Chapter 2

OUT of the darkness of my infancy there comes only one flash of memory. I am seated alone, in my baby-chair, at a dinner-table set for several people. Somebody brings in a leg of mutton, puts it down close to me, and goes out. I am again alone, gazing at two low windows, wide open upon a garden. Suddenly, noiselessly, a large, long animal (obviously a greyhound) appears at one window-sill, slips into the room, seizes the leg of mutton and slips out again. When this happened I could not yet talk. The accomplishment of speech came to me very late, doubtless because I never heard young voices. Many years later, when I mentioned this recollection, there was a shout of laughter and surprise: 'That, then, was what became of the mutton! It was not you, who, as your Uncle A. pretended, ate it up, in the twinkling of an eye, bone and all!'

Out of the darkness of my infancy comes just one flash of memory. I am sitting alone in my baby chair at a dinner table set for several people. Someone brings in a leg of mutton, puts it down near me, and leaves. Alone again, I gaze at two low windows, wide open to a garden. Suddenly, a large, long animal appears silently on one windowsill. It is clearly a greyhound. It slips into the room, grabs the leg of mutton, and slips out again. When this happened, I could not yet talk. I learned to speak very late, no doubt because I never heard young voices. Many years later, I mentioned this memory. Everyone cried out in laughter and surprise: 'So that was what happened to the mutton! It wasn't you who ate it in the blink of an eye, bone and all, as your Uncle A. claimed!'

I suppose that it was the startling intensity of this incident which stamped it upon a memory from which all other impressions of this early date have vanished.

I suppose the incident was so strikingly intense that it stayed in my memory. All other impressions from that early time have vanished.

The adventure of the leg of mutton occurred, evidently, at the house of my Mother's brothers, for my parents, at this date, visited no other. My uncles were not religious men, but they had an almost filial respect for my Mother, who was several years senior to the elder of them. When the catastrophe of my grandfather's fortune had occurred, they had not yet left school. My Mother, in spite of an extreme dislike of teaching, which was native to her, immediately accepted the situation of a governess in the family of an Irish nobleman. The mansion was only to be approached, as Miss Edgeworth would have said, 'through eighteen sloughs, at the imminent peril of one's life', and when one had reached it, the mixture of opulence and squalor, of civility and savagery, was unspeakable. But my Mother was well paid, and she stayed in this distasteful environment, doing the work she hated most, while with the margin of her salary she helped first one of her brothers and then the other through his Cambridge course. They studied hard and did well at the university. At length their sister received, in her 'ultima Thule', news that her younger brother had taken his degree, and then and there, with a sigh of intense relief, she resigned her situation and came straight back to England.

The adventure of the leg of mutton evidently took place at my Mother's brothers' house. At that time, my parents visited no other house. My uncles were not religious men, but they respected my Mother almost as if she were their parent. She was several years older than the elder of her brothers. When my grandfather lost his fortune, both brothers were still at school. Although my Mother had a deep natural dislike of teaching, she immediately took a job as governess to an Irish nobleman's family. As Miss Edgeworth would have said, the only way to reach the mansion was 'through eighteen sloughs, at the imminent peril of one's life'. Once there, one found an indescribable mixture of wealth and squalor, civility and savagery. But my Mother was well paid, so she stayed in those unpleasant surroundings, doing the work she hated most. With the money left over from her salary, she helped first one brother and then the other through Cambridge. They studied hard and did well at the university. At last, in her 'ultima Thule', my Mother received news that her younger brother had taken his degree. With a sigh of intense relief, she resigned her position then and there and came straight back to England.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that my uncles looked up to their sister with feelings of especial devotion. They were not inclined, they were hardly in a position, to criticize her modes of thought. They were easy-going, cultured and kindly gentlemen, rather limited in their views, without a trace of their sister's force of intellect or her strenuous temper. E. resembled her in person, he was tall, fair, with auburn curls; he cultivated a certain tendency to the Byronic type, fatal and melancholy. A. was short, brown and jocose, with a pretension to common sense; bluff and chatty. As a little child, I adored my Uncle E., who sat silent by the fireside holding me against his knee, saying nothing, but looking unutterably sad, and occasionally shaking his warm-coloured tresses. With great injustice, on the other hand, I detested my Uncle A., because he used to joke in a manner very displeasing to me, and because he would so far forget himself as to chase, and even, if it will be credited, to tickle me. My uncles, who remained bachelors to the end of their lives, earned a comfortable living; E. by teaching, A. as 'something in the City', and they rented an old rambling house in Clapton, that same in which I saw the greyhound. Their house had a strange, delicious smell, so unlike anything I smelt anywhere else, that it used to fill my eyes with tears of mysterious pleasure. I know now that this was the odour of cigars, tobacco being a species of incense tabooed at home on the highest religious grounds.

It is no surprise, then, that my uncles looked up to their sister with special devotion. They were not inclined to criticize her ways of thinking, and were hardly in a position to do so. They were easygoing, cultured and kind gentlemen, with rather limited views. They had none of their sister's intellectual force or determined temperament. E. looked like her. He was tall and fair, with auburn curls. He cultivated a somewhat Byronic air, tragic and melancholy. A. was short, dark and joking. He claimed to have common sense and was blunt and talkative. As a small child, I adored my Uncle E. He would sit silently by the fire, holding me against his knee. He said nothing, but looked unspeakably sad and occasionally shook his reddish hair. On the other hand, I detested my Uncle A., quite unfairly. His jokes greatly displeased me. He would also forget himself enough to chase me and even, if you can believe it, tickle me. My uncles remained bachelors all their lives and earned comfortable livings. E. was a teacher, and A. was 'something in the City'. They rented an old, sprawling house in Clapton, the same house where I saw the greyhound. The house had a strange, delightful smell, unlike anything I smelled anywhere else. It used to bring tears of mysterious pleasure to my eyes. I now know that the smell came from cigars. Tobacco was a kind of incense forbidden at home on the highest religious grounds.

It has been recorded that I was slow in learning to speak. I used to be told that having met all invitations to repeat such words as 'Papa' and 'Mamma' with gravity and indifference, I one day drew towards me a volume, and said 'book' with startling distinctness. I was not at all precocious, but at a rather early age, I think towards the beginning of my fourth year, I learned to read. I cannot recollect a time when a printed page of English was closed to me. But perhaps earlier still my Mother used to repeat to me a poem which I have always taken for granted that she had herself composed, a poem which had a romantic place in my early mental history. It ran thus, I think:

It has been recorded that I was slow to learn to speak. I was told that I had met all invitations to repeat words like 'Papa' and 'Mamma' with seriousness and indifference. Then one day I pulled a volume towards me and said 'book' with startling clarity. I was not at all precocious, but I learned to read fairly early, I think near the beginning of my fourth year. I cannot remember a time when I could not read a printed page of English. But perhaps even earlier, my Mother used to recite a poem to me. I have always assumed she wrote it herself. The poem held a romantic place in the history of my early thoughts. It went like this, I think:

Long, long after the last line had become an anachronism, I used to shout this poem from my bed before I went to sleep, whether the night happened to be moonlit or no.

Long, long after the last line was no longer fitting, I still used to shout this poem from my bed before going to sleep, whether or not the moon was shining.

It must have been my Father who taught me my letters. To my Mother, as I have said, it was distasteful to teach, though she was so prompt and skillful to learn. My Father, on the contrary, taught cheerfully, by fits and starts. In particular, he had a scheme for rationalizing geography, which I think was admirable. I was to climb upon a chair, while, standing at my side, with a pencil and a sheet of paper, he was to draw a chart of the markings on the carpet. Then, when I understood the system, another chart on a smaller scale of the furniture in the room, then of a floor of the house, then of the back-garden, then of a section of the street. The result of this was that geography came to me of itself, as a perfectly natural miniature arrangement of objects, and to this day has always been the science which gives me least difficulty. My father also taught me the simple rules of arithmetic, a little natural history, and the elements of drawing; and he laboured long and unsuccessfully to make me learn by heart hymns, psalms and chapters of Scripture, in which I always failed ignominiously and with tears. This puzzled and vexed him, for he himself had an extremely retentive textual memory. He could not help thinking that I was naughty, and would not learn the chapters, until at last he gave up the effort. All this sketch of an education began, I believe, in my fourth year, and was not advanced or modified during the rest of my Mother's life.

