Chapter 1

THIS book is the record of a struggle between two temperaments, two consciences and almost two epochs. It ended, as was inevitable, in disruption. Of the two human beings here described, one was born to fly backward, the other could not help being carried forward. There came a time when neither spoke the same language as the other, or encompassed the same hopes, or was fortified by the same desires. But, at least, it is some consolation to the survivor, that neither, to the very last hour, ceased to respect the other, or to regard him with a sad indulgence.

This book tells the story of a struggle between two temperaments, two consciences, and almost two different eras. Inevitably, the struggle ended in a rupture. Of the two people described here, one was born to fly backward. The other could not help being carried forward. A time came when they no longer spoke the same language, shared the same hopes, or drew strength from the same desires. But the survivor can at least take some comfort in this: until the very last hour, each continued to respect the other and to regard him with a sad tolerance.

The affection of these two persons was assailed by forces in comparison with which the changes that health or fortune or place introduce are as nothing. It is a mournful satisfaction, but yet a satisfaction, that they were both of them able to obey the law which says that ties of close family relationship must be honoured and sustained. Had it not been so, this story would never have been told.

The affection between these two people was attacked by powerful forces. Compared with them, the changes caused by health, fortune, or place are nothing. It is a sad satisfaction, but a satisfaction nonetheless, that both were able to obey a law. This law says that close family ties must be honored and sustained. If they had not obeyed it, this story would never have been told.

The struggle began soon, yet of course it did not begin in early infancy. But to familiarize my readers with the conditions of the two persons (which were unusual) and with the outlines of their temperaments (which were, perhaps innately, antagonistic), it is needful to open with some account of all that I can truly and independently recollect, as well as with some statements which are, as will be obvious, due to household tradition.

The struggle began soon, though of course it did not begin in early infancy. The two people involved lived in unusual circumstances. Their temperaments were also opposed, perhaps by nature. To help my readers understand both, I must begin with all that I can truly remember for myself. I must also include some things that, as will be clear, come from family tradition.

My parents were poor gentlefolks; not young; solitary, sensitive, and although they did not know it, proud. They both belonged to what is called the Middle Class, and there was this further resemblance between them that they each descended from families which had been more than well-to-do in the eighteenth century, and had gradually sunken in fortune. In both houses there had been a decay of energy which had led to decay in wealth. In the case of my Father's family it had been a slow decline; in that of my Mother's, it had been rapid. My maternal grandfather was born wealthy, and in the opening years of the nineteenth century, immediately after his marriage, he bought a little estate in North Wales, on the slopes of Snowdon. Here he seems to have lived in a pretentious way, keeping a pack of hounds and entertaining on an extravagant scale. He had a wife who encouraged him in this vivid life, and three children, my Mother and her two brothers. His best trait was his devotion to the education of his children, in which he proclaimed himself a disciple of Rousseau. But he can hardly have followed the teaching of 'Emile' very closely, since he employed tutors to teach his daughter, at an extremely early age, the very subjects which Rousseau forbade, such as history, literature and foreign languages.

My parents were poor people of respectable social standing. They were no longer young, and they were solitary, sensitive, and, though they did not know it, proud. They both belonged to what is called the middle class. They also both came from families that had been more than comfortably well-off in the eighteenth century. Both families had gradually lost their fortunes. In both families, a decline in energy had led to a decline in wealth. My Father's family had declined slowly, while my Mother's had declined rapidly. My maternal grandfather was born wealthy. In the early nineteenth century, just after his marriage, he bought a small estate in North Wales, on the slopes of Snowdon. There he seems to have lived grandly, keeping a pack of hunting dogs and entertaining on an extravagant scale. His wife encouraged this lively way of life. They had three children: my Mother and her two brothers. His best quality was his devotion to his children's education. On that subject, he declared himself a follower of Rousseau. But he can hardly have followed the teachings of 'Emile' very closely. He hired tutors to teach his daughter at a very early age the very subjects Rousseau forbade, including history, literature, and foreign languages.

My Mother was his special favourite, and his vanity did its best to make a bluestocking of her. She read Greek, Latin and even a little Hebrew, and, what was more important, her mind was trained to be self-supporting. But she was diametrically opposed in essential matters to her easy-going, luxurious and self-indulgent parents. Reviewing her life in her thirtieth year, she remarked in some secret notes: 'I cannot recollect the time when I did not love religion.' She used a still more remarkable expression: 'If I must date my conversion from my first wish and trial to be holy, I may go back to infancy; if I am to postpone it till after my last wilful sin, it is scarcely yet begun.' The irregular pleasures of her parents' life were deeply distasteful to her, as such were to many young persons in those days of the wide revival of Conscience, and when my grandfather, by his reckless expenditure, which he never checked till ruin was upon him, was obliged to sell his estate, and live in penury, my Mother was the only member of the family who did not regret the change. For my own part, I believe I should have liked my reprobate maternal grandfather, but his conduct was certainly very vexatious. He died, in his eightieth year, when I was nine months old.

My Mother was his special favourite, and his vanity drove him to make her a learned woman. She read Greek, Latin and even a little Hebrew. More importantly, she had been trained to think independently. But in essential matters, she was the opposite of her easy-going parents, who loved luxury and indulged themselves. Looking back on her life at thirty, she wrote in some private notes: 'I cannot remember a time when I did not love religion.' She used an even more remarkable expression: 'If I must date my conversion from my first wish and attempt to be holy, I can go back to infancy. If I must postpone it until after my last deliberate sin, it has scarcely begun even now.' Her parents' irregular pleasures were deeply distasteful to her. Many young people felt the same way in those days, when a sense of conscience was widely reviving. My grandfather spent recklessly and did not stop until he was ruined. He was forced to sell his estate and live in poverty, but my Mother was the only family member who did not regret the change. For my own part, I believe I would have liked my disreputable maternal grandfather, but his behaviour was certainly very troublesome. He died in his eightieth year, when I was nine months old.

It was a curious coincidence that life had brought both my parents along similar paths to an almost identical position in respect to religious belief. She had started from the Anglican standpoint, he from the Wesleyan, and each, almost without counsel from others, and after varied theological experiments, had come to take up precisely the same attitude towards all divisions of the Protestant Church—that, namely, of detached and unbiased contemplation. So far as the sects agreed with my Father and my Mother, the sects were walking in the light; wherever they differed from them, they had slipped more or less definitely into a penumbra of their own making, a darkness into which neither of my parents would follow them. Hence, by a process of selection, my Father and my Mother alike had gradually, without violence, found themselves shut outside all Protestant communions, and at last they met only with a few extreme Calvinists like themselves, on terms of what may almost be called negation—with no priest, no ritual, no festivals, no ornament of any kind, nothing but the Lord's Supper and the exposition of Holy Scripture drawing these austere spirits into any sort of cohesion. They called themselves 'the Brethren', simply; a title enlarged by the world outside into 'Plymouth Brethren'.

It was a curious coincidence that life had brought both my parents along similar paths to almost identical religious beliefs. She had started as an Anglican, he as a Wesleyan. Each had tried various theological approaches, almost without advice from others. In the end, both had come to view all divisions of the Protestant Church with the same detached and unbiased contemplation. When the sects agreed with my Father and my Mother, they were walking in the light. When they differed from my parents, they had slipped more or less clearly into a shadow of their own making. Neither of my parents would follow them into that darkness. So, by a process of selection, my Father and my Mother had gradually found themselves excluded from all Protestant churches. This had happened without conflict. At last, they met only with a few extreme Calvinists like themselves. Their shared beliefs could almost be described in terms of what they rejected. They had no priest, no ritual, no festivals, and no ornament of any kind. Only the Lord's Supper and the explanation of Holy Scripture drew these austere spirits together at all. They called themselves simply 'the Brethren'. The outside world expanded this name to 'Plymouth Brethren'.

