
the benefit of his advice, together with
frequent presents of seeds and shoots from
his garden. Indeed, I soon became a great
favourite with the master. I think it was my
infirmity that first attracted him towards
me; for pain or helplessness of any kind won
his sympathy at once. But other points of
liking soon grew up between us. I became
his companion on many of his excursions
among the hills—for I could walk well enough
with the aid of a stick—where he went to
seek for specimens of rare mosses, which
was his hobby at that time. My pace suited
well with his slow and meditative way of
walking; and I could not run from his side
after every butterfly or pretty flower on the
way. The master was no great talker, either;
and silence was ever one of my virtues. But,
at the bottom, it was the child-like simplicity
of his own heart that formed the strongest
bond between us.

Our little household was not a very lively
one; for protracted pain and ill-health
rendered me habitually taciturn, often morose:
My grandmother seldom smiled. I know
now that she had good reason for never
smiling again. Many a time, as I lay awake
at midnight in my little closet pressing my
burning forehead against the cold wall, have
I heard her pacing from end to end of her
bedroom, muttering and sobbing to herself.
One night, when this was the case, I arose,
and, through her half-opened door, saw her
walking to and fro—for it was moonlight—
wringing her hands, and muttering incoherent
words; her long night-dress sweeping the
floor, and her grey hair falling wildly round
her face. Stopping suddenly, she drew aside
the curtain, and peered into the moonlit
garden. "O, William! William! O, my
son,—my son!" she cried, "living or dead;
where art thou?" I crept back terrified to
bed; and did not forget that dreary picture
for many weeks.

Often I longed to throw my arms round
her neck, and beseech her to let me comfort
her; but there was ever such a stern
self-concentration about her—such a shrouding of
her grief from all consolation or kindly
sympathy from without, that my heart was
chilled and frightened back into itself: we
both suffered on in silence. Thus, it seemed
but natural that our hearth should be a
gloomy one. A dark and impalpable
something—a cloud without shape—seemed to
weigh upon my heart, and to enshroud my
early years within its gloomy influence. This
shadow, undefined, but ever present,
interposed between the world and me. I
remember that I sometimes used to wonder
in my childish way, why it was so. I could
not understand it. They all seemed to love
me so much, and the world was so beautiful,
that there was evidently something
wrong somewhere; but where I could not
tell.

At ten years of age I was elected a regular
blue-coat scholar. With this change began
another epoch in my existence.

I have made mention of the library. It
formed part of the Chalmy Charity; and
consisted of a considerable number of rare
and valuable works—old tomes in black
letter, illustrated with barbarous woodcuts
in which the men were larger than the
trees and houses; large folios in Latin and
Greek; and a few scarce books in old
French; many of them having remnants
of the chains still attached to them by which
they had been formerly fastened to the
wall. The collection was much frequented
by the scholars and antiquaries of the
neighbourhood. One of these gentlemen,
wisely conceiving that a classified catalogue
would be of great assistance to the
frequenters of the place, Mr. Carnforth was
unanimously requested to draw one up. It
was a task well suited to his tastes, and
therefore a labour of love. He called me to
assist him in sorting the volumes, and affixing
the numbers; and we worked so assiduously
during the long winter nights, that, by
the beginning of March, the catalogue was
complete. It was universally approved of. I
quite regretted the completion of our task,
for I began to love the old folios right well.
I could not read them, it is true; but the
master had translated many passages for me
as we went on, besides the whole of the title
pages; many of which were very curious.
Their very age and mouldiness attracted
me; and I pored over the grim old type for
many an hour, making out a word here and
there, and wondering what it was all about.
I thought what a grand thing it would be
to be able to read them like Mr. Carnforth;
and, after much pondering, I determined to
master their secrets and extract whatever
hidden virtue they might possess. Mr.
Carnforth stared at me through his spectacles in
mild surprise when I mentioned my project