It must have been my father who taught me my letters. As I have said, my mother disliked teaching, though she was so quick and skillful at learning. My father, by contrast, taught cheerfully, though only now and then. In particular, he had a plan for making geography easier to understand, which I think was admirable. I was to climb onto a chair. Then he would stand beside me and use a pencil and a sheet of paper to map the carpet's markings. Once I understood the method, he would draw another map, on a smaller scale, of the furniture in the room. Then he would map one floor of the house, the back garden, and a section of the street. As a result, geography came naturally to me as a way of arranging objects in miniature. To this day, it has always been the science I find easiest. My father also taught me the basic rules of arithmetic, a little natural history, and the basics of drawing. He tried for a long time, without success, to make me memorize hymns, psalms, and chapters of Scripture. I always failed miserably and in tears. My failure puzzled and annoyed him, because he himself had an excellent memory for texts. He could not help thinking that I was being naughty and refused to learn the chapters. At last he gave up trying. I believe this modest education began when I was three and went no further and did not change during the rest of my mother's life.

Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure in the pages of books. The range of these was limited, for story-books of every description were sternly excluded. No fiction of any kind, religious or secular, was admitted into the house. In this it was to my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a remarkable, I confess to me still somewhat unaccountable impression that to 'tell a story', that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind, was a sin. She carried this conviction to extreme lengths. My Father, in later years, gave me some interesting examples of her firmness. As a young man in America, he had been deeply impressed by 'Salathiel', a pious prose romance by that then popular writer, the Rev. George Croly. When he first met my Mother, he recommended it to her, but she would not consent to open it. Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in verse of Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not 'true'. She would read none but lyrical and subjective poetry. Her secret diary reveals the history of this singular aversion to the fictitious, although it cannot be said to explain the cause of it. As a child, however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so considerable a skill in it that she was constantly being begged to indulge others with its exercise. But I will, on so curious a point, leave her to speak for herself:

Meanwhile, being able to read, I found my greatest pleasure in books. My choice was limited, however, because storybooks of every kind were strictly forbidden. No fiction, religious or secular, was allowed in the house. This ban was my Mother’s doing, not my Father’s. She had a remarkable belief that to ‘tell a story’, meaning to make up any fictional narrative, was a sin. I confess that her belief still seems somewhat hard to explain. She carried it to extremes. In later years, my Father gave me some interesting examples of her firmness. As a young man in America, he had been deeply impressed by ‘Salathiel’. It was a religious prose romance by the Rev. George Croly, a popular writer at the time. When he first met my Mother, he recommended the book to her, but she refused even to open it. Nor would she read Sir Walter Scott’s tales of chivalry in verse. She stubbornly insisted that they were not ‘true’. She would read only lyrical and personal poetry. Her secret diary tells the history of this unusual dislike of fiction, though it cannot be said to explain its cause. As a child, however, she had loved making up stories. She was so skilled at it that people constantly begged her to entertain them with stories. But on such a curious point, I will let her speak for herself:

'When I was a very little child, I used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing stories, such as I read. Having, as I suppose, naturally a restless mind and busy imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of my life. Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging this propensity, and I found in Taylor, my maid, a still greater tempter. I had not known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore [a Calvinist governess], finding it out, lectured me severely, and told me it was wicked. From that time forth I considered that to invent a story of any kind was a sin. But the desire to do so was too deeply rooted in my affections to be resisted in my own strength [she was at that time nine years of age], and unfortunately I knew neither my corruption nor my weakness, nor did I know where to gain strength. The longing to invent stories grew with violence; everything I heard or read became food for my distemper. The simplicity of truth was not sufficient for me; I must needs embroider imagination upon it, and the folly, vanity and wickedness which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to express. Even now [at the age of twenty-nine], tho' watched, prayed and striven against, this is still the sin that most easily besets me. It has hindered my prayers and prevented my improvement, and therefore, has humbled me very much.'

'When I was a very young child, I used to entertain myself and my brothers by making up stories like the ones I read. I suppose I naturally had a restless mind and an active imagination. Making up stories soon became the greatest pleasure of my life. Unfortunately, my brothers always liked to encourage this habit, and Taylor, my maid, tempted me even more. I did not know there was any harm in it until Miss Shore [a Calvinist governess] discovered it. She lectured me severely and told me it was wicked. From then on, I believed that making up any kind of story was a sin. But my love of making up stories was too deeply rooted for me to resist by my own strength [she was at that time nine years of age]. Unfortunately, I did not know how corrupt or weak I was, nor did I know where to find strength. My longing to make up stories grew intensely. Everything I heard or read fed this affliction. The simple truth was not enough for me. I had to embellish it with my imagination. The folly, vanity, and wickedness that disgraced my heart were more than I can express. Even now [at the age of twenty-nine], though I have watched, prayed, and struggled against it, this is still the sin that most easily overcomes me. It has hindered my prayers and prevented me from improving, and has therefore humbled me very much.'

This is, surely, a very painful instance of the repression of an instinct. There seems to have been, in this case, a vocation such as is rarely heard, and still less often wilfully disregarded and silenced. Was my Mother intended by nature to be a novelist? I have often thought so, and her talents and vigour of purpose, directed along the line which was ready to form 'the chief pleasure of her life', could hardly have failed to conduct her to great success. She was a little younger than Bulwer Lytton, a little older than Mrs. Gaskell—but these are vain and trivial speculations!

This is surely a very painful example of an instinct being suppressed. My Mother seems to have had a calling of a kind rarely heard, and even less often deliberately ignored and silenced. Was my Mother naturally meant to be a novelist? I have often thought so. Writing was ready to become 'the chief pleasure of her life'. If she had devoted her talents and determination to it, she could hardly have failed to achieve great success. She was a little younger than Bulwer Lytton and a little older than Mrs. Gaskell, but these are pointless and trivial speculations!

My own state, however, was, I should think, almost unique among the children of cultivated parents. In consequence of the stern ordinance which I have described, not a single fiction was read or told to me during my infancy. The rapture of the child who delays the process of going to bed by cajoling 'a story' out of his mother or his nurse, as he sits upon her knee, well tucked up, at the corner of the nursery fire—this was unknown to me. Never in all my early childhood did anyone address to me the affecting preamble, 'Once upon a time!' I was told about missionaries, but never about pirates; I was familiar with hummingbirds, but I had never heard of fairies—Jack the Giant- Killer, Rumpelstiltskin and Robin Hood were not of my acquaintance; and though I understood about wolves, Little Red Ridinghood was a stranger even by name. So far as my 'dedication' was concerned, I can but think that my parents were in error thus to exclude the imaginary from my outlook upon facts. They desired to make me truthful; the tendency was to make me positive and sceptical. Had they wrapped me in the soft folds of supernatural fancy, my mind might have been longer content to follow their traditions in an unquestioning spirit.

My own situation, however, was, I think, almost unique among the children of educated parents. Because of the strict rule I have described, no one read or told me a single made-up story in my infancy. I never knew the delight of a child who puts off bedtime by coaxing 'a story' from his mother or nurse. Such a child sits on her knee, warmly tucked in, beside the nursery fire. Never in all my early childhood did anyone say to me those moving words, 'Once upon a time!' I was told about missionaries, but never about pirates. I knew about hummingbirds, but had never heard of fairies. Jack the Giant-Killer, Rumpelstiltskin and Robin Hood were unknown to me. Though I knew about wolves, I had never even heard the name Little Red Ridinghood. As far as my 'dedication' was concerned, I can only think my parents were wrong to leave imaginary things out of my view of the facts. They wanted to make me truthful, but the result tended to make me certain and sceptical. Had they wrapped me in the soft folds of supernatural fantasy, my mind might have been content for longer to follow their traditions without question.

Having easily said what, in those early years, I did not read, I have great difficulty in saying what I did read. But a queer variety of natural history, some of it quite indigestible by my undeveloped mind; many books of travels, mainly of a scientific character, among them voyages of discovery in the South Seas, by which my brain was dimly filled with splendour; some geography and astronomy, both of them sincerely enjoyed; much theology, which I desired to appreciate but could never get my teeth into (if I may venture to say so), and over which my eye and tongue learned to slip without penetrating, so that I would read, and read aloud, and with great propriety of emphasis, page after page without having formed an idea or retained an expression. There was, for instance, a writer on prophecy called Jukes, of whose works each of my parents was inordinately fond, and I was early set to read Jukes aloud to them. I did it glibly, like a machine, but the sight of Jukes' volumes became an abomination to me, and I never formed the outline of a notion what they were about. Later on, a publication called The Penny Cyclopaedia became my daily, and for a long time almost my sole study; to the subject of this remarkable work I may presently return.

