It must have been my Father who taught me my letters.  To my Mother, as I have said, it was distasteful to teach, though she was so prompt and skillful to learn.  My Father, on the contrary, taught cheerfully, by fits and starts.  In particular, he had a scheme for rationalizing geography, which I think was admirable.  I was to climb upon a chair, while, standing at my side, with a pencil and a sheet of paper, he was to draw a chart of the markings on the carpet.  Then, when I understood the system, another chart on a smaller scale of the furniture in the room, then of a floor of the house, then of the back-garden, then of a section of the street.  The result of this was that geography came to me of itself, as a perfectly natural miniature arrangement of objects, and to this day has always been the science which gives me least difficulty.  My father also taught me the simple rules of arithmetic, a little natural history, and the elements of drawing; and he laboured long and unsuccessfully to make me learn by heart hymns, psalms and chapters of Scripture, in which I always failed ignominiously and with tears.  This puzzled and vexed him, for he himself had an extremely retentive textual memory.  He could not help thinking that I was naughty, and would not learn the chapters, until at last he gave up the effort.  All this sketch of an education began, I believe, in my fourth year, and was not advanced or modified during the rest of my Mother’s life.

Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure in the pages of books.  The range of these was limited, for story-books of every description were sternly excluded.  No fiction of any kind, religious or secular, was admitted into the house.  In this it was to my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due.  She had a remarkable, I confess to me still somewhat unaccountable impression that to ‘tell a story’, that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind, was a sin.  She carried this conviction to extreme lengths.  My Father, in later years, gave me some interesting examples of her firmness.  As a young man in America, he had been deeply impressed by ‘Salathiel’, a pious prose romance by that then popular writer, the Rev. George Croly.  When he first met my Mother, he recommended it to her, but she would not consent to open it.  Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in verse of Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not ‘true’.  She would read none but lyrical and subjective poetry.  Her secret diary reveals the history of this singular aversion to the fictitious, although it cannot be said to explain the cause of it.  As a child, however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so considerable a skill in it that she was constantly being begged to indulge others with its exercise.  But I will, on so curious a point, leave her to speak for herself: