In childhood it was more dominant than it is now, perhaps.  It went its way more securely, because, in my case at least, the mind was, in those far-off days, strangely inactive.  The whole nature was bent upon observation.  Ruskin is the only writer who has described what was precisely my own experience, when he says that as a child he lived almost entirely in the region of sight.  It was the only part of me, the eye, that was then furiously and untiringly awake.  Taste, smell, touch, had each of them at moments a sharp consciousness; but it was the shape, the form, the appearance of things, that interested me, took up most of my time and energy, occupied me unceasingly.  Even now my memory ranges, with lively precision, over the home, the garden, the heathery moorland, the firwoods, the neighbouring houses of the scene where I lived.  I can see the winding walks, the larch shrubberies, the flower-borders, the very grain of the brickwork; while in the house itself, the wall papers, the furniture, the patterns of carpets and chintzes, are all absolutely clear to the memory.

Thus I lived, from day to day and from year to year, in the moment as it passed; but I remember no touch of speculation or curiosity as to how or why things existed as they did.  The house, the arrangements, the servants, the meal-times, the occupations were all simply accepted as they were, just the will of my parents taking shape.  I never thought of interrogating or altering anything.  Life came to me just so.  I remember no sharp emotions, no dominant affections.  My parents seemed to me kind and powerful; but it did not occur to me that, if I had died, they would feel any particular grief.  I was just a part of their arrangements; and my idea of life was simply to manage so that I should be as little interfered with as possible, and go my way, annexing such little property as I could, and learning the appearance of the things that were too large to be annexed.

Then my elder brother went off to school.  I do not remember being sorry, or missing his company; in fact, I rather welcomed the additional independence it gave me.  I was glad in a mild way when he came back for the holidays; but I do not recollect the faintest curiosity about what he did at school, or what it was all like.  He told us some stories about boys and masters; but it was all quite remote, like a fairy-tale; and then the time gradually drew near when I too was to go to school; but I remember neither interest or curiosity or excitement or anxiety.  I think I rather enjoyed a few extra presents, and the packing of my school-box with a consciousness of proprietorship.  And then the day came, and I drifted off like thistledown into the big world.

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