It is easy to say what I did not read in those early years. But I find it very difficult to say what I did read. There was a strange variety of natural history, some of it quite impossible for my young mind to digest. There were many travel books, mostly scientific, including accounts of voyages of discovery in the South Seas. These filled my mind with a vague sense of splendor. There was some geography and astronomy, both of which I genuinely enjoyed. There was also much theology. I wanted to appreciate it, but I could never get my teeth into it, if I may put it that way. My eyes and tongue learned to skim over it without grasping it. So I would read page after page aloud, with perfectly proper emphasis, without understanding an idea or remembering a phrase. For example, there was a writer on prophecy called Jukes, whose works both my parents were excessively fond of. From an early age, I was made to read Jukes aloud to them. I did it fluently, like a machine, but the sight of Jukes' volumes became hateful to me. I never formed even the vaguest idea of what they were about. Later, a publication called The Penny Cyclopaedia became my daily study. For a long time, it was almost all I studied. I may return to this remarkable work later.

It is difficult to keep anything like chronological order in recording fragments of early recollection, and in speaking of my reading I have been led too far ahead. My memory does not, practically, begin till we returned from certain visits, made with a zoological purpose, to the shores of Devon and Dorset, and settled, early in my fifth year, in a house at Islington, in the north of London. Our circumstances were now more easy; my Father had regular and well-paid literary work; and the house was larger and more comfortable than ever before, though still very simple and restricted. My memories, some of which are exactly dated by certain facts, now become clear and almost abundant. What I do not remember, except from having it very often repeated to me, is what may be considered the only 'clever' thing that I said during an otherwise unillustrious childhood. It was not startlingly 'clever', but it may pass. A lady—when I was just four—rather injudiciously showed me a large print of a human skeleton, saying, 'There! you don't know what that is, do you?' Upon which, immediately and very archly, I replied, 'Isn't it a man with the meat off?' This was thought wonderful, and, as it is supposed that I had never had the phenomenon explained to me, it certainly displays some quickness in seizing an analogy. I had often watched my Father, while he soaked the flesh off the bones of fishes and small mammals. If I venture to repeat this trifle, it is only to point out that the system on which I was being educated deprived all things, human life among the rest, of their mystery. The 'bare-grinning skeleton of death' was to me merely a prepared specimen of that featherless plantigrade vertebrate, 'homo sapiens'.

It is hard to keep fragments of early memory in anything like chronological order. In talking about my reading, I have gone too far ahead. My memory scarcely begins until we returned from some visits to the shores of Devon and Dorset to study animals. Early in my fifth year, we settled in a house in Islington, in the north of London. Our circumstances were now more comfortable. My Father had regular, well-paid literary work, and the house was larger and more comfortable than ever before. Even so, it was still very simple and modest. My memories now become clear and almost plentiful. Some can be dated exactly by certain facts. One thing I remember only because it was repeated to me so often. It might be considered the only 'clever' thing I said during an otherwise unremarkable childhood. It was not remarkably 'clever', but it will do. When I was just four, a lady rather unwisely showed me a large print of a human skeleton. She said, 'There! you don't know what that is, do you?' I immediately replied, very mischievously, 'Isn't it a man with the meat off?' This was thought wonderful. Since people assumed that no one had ever explained a skeleton to me, it certainly showed some quickness in spotting a resemblance. I had often watched my Father soak the flesh off the bones of fish and small mammals. If I dare to repeat this trivial story, it is only to make a point. The system under which I was being educated stripped everything of its mystery, including human life. To me, the 'bare-grinning skeleton of death' was merely a prepared specimen of that featherless, flat-footed vertebrate, 'homo sapiens'.

As I have said that this anecdote was thought worth repeating, I ought to proceed to say that there was, so far as I can recollect, none of that flattery of childhood which is so often merely a backhanded way of indulging the vanity of parents. My Mother, indeed, would hardly have been human if she had not occasionally entertained herself with the delusion that her solitary duckling was a cygnet. This my Father did not encourage, remarking, with great affection, and chucking me under the chin, that I was 'a nice little ordinary boy'. My Mother, stung by this want of appreciation, would proceed so far as to declare that she believed that in future times the F.R.S. would be chiefly known as his son's father! (This is a pleasantry frequent in professional families.)

I have said that this anecdote was thought worth repeating. But as far as I can remember, there was none of the flattery of children that so often serves to flatter their parents. My Mother, of course, would hardly have been human if she had not sometimes amused herself with the illusion that her only duckling was a swan. My Father did not encourage this. With great affection, he would gently tap me under the chin and say that I was 'a nice little ordinary boy'. Hurt by his lack of appreciation, my Mother would even declare that she believed the F.R.S. would one day be known chiefly as his son's father! (This is a common joke in professional families.)

To this my Father, whether convinced or not, would make no demur, and the couple would begin to discuss, in my presence, the direction which my shining talents would take. In consequence of my dedication to 'the Lord's Service', the range of possibilities was much restricted. My Father, who had lived long in the Tropics, and who nursed a perpetual nostalgia for 'the little lazy isles where the trumpet-orchids blow', leaned towards the field of missionary labour. My Mother, who was cold about foreign missions, preferred to believe that I should be the Charles Wesley of my age, 'or perhaps', she had the candour to admit, 'merely the George Whitefield'. I cannot recollect the time when I did not understand that I was going to be a minister of the Gospel.

My Father, whether convinced or not, would raise no objection. Then my parents would discuss, in my presence, what direction my shining talents would take. Because I had been dedicated to 'the Lord's Service', the possibilities were very limited. My Father had lived a long time in the Tropics. He was always nostalgic for 'the little lazy isles where the trumpet-orchids blow', and favored missionary work. My Mother was less enthusiastic about foreign missions. She preferred to believe that I would be the Charles Wesley of my age. 'Or perhaps', she frankly admitted, 'merely the George Whitefield'. I cannot remember a time when I did not understand that I was going to be a minister of the Gospel.

It is so generally taken for granted that a life strictly dedicated to religion is stiff and dreary, that I may have some difficulty in persuading my readers that, as a matter of fact, in these early days of my childhood, before disease and death had penetrated to our slender society, we were always cheerful and often gay. My parents were playful with one another, and there were certain stock family jests which seldom failed to enliven the breakfast table. My Father and Mother lived so completely in the atmosphere of faith, and were so utterly convinced of their intercourse with God, that, so long as that intercourse was not clouded by sin, to which they were delicately sensitive, they could afford to take the passing hour very lightly. They would even, to a certain extent, treat the surroundings of their religion as a subject of jest, joking very mildly and gently about such things as an attitude at prayer or the nature of a supplication. They were absolutely indifferent to forms. They prayed, seated in their chairs, as willingly as, reversed, upon their knees; no ritual having any significance for them. My Mother was sometimes extremely gay, laughing with a soft, merry sound. What I have since been told of the guileless mirth of nuns in a convent has reminded me of the gaiety of my parents during my early childhood.

People generally assume that a life devoted strictly to religion is stiff and dreary. So I may have difficulty persuading readers that, in my early childhood, we were always cheerful and often merry. This was before illness and death had entered our small circle. My parents were playful with each other, and certain familiar family jokes rarely failed to liven up the breakfast table. My Father and Mother lived entirely in an atmosphere of faith. They were utterly convinced that they were in communication with God. They were delicately sensitive to sin, but as long as sin did not cloud that communication, they could take the passing hour very lightly. They would even joke, to a certain extent, about the outward aspects of their religion. They made very mild, gentle jokes about things like a posture for prayer or the nature of a request to God. They were completely indifferent to forms. They prayed as willingly sitting in their chairs as kneeling and facing them. No ritual had any significance for them. My Mother was sometimes extremely merry, laughing with a soft, joyful sound. What I have since been told about the innocent merriment of nuns in a convent has reminded me of my parents’ gaiety during my early childhood.

So long as I was a mere part of them, without individual existence, and swept on, a satellite, in their atmosphere, I was mirthful when they were mirthful, and grave when they were grave. The mere fact that I had no young companions, no storybooks, no outdoor amusements, none of the thousand and one employments provided for other children in more conventional surroundings, did not make me discontented or fretful, because I did not know of the existence of such entertainments. In exchange, I became keenly attentive to the limited circle of interests open to me. Oddly enough, I have no recollection of any curiosity about other children, nor of any desire to speak to them or play with them. They did not enter into my dreams, which were occupied entirely with grown-up people and animals. I had three dolls, to whom my attitude was not very intelligible. Two of these were female, one with a shapeless face of rags, the other in wax. But, in my fifth year, when the Crimean War broke out, I was given a third doll, a soldier, dressed very smartly in a scarlet cloth tunic. I used to put the dolls on three chairs, and harangue them aloud, but my sentiment to them was never confidential, until our maid-servant one day, intruding on my audience, and misunderstanding the occasion of it, said: 'What? a boy, and playing with a soldier when he's got two lady-dolls to play with?' I had never thought of my dolls as confidants before, but from that time forth I paid a special attention to the soldier, in order to make up to him for Lizzie's unwarrantable insult.