It was accident and similarity which brought my parents together at these meetings of the Brethren. Each was lonely, each was poor, each was accustomed to a strenuous intellectual self- support. He was nearly thirty-eight, she was past forty-two, when they married. From a suburban lodging, he brought her home to his mother's little house in the northeast of London without a single day's honeymoon. My Father was a zoologist, and a writer of books on natural history; my Mother also was a writer, author already of two slender volumes of religious verse—the earlier of which, I know not how, must have enjoyed some slight success, since a second edition was printed—afterwards she devoted her pen to popular works of edification. But how infinitely removed in their aims, their habits, their ambitions from 'literary' people of the present day, words are scarcely adequate to describe. Neither knew nor cared about any manifestation of current literature. For each there had been no poet later than Byron, and neither had read a romance since, in childhood, they had dipped into the Waverley Novels as they appeared in succession. For each the various forms of imaginative and scientific literature were merely means of improvement and profit, which kept the student 'out of the world', gave him full employment, and enabled him to maintain himself. But pleasure was found nowhere but in the Word of God, and to the endless discussion of the Scriptures each hurried when the day's work was over.

Chance and shared qualities brought my parents together at these meetings of the Brethren. Both were lonely and poor, and both were used to the demanding intellectual work of supporting themselves. When they married, he was nearly thirty-eight and she was over forty-two. He brought her from her lodging in the suburbs to his mother's little house in northeast London. They did not have even a single day's honeymoon. My Father was a zoologist and a writer of natural history books. My Mother was also a writer. She had already published two slim volumes of religious verse. The earlier volume must have had some slight success, though I do not know how, because a second edition was printed. Later, she wrote popular works of religious instruction. But words can hardly describe how infinitely different their aims, habits, and ambitions were from those of 'literary' people today. Neither knew nor cared about any current literature. For both, there had been no poet since Byron. Neither had read a novel since childhood, when they had dipped into the Waverley Novels as they appeared one after another. For both, imaginative and scientific literature, in their various forms, were merely ways to improve themselves and earn a living. Such work kept a student 'out of the world', kept him fully occupied, and enabled him to support himself. But they found pleasure nowhere except in the Word of God. When the day's work was over, each hurried to take part in endless discussions of the Scriptures.

In this strange household the advent of a child was not welcomed, but was borne with resignation. The event was thus recorded in my Father's diary:

In this strange household, the arrival of a child was not welcomed, but accepted with resignation. My Father recorded the event in his diary:

'E. delivered of a son. Received green swallow from Jamaica.'

'E. gave birth to a son. Received a green swallow from Jamaica.'

This entry has caused amusement, as showing that he was as much interested in the bird as in the boy. But this does not follow; what the wording exemplifies is my Father's extreme punctilio. The green swallow arrived later in the day than the son, and the earlier visitor was therefore recorded first; my Father was scrupulous in every species of arrangement.

This entry has amused people because it seems to show that he was as interested in the bird as in the boy. But that does not necessarily follow. The wording shows my Father's extreme attention to detail. The green swallow arrived later in the day than the son, so the earlier visitor was recorded first. My Father was meticulous about every kind of arrangement.

Long afterwards, my Father told me that my Mother suffered much in giving birth to me, and that, uttering no cry, I appeared to be dead. I was laid, with scant care, on another bed in the room, while all anxiety and attention were concentrated on my Mother. An old woman who happened to be there, and who was unemployed, turned her thoughts to me, and tried to awake in me a spark of vitality. She succeeded, and she was afterwards complimented by the doctor on her cleverness. My Father could not—when he told me the story—recollect the name of my preserver. I have often longed to know who she was. For all the rapture of life, for all its turmoils, its anxious desires, its manifold pleasures, and even for its sorrow and suffering, I bless and praise that anonymous old lady from the bottom of my heart.

Long afterward, my father told me that my mother suffered greatly when she gave birth to me. I made no cry and appeared to be dead. I was laid with little care on another bed in the room, while everyone focused their concern and attention on my mother. An old woman who happened to be there had nothing to do, so she turned her attention to me. She tried to awaken a spark of life in me and succeeded. The doctor later praised her skill. When my father told me the story, he could not remember the name of the woman who saved me. I have often wished I knew who she was. For all the joy of life, for all its turmoil, its anxious desires, its many pleasures, and even its sorrow and suffering, I bless and praise that unnamed old lady from the bottom of my heart.

