his collar, nor to get mud
on his boots.

In later years he told how he looked covetously at the boys who wore
neither hats nor boots, and who did not have a governess.

His mother had a fair income, and so this prim, precise, exact and
crystallized mode of education was continued. Out of her great love for
her child, the mother sent him away from home when he was eight years
old. Of course there were tears on both sides; but now a male man must
educate him, and women were to be dropped out of the equation--this that
the evil in the child should be curbed, his spirit chastened, and his
mind disciplined.

The fact that a child rather liked to be fondled by his mother, or that
his mother cared to fondle him, was proof of total depravity on the part
of both.

The Reverend Doctor Griffiths, who took charge of the boy for two years,
was certainly not cruel, but at the same time he was not exactly human.
In Nature we never hear of a she-lion sending her cubs away to be looked
after by a denatured lion. It is really doubtful whether you could ever
raise a lion to lionhood by this method. Some goat would come along and
butt the life out of him, even after he had evolved whiskers and a mane.

After two years with Doctor Griffiths, young Arnold was sent to
Manchester, where he remained in a boys' boarding-house from his tenth
to his fourteenth year. To the teachers here--all men--he often paid
tribute, but uttered a few heretical doubts as to whether discipline as
a substitute for mother-love was not an error of pious but overzealous
educators.

At sixteen years of age he was transferred to Corpus Christi College at
Oxford. In Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, being then twenty years of age, he
was elected a Fellow of Oriel College, and there he resided until he was
twenty-four.

He was a prizeman in Latin, Greek and English, and was considered a star
scholar--both by himself and by others. Ten years afterwards he took a
backward glance, and said: "At twenty-two I was proud, precise, stiff,
formal, uncomfortable, unhappy, and unintentionally made everybody else
unhappy with whom I came in contact. The only people I really mixed with
were those whose lives were dedicated to the ablative."

When twenty-four he was made a deacon and used to read prayers at
neighboring chapels, for which service he was paid five shillings. Being
now thrown on his own resources, he did the thing a prizeman always
does: he showed others how. As a tut