As long as I was merely part of them, with no separate existence, I was swept along like a satellite in their atmosphere. I was cheerful when they were cheerful, and serious when they were serious. I had no young companions, no storybooks, no outdoor games, and none of the countless activities available to other children in more conventional homes. But that did not make me unhappy or restless, because I did not know such pleasures existed. Instead, I paid close attention to the limited range of interests open to me. Oddly enough, I do not remember being curious about other children or wanting to talk to them or play with them. They did not enter my dreams, which were filled entirely with grown-ups and animals. I had three dolls, though my attitude toward them was hard to understand. Two were female. One had a shapeless rag face, and the other was made of wax. But in my fifth year, when the Crimean War broke out, I was given a third doll. He was a soldier, smartly dressed in a scarlet cloth tunic. I used to sit the dolls on three chairs and lecture them aloud, but I never treated them as confidants. Then one day our maid came in while I was addressing them and misunderstood what I was doing. She said, 'What? A boy, playing with a soldier when he has two lady dolls to play with?' I had never thought of my dolls as confidants before. But from then on, I gave the soldier special attention to make up for Lizzie's unjustified insult.

The declaration of war with Russia brought the first breath of outside life into our Calvinist cloister. My parents took in a daily newspaper, which they had never done before, and events in picturesque places, which my Father and I looked out on the map, were eagerly discussed. One of my vividest early memories can be dated exactly. I was playing about the house, and suddenly burst into the breakfast-room, where, close to the door, sat an amazing figure, a very tall young man, as stiff as my doll, in a gorgeous scarlet tunic. Quite far away from him, at her writing-table, my Mother sat with her Bible open before her, and was urging the gospel plan of salvation on his acceptance. She promptly told me to run away and play, but I had seen a great sight. This guardsman was in the act of leaving for the Crimea, and his adventures,—he was converted in consequence of my Mother's instruction,—were afterwards told by her in a tract, called 'The Guardsman of the Alma', of which I believe that more than half a million copies were circulated. He was killed in that battle, and this added an extraordinary lustre to my dream of him. I see him still in my mind's eye, large, stiff, and unspeakably brilliant, seated, from respect, as near as possible to our parlour door. This apparition gave reality to my subsequent conversations with the soldier doll.

The declaration of war with Russia brought the first breath of outside life into our Calvinist cloister. My parents began taking a daily newspaper, something they had never done before. We eagerly discussed events in picturesque places, which my Father and I looked up on the map. One of my most vivid early memories can be dated exactly. I was playing around the house and suddenly burst into the breakfast room. Close to the door sat an amazing figure: a very tall young man, as stiff as my doll, in a magnificent scarlet tunic. Some distance away, my Mother sat at her writing desk with her Bible open before her. She was urging him to accept the gospel plan of salvation. She promptly told me to run away and play, but I had seen a great sight. The guardsman was about to leave for the Crimea. He was converted as a result of my Mother's instruction, and she later told his story in a tract called 'The Guardsman of the Alma'. I believe more than half a million copies were circulated. He was killed in that battle, and his death gave my dream of him an extraordinary glow. I can still see him in my mind, large, stiff, and indescribably brilliant. Out of respect, he was seated as near as possible to our parlour door. This vision made my later conversations with the soldier doll feel real.

That same victory of the Alma, which was reported in London on my fifth birthday, is also marked very clearly in my memory by a family circumstance. We were seated at breakfast, at our small round table drawn close up to the window, my Father with his back to the light. Suddenly, he gave a sort of cry, and read out the opening sentences from The Times announcing a battle in the valley of the Alma. No doubt the strain of national anxiety had been very great, for both he and my Mother seemed deeply excited. He broke off his reading when the fact of the decisive victory was assured, and he and my Mother sank simultaneously on their knees in front of their tea and bread-and-butter, while in a loud voice my Father gave thanks to the God of Battles. This patriotism was the more remarkable, in that he had schooled himself, as he believed, to put his 'heavenly citizenship' above all earthly duties. To those who said: 'Because you are a Christian, surely you are not less an Englishman?' he would reply by shaking his head, and by saying: 'I am a citizen of no earthly State'. He did not realize that, in reality, and to use a cant phrase not yet coined in 1854, there existed in Great Britain no more thorough 'Jingo' than he.

That same victory at the Alma was reported in London on my fifth birthday. A family incident also makes me remember it very clearly. We were eating breakfast at our small round table, pulled close to the window. My Father sat with his back to the light. Suddenly, he gave a kind of cry. He read aloud the opening sentences from The Times, announcing a battle in the valley of the Alma. The strain of national anxiety must have been very great, for both he and my Mother seemed deeply excited. Once the report confirmed a decisive victory, he stopped reading. He and my Mother both sank to their knees before their tea and bread and butter. In a loud voice, my Father gave thanks to the God of Battles. This patriotism was all the more remarkable because he believed he had trained himself to put his 'heavenly citizenship' above all earthly duties. Some people said to him: 'Because you are a Christian, surely you are not less an Englishman?' He would shake his head and reply: 'I am a citizen of no earthly State'. He did not realize the truth. To use a fashionable term not yet invented in 1854, there was no more thorough 'Jingo' in Great Britain than he was.

Another instance of the remarkable way in which the interests of daily life were mingled in our strange household, with the practice of religion, made an impression upon my memory. We had all three been much excited by a report that a certain dark geometer-moth, generated in underground stables, had been met with in Islington. Its name, I think is, 'Boletobia fuliginaria', and I believe that it is excessively rare in England. We were sitting at family prayers, on a summer morning, I think in 1855, when through the open window a brown moth came sailing. My Mother immediately interrupted the reading of the Bible by saying to my Father, 'O! Henry, do you think that can be "Boletobia"?' My Father rose up from the sacred book, examined the insect, which had now perched, and replied: 'No! it is only the common Vapourer, "Orgyia antiqua"!', resuming his seat, and the exposition of the Word, without any apology or embarrassment.

Another example of how daily life and religious practice mingled in our strange household stayed in my memory. All three of us had been excited by a report that a certain dark geometer moth had been found in Islington. This moth bred in underground stables. Its name, I think, is 'Boletobia fuliginaria', and I believe it is extremely rare in England. We were sitting at family prayers on a summer morning, I think in 1855, when a brown moth sailed in through the open window. My Mother immediately interrupted the Bible reading and said to my Father, 'Oh! Henry, do you think that could be "Boletobia"?' My Father got up from the sacred book and examined the insect, which had now landed. He replied, 'No! It is only the common Vapourer, "Orgyia antiqua"!' Then he sat down and continued explaining the Word, without any apology or embarrassment.

In the course of this, my sixth year, there happened a series of minute and soundless incidents which, elementary as they may seem when told, were second in real importance to none in my mental history. The recollection of them confirms me in the opinion that certain leading features in each human soul are inherent to it, and cannot be accounted for by suggestion or training. In my own case, I was most carefully withdrawn, like Princess Blanchefleur in her marble fortress, from every outside influence whatever, yet to me the instinctive life came as unexpectedly as her lover came to her in the basket of roses. What came to me was the consciousness of self, as a force and as a companion, and it came as the result of one or two shocks, which I will relate.

During my sixth year, a series of tiny, silent incidents took place. Simple as they may seem when told, they were as important as anything else in my mental development. Remembering them confirms my belief that certain defining features of every human soul are innate. They cannot be explained by suggestion or training. In my own case, I was carefully sheltered from every outside influence, like Princess Blanchefleur in her marble fortress. Yet instinctive life came to me as unexpectedly as her lover came to her in the basket of roses. What came to me was an awareness of myself, both as a force and as a companion. It came as a result of one or two shocks, which I will describe.