It was six weeks before my Mother was able to leave her room. The occasion was made a solemn one, and was attended by a species of Churching. Mr. Balfour, a valued minister of the denomination, held a private service in the parlour, and 'prayed for our child, that he may be the Lord's'. This was the opening act of that 'dedication' which was never henceforward forgotten, and of which the following pages will endeavour to describe the results. Around my tender and unconscious spirit was flung the luminous web, the light and elastic but impermeable veil, which it was hoped would keep me 'unspotted from the world'.

Six weeks passed before my mother was able to leave her room. The occasion was treated solemnly and included a kind of Churching, a religious service for a mother after childbirth. Mr. Balfour, a valued minister of the denomination, held a private service in the parlour. He 'prayed for our child, that he may be the Lord's'. This was the first act of that 'dedication', which was never forgotten afterward. The following pages will try to describe its results. A luminous web was cast around my tender, unconscious spirit. It was a light, flexible but impenetrable veil, intended to keep me 'unspotted from the world'.

Until this time my Father's mother had lived in the house and taken the domestic charges of it on her own shoulders. She now consented to leave us to ourselves. There is no question that her exodus was a relief to my Mother, since my paternal grandmother was a strong and masterful woman, buxom, choleric and practical, for whom the interests of the mind did not exist. Her daughter- in-law, gentle as she was, and ethereal in manner and appearance— strangely contrasted (no doubt), in her tinctures of gold hair and white skin, with my grandmother's bold carnations and black tresses—was yet possessed of a will like tempered steel. They were better friends apart, with my grandmother lodged hard by, in a bright room, her household gods and bits of excellent eighteenth-century furniture around her, her miniatures and sparkling china arranged on shelves.

Until then, my Father's mother had lived in the house and taken responsibility for running it. She now agreed to leave us on our own. There is no doubt that her departure was a relief to my Mother. My paternal grandmother was a strong, domineering woman, full-bodied, quick-tempered, and practical. Matters of the mind meant nothing to her. Her daughter-in-law was gentle, with a delicate manner and appearance. No doubt my Mother's golden hair and white skin contrasted strikingly with my grandmother's vivid complexion and black hair. Yet my Mother had a will like tempered steel. They were better friends when they lived apart. My grandmother stayed nearby, in a bright room surrounded by her cherished possessions and pieces of fine eighteenth-century furniture. Her miniatures and sparkling china were arranged on shelves.

Left to my Mother's sole care, I became the centre of her solicitude. But there mingled with those happy animal instincts which sustain the strength and patience of every human mother and were fully present with her—there mingled with these certain spiritual determinations which can be but rare. They are, in their outline, I suppose, vaguely common to many religious mothers, but there are few indeed who fill up the sketch with so firm a detail as she did. Once again I am indebted to her secret notes, in a little locked volume, seen until now, nearly sixty years later, by no eye save her own. Thus she wrote when I was two months old:

Left in my Mother’s sole care, I became the focus of her concern. She had all the natural instincts that sustain every human mother’s strength and patience. But alongside those happy instincts, she had certain spiritual convictions that must be rare. I suppose many religious mothers share those convictions in a general way. But very few carry them out in such firm detail as she did. Once again, I am indebted to her private notes in a small locked book. Until now, nearly sixty years later, no eyes but hers had seen it. This is what she wrote when I was two months old:

'We have given him to the Lord; and we trust that He will really manifest him to be His own, if he grow up; and if the Lord take him early, we will not doubt that he is taken to Himself. Only, if it please the Lord to take him, I do trust we may be spared seeing him suffering in lingering illness and much pain. But in this as in all things His will is better than what we can choose. Whether his life be prolonged or not, it has already been a blessing to us, and to the saints, in leading us to much prayer, and bringing us into varied need and some trial.'

'We have given him to the Lord. If he grows up, we trust that the Lord will show that he truly belongs to him. And if the Lord takes him early, we will not doubt that he has taken him to be with him. But if it pleases the Lord to take him, I trust we may be spared seeing him suffer a long illness and much pain. Yet in this, as in all things, his will is better than what we would choose. Whether his life is long or not, it has already been a blessing to us and to the saints. It has led us to pray often and brought us into various kinds of need and some trials.'

