The boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty
of intelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book
learning. Being kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father
and mother as it was in his nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of
no one else. He had a good healthy sense of meum, and as little of
tuum as he could help. Brought up much in the open air in one of the
best situated and healthiest villages in England, his little limbs had
fair play, and in those days children's brains were not overtasked
as they now are; perhaps it was for this very reason that the boy
showed an avidity to learn. At seven or eight years old he could read,
write, and sum better than any other boy of his age in the village. My
father was not yet rector of Paleham, and did not remember George
Pontifex's childhood, but I have heard neighbours tell him that the
boy was looked upon as unusually quick and forward. His father and
mother were naturally proud of their offspring, and his mother was
determined that he should one day become one of the kings and
councillors of the earth.
It is one thing, however, to resolve that one's son shall win some
of life's larger prizes and another to square matters with fortune
in this respect.
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