l sorts of discoveries, to me astonishing and delightful, about my
children. I recognise some of their qualities and modes of thought; but
there are whole ranges of qualities apparent, of which I cannot even
guess the origin. One thinks of a child as deriving its nature from its
parents, and its experience from its surroundings; but there is much
beside that, original views, unexpected curiosities, and, strangest of
all, things that seem almost like dim reminiscences floated out of
other far-off lives. They seem to infer so much that they have never
heard, to perceive so much that they have never seen, to know so much
that they have never been told. Bewildering as this is in the
intellectual region, it is still more marvellous in the moral region.
They scorn, they shudder at, they approve, they love, as by some
generous instinct, qualities of which they have had no experience. "I
don't know what it is, but there is something wrong about Cromwell,"
said Maggie gravely, when we had been reading the history of the
Commonwealth. Now Cromwell is just one of those characters which, as a
rule, a child accepts as a model of rigid virtue and public spirit.
Alec, whose taste is all for soldiers and sailors just now, and who
might, one would have thought, have been dazzled by military glory,
pronounced Napoleon "rather a common man." This arose purely in the
boy's own mind, because I am very careful not to anticipate any
judgments; I think it of the highest importance that they should learn
to form their own opinions, so that we never attempt to criticise a
character until we have mastered the facts of his life.

Another thing I am doing with them, which seems to me to develop
intelligence pleasurably and rapidly, is to read them a passage or an
episode, and then to require them to relate it or write it in their own
words. I don't remember that this was ever done for me in the whole
course of my elaborate education; and the speed with which they have
acquired the art of seizing on salient points is to me simply
marvellous. I have my reward in such remarks as these which Maud
repeated to me yesterday. "Lessons," said Alec gravely, "have become
ever so much more fun since we began to do them with father." "Fun!"
said Maggie, with indignant emotion; "they are not lessons at all now!"
I certainly do not observe any reluctance on their part to set to work,
and I do see a considerable reluctance to stop; yet I don't think there
is the l