In consequence of hearing so much about an Omniscient God, a being of supernatural wisdom and penetration who was always with us, who made, in fact, a fourth in our company, I had come to think of Him, not without awe, but with absolute confidence. My Father and Mother, in their serene discipline of me, never argued with one another, never even differed; their wills seemed absolutely one. My Mother always deferred to my Father, and in his absence spoke of him to me, as if he were all-wise. I confused him in some sense with God; at all events I believed that my Father knew everything and saw everything. One morning in my sixth year, my Mother and I were alone in the morning-room, when my Father came in and announced some fact to us. I was standing on the rug, gazing at him, and when he made this statement, I remember turning quickly, in embarrassment, and looking into the fire. The shock to me was as that of a thunderbolt, for what my Father had said 'was not true'. My Mother and I, who had been present at the trifling incident, were aware that it had not happened exactly as it had been reported to him. My Mother gently told him so, and he accepted the correction. Nothing could possibly have been more trifling to my parents, but to me it meant an epoch. Here was the appalling discovery, never suspected before, that my Father was not as God, and did not know everything. The shock was not caused by any suspicion that he was not telling the truth, as it appeared to him, but by the awful proof that he was not, as I had supposed, omniscient.

Because I heard so much about an all-knowing God, I had come to trust him completely, though I also felt awe. He was a being of supernatural wisdom and insight who was always with us. In fact, he made a fourth member of our company. My Father and Mother calmly disciplined me, and they never argued or even disagreed with each other. Their wills seemed completely united. My Mother always deferred to my Father. When he was away, she spoke to me about him as if he knew everything. In some sense, I confused him with God. At any rate, I believed my Father knew everything and saw everything. One morning, when I was five, my Mother and I were alone in the morning-room. My Father came in and told us something. I was standing on the rug, gazing at him. When he spoke, I remember turning quickly and looking into the fire, embarrassed. The shock struck me like a thunderbolt, because what my Father had said 'was not true'. My Mother and I had been present at the minor incident. We knew it had not happened exactly as it had been reported to him. My Mother gently told him so, and he accepted her correction. Nothing could have been less important to my parents, but to me it marked a turning point. I had never suspected the appalling truth I had just discovered. My Father was not like God, and he did not know everything. My shock did not come from any suspicion that he was saying something he believed to be untrue. It came from the terrible proof that he was not, as I had supposed, all-knowing.

This experience was followed by another, which confirmed the first, but carried me a great deal further. In our little back-garden, my Father had built up a rockery for ferns and mosses and from the water-supply of the house he had drawn a leaden pipe so that it pierced upwards through the rockery and produced, when a tap was turned, a pretty silvery parasol of water. The pipe was exposed somewhere near the foot of the rockery. One day, two workmen, who were doing some repairs, left their tools during the dinner-hour in the back-garden, and as I was marching about I suddenly thought that to see whether one of these tools could make a hole in the pipe would be attractive. It did make such a hole, quite easily, and then the matter escaped my mind. But a day or two afterwards, when my Father came in to dinner, he was very angry. He had turned the tap, and instead of the fountain arching at the summit, there had been a rush of water through a hole at the foot. The rockery was absolutely ruined.

Another experience followed. It confirmed the first, but took me much further. In our little back garden, my Father had built a rockery for ferns and mosses. He had run a lead pipe from the house’s water supply up through the rockery. When a tap was turned, the pipe produced a pretty, silvery umbrella of water. The pipe was exposed near the bottom of the rockery. One day, two workmen were doing repairs and left their tools in the back garden during their dinner break. As I marched about, I suddenly thought it would be interesting to see whether one of the tools could make a hole in the pipe. The tool made a hole quite easily, and then I forgot all about it. But a day or two later, my Father came in to dinner very angry. He had turned the tap, and instead of the fountain arching over the top, water had rushed through a hole at the bottom. The rockery was completely ruined.

Of course I realized in a moment what I had done, and I sat frozen with alarm, waiting to be denounced. But my Mother remarked on the visit of the plumbers two or three days before, and my Father instantly took up the suggestion. No doubt that was it; the mischievous fellows had thought it amusing to stab the pipe and spoil the fountain. No suspicion fell on me; no question was asked of me. I sat there, turned to stone within, but outwardly sympathetic and with unchecked appetite.

Of course, I immediately realized what I had done. I sat frozen with fear, waiting to be accused. But my Mother mentioned that the plumbers had visited two or three days earlier. My Father immediately seized on the idea. No doubt the mischievous fellows had thought it funny to stab the pipe and ruin the fountain. No one suspected me or asked me any questions. I sat there, frozen inside, but outwardly sympathetic and eating as eagerly as ever.

We attribute, I believe, too many moral ideas to little children. It is obvious that in this tremendous juncture I ought to have been urged forward by good instincts, or held back by naughty ones. But I am sure that the fear which I experienced for a short time, and which so unexpectedly melted away, was a purely physical one. It had nothing to do with the motions of a contrite heart. As to the destruction of the fountain, I was sorry about that, for my own sake, since I admired the skipping water extremely and had had no idea that I was spoiling its display. But the emotions which now thronged within me, and which led me, with an almost unwise alacrity, to seek solitude in the back- garden, were not moral at all, they were intellectual. I was not ashamed of having successfully—and so surprisingly—deceived my parents by my crafty silence; I looked upon that as a providential escape, and dismissed all further thought of it. I had other things to think of.

I believe we attribute too many moral ideas to young children. At this momentous point, I should obviously have been driven forward by good instincts or held back by naughty ones. But I am sure that the fear I felt briefly, and which so unexpectedly faded away, was purely physical. It had nothing to do with a feeling of remorse. As for the destruction of the fountain, I was sorry about it for my own sake. I greatly admired the leaping water and had no idea I was spoiling its display. But the emotions now crowding in on me were not moral at all. They were intellectual. They led me to seek solitude in the back garden with almost unwise eagerness. I was not ashamed that my crafty silence had successfully, and so surprisingly, deceived my parents. I saw that as a providential escape and gave it no further thought. I had other things to think about.

In the first place, the theory that my Father was omniscient or infallible was now dead and buried. He probably knew very little; in this case he had not known a fact of such importance that if you did not know that, it could hardly matter what you knew. My Father, as a deity, as a natural force of immense prestige, fell in my eyes to a human level. In future, his statements about things in general need not be accepted implicitly. But of all the thoughts which rushed upon my savage and undeveloped little brain at this crisis, the most curious was that I had found a companion and a confidant in myself. There was a secret in this world and it belonged to me and to a somebody who lived in the same body with me. There were two of us, and we could talk with one another. It is difficult to define impressions so rudimentary, but it is certain that it was in this dual form that the sense of my individuality now suddenly descended upon me, and it is equally certain that it was a great solace to me to find a sympathizer in my own breast.

First of all, my belief that my Father knew everything and could never be wrong was now dead and buried. He probably knew very little. In this case, he had not known a fact of such importance that, without it, whatever else you knew hardly mattered. In my eyes, my Father fell from a god, a hugely respected force of nature, to a human being. From then on, I no longer had to accept everything he said about things in general without question. But many thoughts rushed through my wild, undeveloped little brain at this turning point. The strangest was that I had found a companion and someone to confide in within myself. There was a secret in this world, and it belonged to me and to someone living in the same body as me. There were two of us, and we could talk to each other. These first impressions are hard to describe. But I am certain that my sense of being an individual suddenly came to me in this form, as two people. I am equally certain that finding someone within myself who sympathized with me was a great comfort.

About this time, my Mother, carried away by the current of her literary and her philanthropic work, left me more and more to my own devices. She was seized with a great enthusiasm; as one of her admirers and disciples has written, 'she went on her way, sowing beside all waters'. I would not for a moment let it be supposed that I regard her as a Mrs. Jellyby, or that I think she neglected me. But a remarkable work had opened up before her; after her long years in a mental hermitage, she was drawn forth into the clamorous harvest-field of souls. She developed an unexpected gift of persuasion over strangers whom she met in the omnibus or in the train, and with whom she courageously grappled. This began by her noting, with deep humility and joy, that 'I have reason to judge the sound conversion to God of three young persons within a few weeks, by the instrumentality of my conversations with them'. At the same time, as another of her biographers has said, 'those testimonies to the Blood of Christ, the fruits of her pen, began to be spread very widely, even to the most distant parts of the globe'. My Father, too, was at this time at the height of his activity. After breakfast, each of them was amply occupied, perhaps until night-fall; our evenings we still always spent together. Sometimes my Mother took me with her on her 'unknown day's employ'; I recollect pleasant rambles through the City by her side, and the act of looking up at her figure soaring above me. But when all was done, I had hours and hours of complete solitude, in my Father's study, in the back- garden, above all in the garret.

