Perhaps the following is not out of place here, although it
is connected with more serious thoughts:

Though neither my father nor my mother were more pious than
their neighbours, we children were brought up religiously.

From infancy we were taught to repeat night and morning the
Lord's Prayer, and invoke blessings on our parents. It was

instilled into us by constantrepetition that God did not
love naughty children - our naughtiness being for the most

part the original sin of disobedience, rooted in the love of
forbidden fruit in all its forms of allurement. Moses

himself could not have believed more faithfully in the direct
and immediate intervention of an avenging God. The pain in

one's stomachincident to unripe gooseberries, no less than
the consequent black dose, or the personal chastisement of a

responsible and apprehensive nurse, were but the just
visitations of an offended Deity.

Whether my religious proclivities were more pronounced than
those of other children I cannot say, but certainly, as a

child, I was in the habit of appealing to Omnipotence to
gratify every ardent desire.

There were peacocks in the pleasure grounds at Holkham, and I
had an aesthetic love for their gorgeous plumes. As I hunted

under and amongst the shrubs, I secretly prayed that my
search might be rewarded. Nor had I a doubt, when

successful, that my prayer had been granted by a beneficent
Providence.

Let no one smile at this infantine credulity, for is it not
the basis of that religious trust which helps so many of us

to support the sorrows to which our stoicism is unequal? Who
that might be tempted thoughtlessly to laugh at the child

does not sometimes sustain the hope of finding his 'plumes'
by appeals akin to those of his childhood? Which of us could

not quote a hundred instances of such a soothing delusion -
if delusion it be? I speak not of saints, but of sinners:

of the countless hosts who aspire to this world's happiness;
of the dying who would live, of the suffering who would die,

of the poor who would be rich, of the aggrieved who seek
vengeance, of the ugly who would be beautiful, of the old who

would appear young, of the guilty who would not be found out,
and of the lover who would possess. Ah! the lover. Here

possibility is a negligible element. Consequences are of no
consequence. Passion must be served. When could a miracle

be more pertinent?
It is just fifty years ago now; it was during the Indian

Mutiny. A lady friend of mine did me the honour to make me
her confidant. She paid the same compliment to many - most

of her friends; and the friends (as is their wont) confided
in one another. Poor thing! her case was a sad one. Whose

case is not? She was, by her own account, in the forty-
second year of her virginity; and it may be added,

parenthetically, an honest fourteen stone in weight.
She was in love with a hero of Lucknow. It cannot be said

that she knew him only by his well-earned fame. She had seen
him, had even sat by him at dinner. He was young, he was

handsome. It was love at sight, accentuated by much
meditation - 'obsessions [peradventure] des images

genetiques.' She told me (and her other confidants, of
course) that she prayed day and night that this distinguished

officer, this handsome officer, might return her passion.
And her letters to me (and to other confidants) invariably

ended with the entreaty that I (and her other, &c.) would
offer up a similar prayer on her behalf. Alas! poor soul,

poor body! I should say, the distinguished officer, together
with the invoked Providence, remained equallyinsensible to

her supplications. The lady rests in peace. The soldier,
though a veteran, still exults in war.

But why do I cite this single instance? Are there not
millions of such entreaties addressed to Heaven on this, and

on every day? What difference is there, in spirit, between
them and the child's prayer for his feather? Is there

anything great or small in the eye of Omniscience? Or is it
not our thinking only that makes it so?

CHAPTER II
SOON after I was seven years old, I went to what was then,

and is still, one of the most favoured of preparatory schools
- Temple Grove - at East Sheen, then kept by Dr. Pinkney. I

was taken thither from Holkham by a great friend of my
father's, General Sir Ronald Ferguson, whose statue now

adorns one of the niches in the facade of Wellington College.
The school contained about 120 boys; but I cannot name any

one of the lot who afterwards achieved distinction. There
were three Macaulays there, nephews of the historian - Aulay,

Kenneth, and Hector. But I have lost sight of all.
Temple Grove was a typical private school of that period.

The type is familiar to everyone in its photograph as
Dotheboys Hall. The progress of the last century in many

directions is great indeed; but in few is it greater than in
the comfort and the cleanliness of our modern schools. The

luxury enjoyed by the present boy is a constant source of
astonishment to us grandfathers. We were half starved, we

were exceedingly dirty, we were systematically bullied, and
we were flogged and caned as though the master's pleasure was

in inverse ratio to ours. The inscription on the threshold
should have been 'Cave canem.'

We began our day as at Dotheboys Hall with two large
spoonfuls of sulphur and treacle. After an hour's lessons we

breakfasted on one bowl of milk - 'Skyblue' we called it -
and one hunch of buttered bread, unbuttered at discretion.

Our dinner began with pudding - generally rice - to save the
butcher's bill. Then mutton - which was quite capable of

taking care of itself. Our only other meal was a basin of
'Skyblue' and bread as before.

As to cleanliness, I never had a bath, never bathed (at the
school) during the two years I was there. On Saturday

nights, before bed, our feet were washed by the housemaids,
in tubs round which half a dozen of us sat at a time. Woe to

the last comers! for the water was never changed. How we
survived the food, or rather the want of it, is a marvel.

Fortunately for me, I used to discover, when I got into bed,
a thickly buttered crust under my pillow. I believed, I

never quite made sure, (for the act was not admissible), that
my good fairy was a fiery-haired lassie (we called her

'Carrots,' though I had my doubts as to this being her
Christian name) who hailed from Norfolk. I see her now: her

jolly, round, shining face, her extensive mouth, her ample
person. I recall, with more pleasure than I then endured,

the cordial hugs she surreptitiously bestowed upon me when we
met by accident in the passages. Kind, affectionate

'Carrots'! Thy heart was as bounteous as thy bosom. May the
tenderness of both have met with their earthly deserts; and

mayest thou have shared to the full the pleasures thou wast
ever ready to impart!

There were no railways in those times. It amuses me to see
people nowadays travelling by coach, for pleasure. How many

lives must have been shortened by long winter journeys in
those horrible coaches. The inside passengers were hardly

better off than the outside. The corpulent and heavy
occupied the scanty space allotted to the weak and small -

crushed them, slept on them, snored over them, and
monopolised the straw which was supposed to keep their feet

warm.
A pachydermatous old lady would insist upon an open window.