a part of my nature, and I have often felt a vague sort of conviction that life would be scarcely worth living without some prospect of having to "rough it."
A Poor Beginning.
I began life at twelve, giving private lessons. It was a poor beginning — the task of coaching big hulking lads was so dreary. At sixteen I became a regular teacher. I had seen enough of the world before this — the world of India, of course. I entered upon my new duties, therefore, with hearty interest. The work did not feel a drudgery for some time; but two or three years after, my migratory instincts again asserted themselves. I felt that I wanted a change. I had taught and studied children long enough, and I thought I must now study "children of a larger growth."
A Tempting Offer.
At this time I was offered the joint-editorship of a local (English) weekly. I jumped at the offer, and submitted it to a few friends whom I used to consult on matters beyond my management. These gentlemen, each and all, scouted the idea, and strongly advised me to keep where I was.