Around this time, my Mother became absorbed in her writing and charitable work, and left me increasingly to my own devices. She was filled with enthusiasm. As one of her admirers and followers wrote, 'she went on her way, sowing beside all waters'. I would not want anyone to think for a moment that I see her as a Mrs. Jellyby, or that I think she neglected me. But a remarkable work had opened up before her. After her long years of mental seclusion, she was drawn into the noisy harvest field of souls. She discovered an unexpected gift for persuading strangers she met on the omnibus or train. She courageously engaged them in conversation. At first, she noted with deep humility and joy, 'I have reason to believe that three young people have truly been converted to God in the space of a few weeks through my conversations with them'. At the same time, as another of her biographers said, 'those testimonies to the Blood of Christ, the fruits of her pen, began to be spread very widely, even to the most distant parts of the globe'. My Father, too, was at the height of his activity. After breakfast, each of them had plenty to do, perhaps until nightfall. We still always spent our evenings together. Sometimes my Mother took me with her on her 'unknown day's employ'. I remember pleasant walks through the City at her side, and looking up at her figure towering above me. But even so, I spent hours and hours completely alone, in my Father's study, in the back garden, and above all in the attic.

The garret was a fairy place. It was a low lean-to, lighted from the roof. It was wholly unfurnished, except for two objects, an ancient hat-box and a still more ancient skin-trunk. The hat-box puzzled me extremely, till one day, asking my Father what it was, I got a distracted answer which led me to believe that it was itself a sort of hat, and I made a laborious but repeated effort to wear it. The skin-trunk was absolutely empty, but the inside of the lid of it was lined with sheets of what I now know to have been a sensational novel. It was, of course, a fragment, but I read it, kneeling on the bare floor, with indescribable rapture. It will be recollected that the idea of fiction, of a deliberately invented story, had been kept from me with entire success. I therefore implicitly believed the tale in the lid of the trunk to be a true account of the sorrows of a lady of title, who had to flee the country, and who was pursued into foreign lands by enemies bent upon her ruin. Somebody had an interview with a 'minion' in a 'mask'; I went downstairs and looked up these words in Bailey's 'English Dictionary', but was left in darkness as to what they had to do with the lady of title. This ridiculous fragment filled me with delicious fears; I fancied that my Mother, who was out so much, might be threatened by dangers of the same sort; and the fact that the narrative came abruptly to an end, in the middle of one of its most thrilling sentences, wound me up almost to a disorder of wonder and romance.

The attic was a magical place. It was a low lean-to, lit by a window in the roof. It was completely bare except for two things: an old hatbox and an even older leather trunk. The hatbox puzzled me greatly. One day I asked my Father what it was. His distracted answer led me to believe that the box was a kind of hat. I tried hard to wear it, again and again. The leather trunk was completely empty, but the inside of its lid was lined with sheets from a novel. I now know it was a sensational novel. Of course, it was only a fragment, but I knelt on the bare floor and read it with indescribable delight. You may remember that the idea of fiction, of a deliberately invented story, had been kept from me entirely. So I completely believed that the story in the trunk lid was true. It told of the sorrows of a titled lady who had to flee the country. Her enemies pursued her into foreign lands, determined to ruin her. Someone had a meeting with a 'minion' in a 'mask'. I went downstairs and looked up these words in Bailey's 'English Dictionary'. But I still had no idea what they had to do with the titled lady. This ridiculous fragment filled me with delightful fears. I imagined that my Mother, who was out so much, might face similar dangers. The story ended abruptly in the middle of one of its most thrilling sentences. This stirred me up until I was almost overwhelmed by wonder and romance.

The preoccupation of my parents threw me more and more upon my own resources. But what are the resources of a solitary child of six? I was never inclined to make friends with servants, nor did our successive maids proffer, so far as I recollect, any advances. Perhaps, with my 'dedication' and my grown-up ways of talking, I did not seem to them at all an attractive little boy. I continued to have no companions, or even acquaintances of my own age. I am unable to recollect exchanging two words with another child till after my Mother's death.

My parents were so absorbed in their own concerns that I had to rely more and more on myself. But what could a lonely six-year-old do on his own? I never wanted to make friends with the servants. And, as far as I remember, none of the maids who came and went tried to make friends with me. Perhaps my 'dedication' and grown-up way of talking made me seem an unattractive little boy to them. I still had no companions, or even acquaintances, of my own age. I cannot remember exchanging two words with another child until after my Mother's death.

The abundant energy which my Mother now threw into her public work did not affect the quietude of our private life. We had some visitors in the daytime, people who came to consult one parent or the other. But they never stayed to a meal, and we never returned their visits. I do not quite know how it was that neither of my parents took me to any of the sights of London, although I am sure it was a question of principle with them. Notwithstanding all our study of natural history, I was never introduced to live wild beasts at the Zoo, nor to dead ones at the British Museum. I can understand better why we never visited a picture-gallery or a concert-room. So far as I can recollect, the only time I was ever taken to any place of entertainment was when my Father and I paid a visit, long anticipated, to the Great Globe in Leicester Square. This was a huge structure, the interior of which one ascended by means of a spiral staircase. It was a poor affair; that was concave in it which should have been convex, and my imagination was deeply affronted. I could invent a far better Great Globe than that in my mind's eye in the garret.

The great energy my Mother now put into her public work did not disturb the quiet of our private life. We had some daytime visitors who came to consult one parent or the other. But they never stayed for a meal, and we never visited them in return. I do not quite know why neither of my parents took me to see any of London's sights. But I am sure it was a matter of principle for them. Despite all our study of natural history, I was never taken to see live wild animals at the Zoo. Nor was I taken to see dead ones at the British Museum. I can better understand why we never visited an art gallery or a concert hall. As far as I can remember, I was taken to a place of entertainment only once. My Father and I had long looked forward to visiting the Great Globe in Leicester Square. It was a huge structure, with a spiral staircase inside that visitors could climb. It was a poor affair. What should have curved outward curved inward, and my imagination was deeply offended. I could imagine a far better Great Globe in the garret.

Being so restricted, then, and yet so active, my mind took refuge in an infantile species of natural magic. This contended with the definite ideas of religion which my parents were continuing, with too mechanical a persistency, to force into my nature, and it ran parallel with them. I formed strange superstitions, which I can only render intelligible by naming some concrete examples. I persuaded myself that, if I could only discover the proper words to say or the proper passes to make, I could induce the gorgeous birds and butterflies in my Father's illustrated manuals to come to life, and fly out of the book, leaving holes behind them. I believed that, when, at the Chapel, we sang, drearily and slowly, loud hymns of experience and humiliation, I could boom forth with a sound equal to that of dozens of singers, if I could only hit upon the formula. During morning and evening prayers, which were extremely lengthy and fatiguing, I fancied that one of my two selves could flit up, and sit clinging to the cornice, and look down on my other self and the rest of us, if I could only find the key. I laboured for hours in search of these formulas, thinking to compass my ends by means absolutely irrational. For example, I was convinced that if I could only count consecutive numbers long enough, without losing one, I should suddenly, on reaching some far-distant figure, find myself in possession of the great secret. I feel quite sure that nothing external suggested these ideas of magic, and I think it probable that they approached the ideas of savages at a very early stage of development.

My mind was so restricted, yet so active, that it took refuge in a childish kind of natural magic. This magic competed with the definite religious ideas my parents continued to force into my nature with overly mechanical persistence. At the same time, it ran parallel to those ideas. I developed strange superstitions, which I can explain only by giving some examples. I convinced myself that the splendid birds and butterflies in my Father's illustrated manuals could come to life. If I could only find the right words or gestures, they would fly out of the book, leaving holes behind them. At Chapel, we sang loud hymns of religious experience and humiliation, slowly and drearily. I believed that if I could only find the right formula, my voice could boom out as loudly as dozens of singers. Morning and evening prayers were extremely long and tiring. During them, I imagined that one of my two selves could fly up and cling to the cornice. From there, it could look down on my other self and everyone else, if only I could find the key. I spent hours searching for these formulas, hoping to achieve my aims by entirely irrational means. For example, I was convinced that I could discover the great secret by counting consecutive numbers long enough without missing one. When I reached some very distant number, I would suddenly possess the secret. I feel quite sure that nothing outside me suggested these magical ideas. I think it likely that they resembled the ideas of savages at a very early stage of development.