The last sentence is somewhat obscure to me. How, at that tender age, I contrived to be a blessing 'to the saints' may surprise others and puzzles myself. But 'the saints' was the habitual term by which were indicated the friends who met on Sunday mornings for Holy Communion, and at many other times in the week for prayer and discussion of the Scriptures, in the small hired hall at Hackney, which my parents attended. I suppose that the solemn dedication of me to the Lord, which was repeated in public in my Mother's arms, being by no means a usual or familiar ceremony even among the Brethren, created a certain curiosity and fervour in the immediate services, or was imagined so to do by the fond, partial heart of my Mother. She, however, who had been so much isolated, now made the care of her child an excuse for retiring still further into silence. With those religious persons who met at the Room, as the modest chapel was called, she had little spiritual, and no intellectual, sympathy. She noted:

The last sentence is a little unclear to me. How I managed to be a blessing 'to the saints' at such a young age may surprise others and puzzles me. But 'the saints' was the usual name for the friends who met in a small hired hall in Hackney, which my parents attended. They met on Sunday mornings for Holy Communion and at many other times during the week for prayer and discussion of the Scriptures. My dedication to the Lord was repeated in public while my Mother held me in her arms. I suppose this solemn ceremony, unusual even among the Brethren, caused some curiosity and excitement at the services immediately afterward. Or perhaps my Mother's loving, partial heart imagined that it did. She had already been very isolated, and now she used the care of her child as a reason to withdraw even further into silence. The modest chapel was called the Room. She had little spiritual sympathy and no intellectual sympathy with the religious people who met there. She noted:

'I do not think it would increase my happiness to be in the midst of the saints at Hackney. I have made up my mind to give myself up to Baby for the winter, and to accept no invitations. To go when I can to the Sunday morning meetings and to see my own Mother.'

'I do not think being among the saints at Hackney would make me happier. I have decided to devote myself to Baby for the winter and accept no invitations. I will attend the Sunday morning meetings when I can and see my own Mother.'

The monotony of her existence now became extreme, but she seems to have been happy. Her days were spent in taking care of me, and in directing one young servant. My Father was forever in his study, writing, drawing, dissecting; sitting, no doubt, as I grew afterwards accustomed to see him, absolutely motionless, with his eye glued to the microscope, for twenty minutes at a time. So the greater part of every weekday was spent, and on Sunday he usually preached one, and sometimes two extempore sermons. His workday labours were rewarded by the praise of the learned world, to which he was indifferent, but by very little money, which he needed more. For over three years after their marriage, neither of my parents left London for a single day, not being able to afford to travel. They received scarcely any visitors, never ate a meal away from home, never spent an evening in social intercourse abroad. At night they discussed theology, read aloud to one another, or translated scientific brochures from French or German. It sounds a terrible life of pressure and deprivation, and that it was physically unwholesome there can be no shadow of a doubt. But their contentment was complete and unfeigned. In the midst of this, materially, the hardest moment of their lives, when I was one year old, and there was a question of our leaving London, my Mother recorded in her secret notes:

Her life now became extremely monotonous, but she seems to have been happy. She spent her days caring for me and directing one young servant. My Father was always in his study, writing, drawing, or dissecting. No doubt he also sat absolutely still, with his eye glued to the microscope, for twenty minutes at a time. I later grew used to seeing him do this. He spent most of every weekday this way. On Sundays he usually preached one sermon without preparation, and sometimes two. His weekday work earned him praise from the learned world, though he was indifferent to it. But it brought him very little money, which he needed more. For over three years after their marriage, neither of my parents left London for a single day. They could not afford to travel. They received hardly any visitors, never ate a meal away from home, and never spent an evening socializing elsewhere. At night they discussed theology, read aloud to each other, or translated scientific pamphlets from French or German. It sounds like a terrible life of pressure and deprivation. There can be no doubt that it was physically unhealthy. But their contentment was complete and genuine. This was the hardest time of their lives in material terms. In the midst of it, when I was one year old and there was a question of our leaving London, my Mother wrote in her private notes:

'We are happy and contented, having all things needful and pleasant, and our present habitation is hallowed by many sweet associations. We have our house to ourselves and enjoy each other's society. If we move we shall no longer be alone. The situation may be more favourable, however, for Baby, as being more in the country. I desire to have no choice in the matter, but as I know not what would be for our good, and God knows, so I desire to leave it with Him, and if it is not His will we should move, He will raise objections and difficulties, and if it is His will He will make Henry [my Father] desirous and anxious to take the step, and then, whatever the result, let us leave all to Him and not regret it.'

