I said I should like to tell you some things, such as people commonly never tell, about my early recollections.  Should you like to hear them?

Should we like to hear them?—­said the schoolmistress;—­no, but we should love to.

[The voice was a sweet one, naturally, and had something very pleasant in its tone, just then.—­The four-story brick house, which had gone out like a transparency when the light behind it is quenched, glimmered again for a moment; parlor, books, busts, flower-pots, bird-cages, all complete,—­and the figures as before.]

We are waiting with eagerness, Sir,—­said the divinity-student.

[The transparency went out as if a flash of black lightning had struck it.]

If you want to hear my confessions, the next thing—­I said—­is to know whether I can trust you with them.  It is only fair to say that there are a great many people in the world that laugh at such things. I think they are fools, but perhaps you don’t all agree with me.

Here are children of tender age talked to as if they were capable of understanding Calvin’s “Institutes,” and nobody has honesty or sense enough to tell the plain truth about the little wretches:  that they are as superstitious as naked savages, and such miserable spiritual cowards—­that is, if they have any imagination—­that they will believe anything which is taught them, and a great deal more which they teach themselves.

I was born and bred, as I have told you twenty times, among books and those who knew what was in books.  I was carefully instructed in things temporal and spiritual.  But up to a considerable maturity of childhood I believed Raphael and Michael Angelo to have been superhuman beings.  The central doctrine of the prevalent religious faith of Christendom was utterly confused and neutralized in my mind for years by one of those too common stories of actual life, which I overheard repeated in a whisper.—­Why did I not ask? you will say.—­You don’t remember the rosy pudency of sensitive children.  The first instinctive movement of the little creatures is to make a cache, and bury in it beliefs, doubts, dreams, hopes, and terrors.  I am uncovering one of these caches.  Do you think I was necessarily a greater fool and coward than another?

I was afraid of ships.  Why, I could never tell.  The masts looked frightfully tall,—­but they were not so tall as the steeple of our old yellow meeting-house.  At any rate I used to hide my eyes from the sloops and schooners that were wont to lie at the end of the bridge, and I confess that traces of this undefined terror lasted very long.—­One other source of alarm had a still more fearful significance.  There was a great wooden hand,—­a glove-maker’s sign, which used to swing and creak in the blast, as it hung from a pillar before a certain shop a mile or two outside of the city.  Oh, the dreadful hand!  Always hanging there ready to catch up a little boy, who would come home to supper no more, nor yet to bed, —­whose porringer would be laid away empty thenceforth, and his half-worn shoes wait until his small brother grew to fit them.