All this ferment of mind was entirely unobserved by my parents. But when I formed the belief that it was necessary, for the success of my practical magic, that I should hurt myself, and when, as a matter of fact, I began, in extreme secrecy, to run pins into my flesh and bang my joints with books, no one will be surprised to hear that my Mother's attention was drawn to the fact that I was looking 'delicate'. The notice nowadays universally given to the hygienic rules of life was rare fifty years ago and among deeply religious people, in particular, fatalistic views of disease prevailed. If anyone was ill, it showed that 'the Lord's hand was extended in chastisement', and much prayer was poured forth in order that it might be explained to the sufferer, or to his relations, in what he or they had sinned. People would, for instance, go on living over a cess- pool, working themselves up into an agony to discover how they had incurred the displeasure of the Lord, but never moving away. As I became very pale and nervous, and slept badly at nights, with visions and loud screams in my sleep, I was taken to a physician, who stripped me and tapped me all over (this gave me some valuable hints for my magical practices), but could find nothing the matter. He recommended,—whatever physicians in such cases always recommend,—but nothing was done. If I was feeble it was the Lord's will, and we must acquiesce.

My parents noticed none of this turmoil in my mind. But then I came to believe that, for my practical magic to succeed, I had to hurt myself. So I began, in extreme secrecy, to stick pins into my flesh and bang my joints with books. No one will be surprised to hear that my Mother noticed I was looking 'delicate'. Fifty years ago, people rarely paid the attention now given everywhere to the rules of healthy living. Deeply religious people, in particular, held fatalistic views of disease. If anyone was ill, it showed that 'the Lord's hand was extended in chastisement'. People prayed at length for the sufferer or the sufferer's relatives to learn how they had sinned. For example, people would go on living over a cesspool, without ever moving away. Meanwhile, they worked themselves into an agony trying to discover how they had displeased the Lord. I became very pale and nervous and slept badly at night, with visions and loud screams in my sleep. So I was taken to a physician. He undressed me and tapped me all over, which gave me some valuable hints for my magical practices. But he could find nothing wrong. He recommended whatever physicians always recommend in such cases, but nothing was done. If I was weak, it was the Lord's will, and we had to accept it.

It culminated in a sort of fit of hysterics, when I lost all self-control, and sobbed with tears, and banged my head on the table. While this was proceeding, I was conscious of that dual individuality of which I have already spoken, since while one part of me gave way, and could not resist, the other part in some extraordinary sense seemed standing aloof, much impressed. I was alone with my Father when this crisis suddenly occurred, and I was interested to see that he was greatly alarmed. It was a very long time since we had spent a day out of London, and I said, on being coaxed back to calmness, that I wanted 'to go into the country'. Like the dying Falstaff, I babbled of green fields. My Father, after a little reflection, proposed to take me to Primrose Hill. I had never heard of the place, and names have always appealed directly to my imagination. I was in the highest degree delighted, and could hardly restrain my impatience. As soon as possible we set forth westward, my hand in my Father's, with the liveliest anticipations. I expected to see a mountain absolutely carpeted with primroses, a terrestrial galaxy like that which covered the hill that led up to Montgomery Castle in Donne's poem. But at length, as we walked from the Chalk Farm direction, a miserable acclivity stole into view—surrounded, even in those days, on most sides by houses, with its grass worn to the buff by millions of boots, and resembling what I meant by 'the country' about as much as Poplar resembles Paradise. We sat down on a bench at its inglorious summit, whereupon I burst into tears, and in a heart-rending whisper sobbed, 'Oh! Papa, let us go home!'

It ended in a kind of hysterical fit. I lost all self-control, sobbed and wept, and banged my head on the table. As this happened, I was aware of the divided self I have already described. One part of me gave way and could not resist, while the other seemed, in some extraordinary way, to stand apart and look on, deeply impressed. I was alone with my Father when the crisis suddenly came, and I was interested to see that he was greatly alarmed. We had not spent a day outside London for a very long time. When I had been coaxed back to calmness, I said I wanted 'to go into the country'. Like the dying Falstaff, I babbled about green fields. After a little thought, my Father suggested taking me to Primrose Hill. I had never heard of the place, and names have always appealed directly to my imagination. I was absolutely delighted and could hardly contain my impatience. As soon as possible, we set out westward, my hand in my Father's, full of excitement. I expected to see a mountain completely carpeted with primroses, an earthly galaxy like the flowers covering the hill leading up to Montgomery Castle in Donne's poem. But at last, as we walked from the direction of Chalk Farm, a miserable slope came into view. Even in those days, houses surrounded it on most sides, and millions of boots had worn its grass down to bare, yellowish earth. It was about as much like what I meant by 'the country' as Poplar is like Paradise. We sat on a bench at its unimpressive summit. Then I burst into tears and sobbed in a heart-rending whisper, 'Oh! Papa, let us go home!'

This was the lachrymose epoch in a career not otherwise given to weeping, for I must tell one more tale of tears. About this time,—the autumn of 1855,—my parents were disturbed more than once in the twilight, after I had been put to bed, by shrieks from my crib. They would rush up to my side, and find me in great distress, but would be unable to discover the cause of it. The fact was that I was half beside myself with ghostly fears, increased and pointed by the fact that there had been some daring burglaries on our street. Our servant-maid, who slept at the top of the house, had seen, or thought she saw, upon a moonlight night the figure of a crouching man, silhouetted against the sky, slip down from the roof and leap into her room. She screamed, and he fled away. Moreover, as if this were not enough for my tender nerves, there had been committed a horrid murder at a baker's shop just around the corner in the Caledonian Road, to which murder actuality was given to us by the fact that my Mother had been 'just thinking' of getting her bread from this shop. Children, I think, were not spared the details of these affairs fifty years ago; at least, I was not, and my nerves were a packet of spilikins.

This was the tearful period of a life not otherwise marked by much crying. I must tell one more tale of tears. Around this time, in the autumn of 1855, my parents were disturbed more than once by shrieks from my crib. It was twilight, and they had put me to bed. They would rush to my side and find me in great distress, but they could not discover the cause. In fact, I was almost out of my mind with fears of ghosts. Some daring burglaries on our street had made my fears worse and given them a focus. Our servant-maid slept at the top of the house. One moonlit night, she saw, or thought she saw, the silhouette of a crouching man against the sky. He slipped down from the roof and leaped into her room. She screamed, and he fled. As if this were not enough for my tender nerves, a horrible murder had been committed at a baker's shop. The shop was just around the corner in the Caledonian Road. The murder felt especially real to us because my Mother had been 'just thinking' of buying her bread there. I think children were not spared the details of such events fifty years ago. At least, I was not, and my nerves were like a bundle of pick-up sticks.

But what made me scream at nights was that when my Mother had tucked me up in bed, and had heard me say my prayer, and had prayed aloud on her knees at my side, and had stolen downstairs— noises immediately began in the room. There was a rustling of clothes, and a slapping of hands, and a gurgling, and a sniffing, and a trotting. These horrible muffled sounds would go on, and die away, and be resumed; I would pray very fervently to God to save me from my enemies; and sometimes I would go to sleep. But on other occasions, my faith and fortitude alike gave way, and I screamed 'Mama! Mama!' Then would my parents come bounding up the stairs, and comfort me, and kiss me, and assure me it was nothing. And nothing it was while they were there, but no sooner had they gone than the ghostly riot recommenced. It was at last discovered by my Mother that the whole mischief was due to a card of framed texts, fastened by one nail to the wall; this did nothing when the bedroom door was shut, but when it was left open (in order that my parents might hear me call), the card began to gallop in the draught, and made the most intolerable noises.

But what made me scream at night were the noises that began as soon as my Mother slipped downstairs. She had tucked me into bed, listened to me say my prayer, and prayed aloud on her knees beside me. Then came the rustling of clothes, the slapping of hands, gurgling, sniffing, and trotting. These horrible muffled sounds would continue, die away, and then start again. I would pray very earnestly to God to save me from my enemies, and sometimes I would fall asleep. But at other times, both my faith and my courage failed, and I screamed 'Mama! Mama!' Then my parents would come bounding up the stairs, comfort me, kiss me, and assure me it was nothing. And while they were there, it was nothing. But as soon as they left, the ghostly commotion began again. At last, my Mother discovered that all the trouble came from a card of framed texts, fastened to the wall by one nail. The card made no noise when the bedroom door was shut. But when the door was left open so my parents could hear me call, the card began to gallop in the draft. It made the most unbearable noises.

