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with a long fishing rod or pointer, that he kept in hand to influence 
to obedience the restless ones entrusted to him. He soon removed 
to Enon School Room, and here he displayed much novelty and 
humour in work necessary to the maintenance of the pedadogue’s 
dignity and influence. But the bolt was preparing which was to 
do away with this genial evolution. ‘'T. B.,” as he was always 
called, gave up the school, and went altogether to the newspaper. 
For some time there had been whisperings iu our homes of a 
great scholarly magician at the Topo’ th’ Town. Much com- 
muning with friends in council, gave the master of St. Peter’s 
School the benefit of the doubt. For doubt there was, and tear 
and perturbation. None know now, except those who heard, fifty 
years ago, the anxious questionings of parents, who were in an 
atmosphere charged with solicitude and irresolution how the 
merits of the various schoolmasters of the town were discussed. 
The alternate attraction and repulsion, which Mr. Grant’s 
energy and stern learning had, both upon parents and boys, is 
something to be remembered. His unbounded generosity to 
those in need was a pleasing characteristic. Hssentially, his was 
a practical school, where boys with anything in them were 
pushed on, always under strict Scripture and disciplinarian 
rules. There was not much time for poetry, except the learning 
occasionally of recitative pieces. Patriotic songs were much to 
the fore, and seeing that the Indian Mutiny and the Crimean 
War happened during that time, this is not to be wondered at. 
The return of James Howarth, a Top-o’-th’-'Towner, from the 
Crimea, was the cause of great jubilation, and got the boys a 
half day’s holiday. General Searlett’s going into the Old 
Chureh Yard, while we boys were out at play, was a well- 
remembered occasion, when our feelings had full vent in excited 
cheers. 
Evolution was proceeding well and rapidly in those youthful 
days of life and light. The leaving school—the beginning work 
—the changing companions—the civilising and humanising 
contact with the great turmoil of life, and those silent times 
when nothing disturbed the soul’s introspection, must now be 
gathered up from his recollections, and my own. 
Here before me, as I open them out, are some of the leaves 
and blossoms lovingly collected and pressed in the far back days, 
which, he tells me, bring to him varied memories, These 
delicately tendrilled leaves were gathered on the inner fence line 
of the wood, near the meeting of the waters, above Heasandford. 
I well remember the occasion, for we were together, and I had 
my first close glimpse of a real poet. It was Mr. Henry 
Houlding out ruralising. We were introduced, and while my 