'We are happy and content, with everything we need and enjoy. Our present home is made special by many happy memories. We have the house to ourselves and enjoy each other's company. If we move, we will no longer be alone. However, the new place may be better for Baby, as it is more in the country. I do not want to make the choice myself. I do not know what would be good for us, but God does. So I want to leave the decision to him. If he does not want us to move, he will raise objections and difficulties. If he does want us to move, he will make Henry [my Father] eager and anxious to take that step. Then, whatever the result, let us leave everything to him and not regret the move.'

No one who is acquainted with the human heart will mistake this attitude of resignation for weakness of purpose. It was not poverty of will, it was abnegation, it was a voluntary act. My Mother, underneath an exquisite amenity of manner, concealed a rigour of spirit which took the form of a constant self-denial. For it to dawn upon her consciousness that she wished for something, was definitely to renounce that wish, or, more exactly, to subject it in every thing to what she conceived to be the will of God.

Anyone who understands the human heart will not mistake this resignation for weakness of purpose. It was not a lack of will, but self-denial. It was a voluntary act. Beneath her wonderfully gentle manner, my Mother had a strict spirit that led her to deny herself constantly. As soon as she realized she wanted something, she gave up that wish. Or, more precisely, she always put the wish beneath what she believed to be the will of God.

This is perhaps the right moment for me to say that at this time, and indeed until the hour of her death, she exercised, without suspecting it, a magnetic power over the will and nature of my Father. Both were strong, but my Mother was unquestionably the stronger of the two; it was her mind which gradually drew his to take up a certain definite position, and this remained permanent although she, the cause of it, was early removed. Hence, while it was with my Father that the long struggle which I have to narrate took place, behind my Father stood the ethereal memory of my Mother's will, guiding him, pressing him, holding him to the unswerving purpose which she had formed and defined. And when the inevitable disruption came, what was unspeakably painful was to realize that it was not from one, but from both parents that the purpose of the child was separated.

This is perhaps the right moment to say that my Mother had a magnetic power over my Father’s will and nature. She exercised this power without realizing it, at this time and until the hour of her death. Both were strong, but my Mother was unquestionably the stronger of the two. Her mind gradually drew his toward a definite position. He held that position permanently, although she, who had led him to it, died early. So, although the long struggle I have to tell of was with my Father, the ethereal memory of my Mother’s will stood behind him. It guided him, pressed him, and held him to the unwavering purpose she had formed and defined. And when the inevitable break came, it was unspeakably painful to realize that the child’s purpose had diverged from both parents’, not just one’s.

My Mother was a Puritan in grain, and never a word escaped her, not a phrase exists in her diary, to suggest that she had any privations to put up with. She seemed strong and well, and so did I; the one of us who broke down was my Father. With his attack of acute nervous dyspepsia came an unexpected small accession of money, and we were able, in my third year, to take a holiday of nearly ten months in Devonshire. The extreme seclusion, the unbroken strain, were never repeated, and when we returned to London, it was to conditions of greater amenity and to a less rigid practice of 'the world forgetting by the world forgot'. That this relaxation was more relative than positive, and that nothing ever really tempted either of my parents from their cavern in an intellectual Thebaid, my recollections will amply prove. But each of them was forced by circumstances into a more or less public position, and neither could any longer quite ignore the world around.

My Mother was a Puritan through and through. She never said a word, and wrote nothing in her diary, to suggest that she had any hardships to endure. She seemed strong and healthy, and so did I. It was my Father who broke down. When he suffered an attack of acute nervous dyspepsia, we unexpectedly received a small sum of money. This allowed us to take a holiday of nearly ten months in Devonshire when I was two. We never again lived in such extreme isolation or under such constant strain. When we returned to London, our living conditions were more comfortable. We were less strict about living by the rule of 'the world forgetting by the world forgot'. As my recollections will amply show, this easing was only relative. Nothing ever really tempted either of my parents out of their cave in an intellectual Thebaid. But circumstances forced each of them into a more or less public position. Neither could any longer quite ignore the world around them.

