Fortunately for my wounded sensibility, the midsummer holydays came on,
and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired into all my school
concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, and sorrows; for boyhood has
its share of the one as well as of the others. I told her all, and she
was indignant at the treatment I had experienced. She fired up at the
arrogance of the squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to the
school-master, she wondered where was the use of having school-masters,
and why boys could not remain at home and be educated by tutors, under
the eye of their mothers. She asked to see the verses I had written,
and she was delighted with them; for to confess the truth, she had a
pretty taste in poetry. She even showed to them to the parson's wife,
who protested they were charming, and the parson's three daughters
insisted on each having a copy of them.
All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still more consoled and
encouraged, when the young ladies, who were the blue-stockings of the
neighborhood, and had read Dr. Johnson's lives quite through, assured
my mother that great geniuses never studied, but were always idle; upon
which I began to surmise that I was myself something out of the common
run. My father, however, was of a very different opinion, for when my
mother, in the pride of her heart, showed him my copy of verses, he
threw them out of the window, asking her "if she meant to make a ballad
monger of the boy.
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