elevated island, covered with shrubs, that gives a name to the Mount pond, was regarded with infinite awe as being the nearest approach within the circuit of his observation to a conception of the majesty of Sinai.  Indeed, at this period his infant fancy was much exercised with the threats and terrors of the Law.  He had a little plot of ground at the back of the house, marked out as his own by a Tory of oyster-shells, which a maid one day threw away as rubbish.  He went straight to the drawing-room, where his mother was entertaining some visitors, walked into the circle, and said very solemnly:  “Cursed be Sally; for it is written, Cursed is he that removeth his neighbour’s land-mark.”

While still the merest child he was sent as a day-scholar to Mr. Greaves, a shrewd Yorkshireman with a turn for science, who had been originally brought to the neighbourhood in order to educate a number of African youths sent over to imbibe Western civilisation at the fountain-head.  The poor fellows had found as much difficulty in keeping alive at Clapham as Englishmen experience at Sierra Leone; and, in the end, their tutor set up a school for boys of his own colour, and at one time had charge of almost the entire rising generation of the Common.  Mrs. Macaulay explained to Tom that he must learn to study without the solace of bread and butter, to which he replied:  “Yes, mama, industry shall be my bread and attention my butter.”  But, as a matter of fact, no one ever crept more unwillingly to school.  Each several afternoon he made piteous entreaties to be excused returning after dinner, and was met by the unvarying formula:  “No, Tom, if it rains cats and dogs, you shall go.”

His reluctance to leave home had more than one side to it.  Not only did his heart stay behind, but the regular lessons of the class took him away from occupations which in his eyes were infinitely more delightful and important; for these were probably the years of his greatest literary activity.  As an author he never again had mere facility, or anything like so wide a range.  In September 1808, his mother writes:  “My dear Tom continues to show marks of uncommon genius.  He gets on wonderfully in all branches of his education, and the extent of his reading, and of the knowledge he has derived from it, are truly astonishing in a boy not yet eight years old.  He is at the same time as playful as a kitten.  To give you some idea of the activity of his mind I will mention a few circumstances that may interest you and Colin.  You will believe that to him we never appear to regard anything he does as anything more than a schoolboy’s amusement.  He took it into his head to write a compendium of Universal History about a year ago, and he really contrived to give a tolerably connected view of the leading events from the Creation to the present time, filling about a quire of paper.  He told me one day that he had been writing a paper, which Henry Daly was to translate into Malabar, to persuade the people