pieces;' things unknown in aristocratic seminaries, but constantly
used at the comparativelyhumbleacademy which supplied the best

knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic to be attained in that
remote neighborhood.

"The long desks covered from end to end with those painted
masterpieces, the Life of Robinson Crusoe, the Hunting of Chevy-Chase,

the History of Jack the Giant-Killer, and all the little eager faces
and trembling hands bent over these, and filling them up with some

choice quotation, sacred or profane;--no, the galleries of art, the
theatrical exhibitions, the reviews and processions,--which are only

not childish because they are practiced and admired by men instead of
children,--all the pomps and vanities of great cities, have shown me

no revelation of glory such as did that crowded school-room the week
before the Christmas holidays. But these were the splendors of life.

The truest and the strongest feelings do not connect themselves with
any scenes of gorgeous and gaudy magnificence; they are bound up in

the remembrances of home.
"The narrow orchard, with its grove of old apple-trees against one of

which I used to lean, and while I brandished a beanstalk, roar out
with Fitzjames,--

'Come one, come all; this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I!'--

while I was ready to squall at the sight of a cur, and run valorously
away from a casually approaching cow; the field close beside it, where

I rolled about in summer among the hay; the brook in which, despite of
maid and mother, I waded by the hour; the garden where I sowed

flower-seeds, and then turned up the ground again and planted
potatoes, and then rooted out the potatoes to insert acorns and

apple-pips, and at last, as may be supposed, reaped neither roses, nor
potatoes, nor oak-trees, nor apples; the grass-plots on which I played

among those with whom I never can play nor work again: all these are
places and employments,--and, alas, playmates,--such as, if it were

worth while to weep at all, it would be worth weeping that I enjoy no
longer.

"I remember the house where I first grew familiar with peacocks; and
the mill-stream into which I once fell; and the religious awe

wherewith I heard, in the warm twilight, the psalm-singing around the
house of the Methodist miller; and the door-post against which I

discharged my brazenartillery; I remember the window by which I sat
while my mother taught me French; and the patch of garden which I dug

for-- But her name is best left blank; it was indeed writ in water.
These recollections are to me like the wealth of a departed friend, a

mournful treasure. But the public has heard enough of them; to it
they are worthless: they are a coin which only circulates at its true

value between the different periods of an individual's existence, and
good for nothing but to keep up a commerce between boyhood and

manhood. I have for years looked forward to the possibility of
visiting L----; but I am told that it is a changed village; and not

only has man been at work, but the old yew on the hill has fallen, and
scarcely a low stump remains of the tree which I delighted in

childhood to think might have furnished bows for the Norman
archers."[3]

In Cowbridge is some kind of free school, or grammar-school, of a
certain distinction; and this to Captain Sterling was probably a

motive for settling in the neighborhood of it with his children. Of
this however, as it turned out, there was no use made: the Sterling

family, during its continuance in those parts, did not need more than
a primary school. The worthy master who presided over these Christmas

galas, and had the honor to teach John Sterling his reading and
writing, was an elderly Mr. Reece of Cowbridge, who still (in 1851)

survives, or lately did; and is still remembered by his old pupils as
a worthy, ingenious and kindly man, "who wore drab breeches and white

stockings." Beyond the Reece sphere of tuition John Sterling did not
go in this locality.

In fact the Sterling household was still fluctuating; the problem of a
task for Edward Sterling's powers, and of anchorage for his affairs in

any sense, was restlessly" target="_blank" title="ad.不安定地；烦躁地">restlessly struggling to solve itself, but was still a
good way from being solved. Anthony, in revisiting these scenes with

John in 1839, mentions going to the spot "where we used to stand with
our Father, looking out for the arrival of the London mail:" a little

chink through which is disclosed to us a big restless section of a
human life. The Hill of Welsh Llanblethian, then, is like the mythic

Caucasus in its degree (as indeed all hills and habitations where men
sojourn are); and here too, on a small scale, is a Prometheus Chained!

Edward Sterling, I can well understand, was a man to tug at the chains
that held him idle in those the prime of his years; and to ask

restlessly" target="_blank" title="ad.不安定地；烦躁地">restlessly, yet not in anger and remorse, so much as in hope,
locomotive speculation, and ever-new adventure and attempt, Is there

no task nearer my own natural size, then? So he looks out from the
Hill-side "for the arrival of the London mail;" thence hurries into

Cowbridge to the Post-office; and has a wide web, of threads and
gossamers, upon his loom, and many shuttles flying, in this world.

By the Marquis of Bute's appointment he had, very shortly after his
arrival in that region, become Adjutant of the Glamorganshire Militia,

"Local Militia," I suppose; and was, in this way, turning his military
capabilities to some use. The office involved pretty frequent

absences, in Cardiff and elsewhere. This doubtless was a welcome
outlet, though a small one. He had also begun to try writing,

especially on public subjects; a much more copious outlet,--which
indeed, gradually widening itself, became the final solution for him.

Of the year 1811 we have a Pamphlet of his, entitled _Military
Reform_; this is the second edition, "dedicated to the Duke of Kent;"

the first appears to have come out the year before, and had thus
attained a certain notice, which of course was encouraging. He now

furthermore opened a correspondence with the _Times_ Newspaper; wrote
to it, in 1812, a series of Letters under the signature _Vetus_:

voluntary Letters I suppose, without payment or pre-engagement, one
successful Letter calling out another; till _Vetus_ and his doctrines

came to be a distinguishable entity, and the business amounted to
something. Out of my own earliest Newspaper reading, I can remember

the name _Vetus_, as a kind of editorial hacklog on which able-editors
were wont to chop straw now and then. Nay the Letters were collected

and reprinted; both this first series, of 1812, and then a second of
next year: two very thin, very dim-colored cheap octavos; stray

copies of which still exist, and may one day become distillable into a
drop of History (should such be wanted of our poor "Scavenger Age" in

time coming), though the reading of them has long ceased in this
generation.[4] The first series, we perceive, had even gone to a

second edition. The tone, wherever one timidly glances into this
extinct cockpit, is trenchant and emphatic: the name of _Vetus_,

strenuously fighting there, had become considerable in the talking
political world; and, no doubt, was especially of mark, as that of a

writer who might otherwise be important, with the proprietors of the
_Times_. The connection continued: widened and deepened itself,--in

a slow tentative manner; passing naturally from voluntary into
remunerated: and indeed proving more and more to be the true ultimate

arena, and battle-field and seed-field, for the exuberant
impetuosities and faculties of this man.

What the _Letters of Vetus_ treated of I do not know; doubtless they
ran upon Napoleon, Catholic Emancipation, true methods of national

defence, of effective foreign Anti-gallicism, and of domestic ditto;
which formed the staple of editorialspeculation at that time. I have

heard in general that Captain Sterling, then and afterwards, advocated
"the Marquis of Wellesley's policy;" but that also, what it was, I

have forgotten, and the world has been willing to forget. Enough, the
heads of the _Times_ establishment, perhaps already the Marquis of

Wellesley and other important persons, had their eye on this writer;
and it began to be surmised by him that here at last was the career he

had been seeking.
Accordingly, in 1814, when victorious Peace unexpectedly arrived; and

the gates of the Continent after five-and-twenty years of fierce
closure were suddenly thrown open; and the hearts of all English and

European men awoke staggering as if from a nightmare suddenly removed,
and ran hither and thither,--Edward Sterling also determined on a new

adventure, that of crossing to Paris, and trying what might lie in
store for him. For curiosity, in its idler sense, there was evidently

pabulum enough. But he had hopes moreover of learning much that might
perhaps avail him afterwards;--hopes withal, I have understood, of

getting to be Foreign Correspondent of the _Times_ Newspaper, and so
adding to his income in the mean while. He left Llanblethian in May;

dates from Dieppe the 27th of that month. He lived in occasional
contact with Parisian notabilities (all of them except Madame de Stael

forgotten now), all summer, diligently surveying his ground;--returned
for his family, who were still in Wales but ready to move, in the