seen;

" and took from his pocket a paper of comfits as my reward. But I drew up, and said, "Do you think Regulus, and Epictetus, and Seneca, would take a reward for bearing pain; or the little Spartan boys?" He laughed heartily; and, my mother just then coming in, he said, “ Thy little girl is too much of a philosopher to be rewarded for bearing pain, but still I hope she is enough of a child to like these comfits, as a mark of love and kindness;" to which I acceded with great delight.

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A few more words relative to this period; the remembrance of which, though clear, is almost like a shadow. It is of my Aunt Mary Galton, my father's sister; whom we used to call my Aunt Polly. I used to delight in going to Dudson when she was there. She would often bid me place my little stool beside her at tea, and tell me long and interesting fairy tales; and still oftener Scripture histories, illustrative of the pictures on the Dutch tiles, which then formed the common ornament of chimney-pieces. I used to listen with delight to the history of Noah or of Abraham, of Joseph and his Brethren, of Caleb and Joshua, of David and Jonathan; and well do I recall the contrast, even then, between the inflation and exulting pride with which I heard the stories of the Grecian heroes and philosophers and the sweet and soothing feeling of rest with which I listened to

those of the holy men of old. The one seemed like the glare and strength of the noon-day sun; the other like the sweet and refreshing calm of evening.

My Aunt Polly about this time became greatly changed. I believe, from various little evidences which have since reached me, that she then became truly converted to God. Outwardly she assumed the strictest garb of a Friend, and exchanged her silk for a camlet gown; she no longer related fairy tales; but told me more of Scripture, and that more sweetly; she pointed out to me the wisdom and goodness of God in all the fruits and flowers of the garden, and in all else that she thought my childish mind could apprehend. She soon became ill, and was sent, for her health, to the Hotwells, Bristol; from which place she never returned. Before she went, she

came to take leave of us.

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"I am going," I think she said, never to come back." I replied, "Oh, let me go with you!" to which she answered, solemnly looking up, "If thou wouldst be where I hope to be, thou must trust where I desire to trust." Her words made an indelible impression upon me. Though I did not understand them, I believed that something awful and solemn was associated with their meaning, but I dared not ask anybody to explain it. When, some months afterwards, I heard of her death, these words

rose up before me; and, for a season, seemed ever present with me.

There were still a few other seeds scattered at this time in my mind, which I shall mention, because they struck deep root in my tastes and character. The books in which I delighted were not only eagerly read, but each of my favourites amongst them seemed as it were to amalgamate with my existence, however diverse they might be one from the other. There was Berquin's "L'Ami des Enfans." His vivid scenes and quick feeling delighted me; but some passages I never could read. The account of the child lamenting over his mother's grave, I have never been able to read to this day. I often wondered how that child could have lived after its mother's death; and I very often prayed that I might never outlive my mother. This book, I think, fostered in my mind a love of stimulus and excitement of feeling. My English books were Mrs. Barbauld's "Little Charles," and Brook's Natural History; the latter of which inspired me with a great desire for the acquisition of outward knowledge. It was my happiness every evening to place my little chair close by my mother's table, and to listen whilst she told me histories: particularly I remember her telling me of Mount Hecla and Mount Vesuvius, of the Pyramids, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the Wall of China; and if the Bonne gave a good account of me

through the day, after tea my mother would bring out Buffon, and show me pictures of animals, and read me an account of them. I was very fond, too, of tending animals, and showing kindness to them, and I shall never forget the pleasure I had in feeding the birds which frequented our shrubbery, and in learning their natural history; nor the delight I felt in the periodical visits of some tame dromedaries and brown bears, which I fed with oatcake and treacle.

I was very fond of "Sandford and Merton ;" and this book, with my mother's instructions grounded upon it, formed a decided phase in my tastes and habits of mind. I thus early learnt to abhor finery, and to consider it as contemptible; and whenever I saw a fine lady, I considered her in the light of a Mayday dancer who could afford to have better tinsel. One incident I will relate. A lady came one evening to drink tea with my mother; she wore feathers, and had on a very smart head-dress. After a time she kindly called me to her and spoke to me; on which I felt my heart warm to her, and I asked " what she had done," and "if she might not take off her fool's-cap!" If I recollect rightly, Mrs. Wakefield has alluded to this incident in one of her books for children. held also in the greatest contempt all aristocratic distinctions. I loved Henry Sandford for contemning the rich and the fashionable at Mr. Merton's,

I

and for helping the poor. I had the utmost enthusiasm for his refusing to denounce the poor hare to Squire Chase; and for Hamet, the generous Turk. I thought nothing on earth would give me more happiness than to be enabled to make such a sacrifice, or do such a service to my mother; but, like Diogenes, I was ignorant that I was trampling on pride with still greater pride. I also remember the delight it was to me to hear my Swiss Bonne talk of the Jura, the Alps, and the Lake of Geneva. But what I liked still better was when M. Constanson, an aged Swiss minister, came to stay at our house, and took me on his knee, and told me long stories of his encounter with a bear on the Alps, and his visits to Herculaneum and Pompeii, with a whole history of their catastrophe. I still have a little piece of a vine he gave me, from Seneca's garden. Such were some of the very heterogeneous influences which, about this period, impressed my character; the sense of the presence of God; the desire to know His will and do it; a great thirst for all sorts of desultory information; and, with all, an inordinate pride and self-esteem, which rather led me to abhor the humiliation in my own eyes and before others consequent upon yielding to temptation, than enabled me to resist it. Better children or worse children than I might have been more honest: I was too bad to resist temptation; I was too good to have an easy