It is not my business here to re-write the biographies of my parents. Each of them became, in a certain measure, celebrated, and each was the subject of a good deal of contemporary discussion. Each was prominent before the eyes of a public of his or her own, half a century ago. It is because their minds were vigorous and their accomplishments distinguished that the contrast between their spiritual point of view and the aspect of a similar class of persons today is interesting and may, I hope, be instructive. But this is not another memoir of public individuals, each of whom has had more than one biographer. My serious duty, as I venture to hold it, is other;

It is not my task here to rewrite my parents’ biographies. Each became famous to some extent, and each was widely discussed in their own time. Half a century ago, each was prominent before a public of their own. Both had vigorous minds and distinguished achievements. For that reason, the contrast between their spiritual outlook and that of similar people today is interesting and may, I hope, be instructive. But this is not another memoir of public figures, each of whom has had more than one biographer. My serious duty, as I venture to see it, is different.

But this is a different inspection, this is a study of

But this is a different kind of inspection. This is a study of

the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,

the other side, the new silent silver lights and shadows never dreamed of,

the record of a state of soul once not uncommon in Protestant Europe, of which my parents were perhaps the latest consistent exemplars among people of light and leading.

a record of a spiritual outlook once common in Protestant Europe. My parents were perhaps the last educated and influential people to follow it consistently.

The peculiarities of a family life, founded upon such principles, are, in relation to a little child, obvious; but I may be permitted to recapitulate them. Here was perfect purity, perfect intrepidity, perfect abnegation; yet there was also narrowness, isolation, an absence of perspective, let it be boldly admitted, an absence of humanity. And there was a curious mixture of humbleness and arrogance; entire resignation to the will of God and not less entire disdain of the judgement and opinion of man. My parents founded every action, every attitude, upon their interpretation of the Scriptures, and upon the guidance of the Divine Will as revealed to them by direct answer to prayer. Their ejaculation in the face of any dilemma was, 'Let us cast it before the Lord!'

The effects of a family life based on such principles are obvious in the case of a small child. But I hope I may be allowed to sum them up. There was perfect purity, perfect courage, and perfect self-denial. Yet there was also narrowness, isolation, and a lack of perspective. Let me boldly admit that there was a lack of humanity. There was also a curious mixture of humility and arrogance. My parents submitted completely to the will of God and had just as much contempt for human judgment and opinion. They based every action and attitude on their interpretation of the Scriptures. They also based them on the guidance of the Divine Will, revealed to them through direct answers to prayer. Whenever they faced a dilemma, they would exclaim, 'Let us put it before the Lord!'

So confident were they of the reality of their intercourse with God, that they asked for no other guide. They recognized no spiritual authority among men, they subjected themselves to no priest or minister, they troubled their consciences about no current manifestation of 'religious opinion'. They lived in an intellectual cell, bounded at its sides by the walls of their own house, but open above to the very heart of the uttermost heavens.

They were so confident that their communication with God was real that they asked for no other guide. They recognized no human spiritual authority and submitted to no priest or minister. They did not trouble their consciences over any current expression of 'religious opinion'. They lived in a mental cell, bounded on the sides by the walls of their own house. But it was open above to the very heart of the farthest heavens.

This, then, was the scene in which the soul of a little child was planted, not as in an ordinary open flower-border or carefully tended social parterre, but as on a ledge, split in the granite of some mountain. The ledge was hung between night and the snows on one hand, and the dizzy depths of the world upon the other; was furnished with just soil enough for a gentian to struggle skywards and open its stiff azure stars; and offered no lodgement, no hope of salvation, to any rootlet which should stray beyond its inexorable limits.

This, then, was where a little child’s soul was planted. It was not planted in an ordinary open flower bed or a carefully tended social garden. Instead, it was planted on a ledge in the granite of a mountain. The ledge hung between night and snow on one side and the dizzying depths of the world on the other. It had just enough soil for a gentian to struggle upward and open its stiff, blue, star-shaped flowers. But any tiny root that strayed beyond the ledge’s unforgiving limits would find no place to settle and no hope of survival.