Several things tended at this time to alienate my conscience from the line which my Father had so rigidly traced for it. The question of the efficacy of prayer, which has puzzled wiser heads than mine was, began to trouble me. It was insisted on in our household that if anything was desired, you should not, as my Mother said, 'lose any time in seeking for it, but ask God to guide you to it'. In many junctures of life this is precisely what, in sober fact, they did. I will not dwell here on their theories, which my Mother put forth, with unflinching directness, in her published writings. But I found that a difference was made between my privileges in this matter and theirs, and this led to many discussions. My parents said: 'Whatever you need, tell Him and He will grant it, if it is His will.' Very well; I had need of a large painted humming-top which I had seen in a shop-window in the Caledonian Road. Accordingly, I introduced a supplication for this object into my evening prayer, carefully adding the words: 'If it is Thy will.' This, I recollect, placed my Mother in a dilemma, and she consulted my Father. Taken, I suppose, at a disadvantage, my Father told me I must not pray for 'things like that'. To which I answered by another query, 'Why?' And I added that he said we ought to pray for things we needed, and that I needed the humming-top a great deal more than I did the conversion of the heathen or the restitution of Jerusalem to the Jews, two objects of my nightly supplication which left me very cold.

Several things at this time began to turn my conscience away from the path my Father had laid down so strictly. The question of whether prayer worked began to trouble me. It had puzzled wiser heads than mine. In our household, we were told what to do if we wanted something. As my Mother said, we should not 'waste any time looking for it, but ask God to guide us to it'. At many points in their lives, that is exactly what my parents did. I will not dwell here on their theories, which my Mother stated with unflinching directness in her published writings. But I found that my parents treated me differently from themselves in this matter, and this led to many discussions. My parents said: 'Whatever you need, tell him and he will grant it, if it is his will.' Very well. I needed a large painted humming-top that I had seen in a shop window on the Caledonian Road. So I asked for it in my evening prayer, carefully adding the words: 'If it is your will.' I remember that this put my Mother in a dilemma, and she consulted my Father. I suppose he was caught off guard. He told me I must not pray for 'things like that'. I answered with another question: 'Why?' I added that he said we ought to pray for things we needed. I needed the humming-top much more than I needed the conversion of the heathen or the return of Jerusalem to the Jews. I prayed for those two things every night, though they left me very cold.

I have reason to believe, looking back upon this scene conducted by candlelight in the front parlour, that my Mother was much baffled by the logic of my argument. She had gone so far as to say publicly that no 'things or circumstances are too insignificant to bring before the God of the whole earth'. I persisted that this covered the case of the humming-top, which was extremely significant to me. I noticed that she held aloof from the discussion, which was carried on with some show of annoyance by my Father. He had never gone quite so far as she did in regard to this question of praying for material things. I am not sure that she was convinced that I ought to have been checked; but he could not help seeing that it reduced their favourite theory to an absurdity for a small child to exercise the privilege. He ceased to argue, and told me peremptorily that it was not right for me to pray for things like humming-tops, and that I must do it no more. His authority, of course, was Paramount, and I yielded; but my faith in the efficacy of prayer was a good deal shaken. The fatal suspicion had crossed my mind that the reason why I was not to pray for the top was because it was too expensive for my parents to buy, that being the usual excuse for not getting things I wished for.

Looking back on this scene in the candlelit front parlour, I have reason to believe that my argument’s logic baffled my Mother. She had even said publicly that no 'things or circumstances are too insignificant to bring before the God of the whole earth'. I insisted that this included the humming-top, which was extremely important to me. I noticed that she stayed out of the discussion. My Father carried it on with some annoyance. He had never gone quite as far as she had on the question of praying for material things. I am not sure she was convinced that I should have been stopped. But he could not help seeing that their favourite theory became absurd when a small child exercised the privilege. He stopped arguing and told me firmly that it was wrong to pray for things like humming-tops. I must not do it again. His authority was, of course, supreme, and I gave in. But my faith in the power of prayer was badly shaken. A fatal suspicion had crossed my mind. Perhaps I was forbidden to pray for the top because it was too expensive for my parents to buy. That was their usual excuse for not getting me things I wanted.

It was about the date of my sixth birthday that I did something very naughty, some act of direct disobedience, for which my Father, after a solemn sermon, chastised me, sacrificially, by giving me several cuts with a cane. This action was justified, as everything he did was justified, by reference to Scripture 'Spare the rod and spoil the child'. I suppose that there are some children, of a sullen and lymphatic temperament, who are smartened up and made more wide-awake by a whipping. It is largely a matter of convention, the exercise being endured (I am told) with pride by the infants of our aristocracy, but not tolerated by the lower classes. I am afraid that I proved my inherent vulgarity by being made, not contrite or humble, but furiously angry by this caning. I cannot account for the flame of rage which it awakened in my bosom. My dear, excellent Father had beaten me, not very severely, without ill-temper, and with the most genuine desire to improve me. But he was not well-advised especially so far as the 'dedication to the Lord's service' was concerned. This same 'dedication' had ministered to my vanity, and there are some natures which are not improved by being humiliated. I have to confess with shame that I went about the house for some days with a murderous hatred of my Father locked within my bosom. He did not suspect that the chastisement had not been wholly efficacious, and he bore me no malice; so that after a while, I forgot and thus forgave him. But I do not regard physical punishment as a wise element in the education of proud and sensitive children.

Around my sixth birthday, I did something very naughty, an act of direct disobedience. After a solemn sermon, my Father punished me, as a sacrifice, by giving me several strokes with a cane. As with everything he did, he justified this by referring to Scripture: 'Spare the rod and spoil the child'. I suppose some children with dull, sluggish temperaments are sharpened up and made more alert by a whipping. It is largely a matter of custom. I am told that young children in our aristocracy endure a whipping with pride, but the lower classes will not tolerate it. I am afraid I showed my natural commonness by becoming furiously angry at the caning, rather than sorry or humble. I cannot explain the flame of rage it lit in my heart. My dear, excellent Father had beaten me without anger, not very severely, and with a genuine desire to improve me. But he had not acted wisely, especially considering my 'dedication to the Lord's service'. That same 'dedication' had fed my vanity, and some natures are not improved by humiliation. I have to confess with shame that, for some days, I went about the house hiding a murderous hatred of my Father in my heart. He did not suspect that the punishment had not been wholly effective, and he bore me no ill will. After a while, I forgot and so forgave him. But I do not think physical punishment is a wise part of educating proud and sensitive children.

My theological misdeeds culminated, however, in an act so puerile and preposterous that I should not venture to record it if it did not throw some glimmering of light on the subject which I have proposed to myself in writing these pages. My mind continued to dwell on the mysterious question of prayer. It puzzled me greatly to know why, if we were God's children, and if he was watching over us by night and day, we might not supplicate for toys and sweets and smart clothes as well as for the conversion of the heathen. Just at this juncture, we had a special service at the Room, at which our attention was particularly called to what we always spoke of as 'the field of missionary labour'. The East was represented among 'the saints' by an excellent Irish peer, who had, in his early youth, converted and married a lady of colour; this Asiatic shared in our Sunday morning meetings, and was an object of helpless terror to me; I shrank from her amiable caresses, and vaguely identified her with a personage much spoken of in our family circle, the 'Personal Devil'.

My religious misdeeds ended, however, in an act so childish and absurd that I would hesitate to record it. I do so only because it sheds a little light on the subject I have set out to explore in these pages. My mind kept returning to the mysterious question of prayer. If we were God's children, and he watched over us day and night, why couldn't we ask for toys, sweets, and fine clothes as well as for the conversion of the heathen? This puzzled me greatly. Just then, we had a special service at the Room. There, our attention was drawn especially to what we always called 'the field of missionary labour'. Among 'the saints', the East was represented by a fine Irish peer. In his early youth, he had converted and married a woman of color. This Asian woman joined our Sunday morning meetings, and I was helplessly terrified of her. I shrank from her friendly caresses and vaguely identified her with someone often mentioned in our family circle, the 'Personal Devil'.

All these matters drew my thoughts to the subject of idolatry, which was severely censured at the missionary meeting. I cross- examined my Father very closely as to the nature of this sin, and pinned him down to the categorical statement that idolatry consisted in praying to anyone or anything but God himself. Wood and stone, in the words of the hymn, were peculiarly liable to be bowed down to by the heathen in their blindness. I pressed my Father further on this subject, and he assured me that God would be very angry, and would signify His anger, if anyone, in a Christian country, bowed down to wood and stone. I cannot recall why I was so pertinacious on this subject, but I remember that my Father became a little restive under my cross-examination. I determined, however, to test the matter for myself, and one morning, when both my parents were safely out of the house, I prepared for the great act of heresy. I was in the morning-room on the ground-floor, where, with much labour, I hoisted a small chair on to the table close to the window. My heart was now beating as if it would leap out of my side, but I pursued my experiment. I knelt down on the carpet in front of the table and looking up I said my daily prayer in a loud voice, only substituting the address 'Oh Chair!' for the habitual one.

All these matters turned my thoughts to idolatry, which had been strongly condemned at the missionary meeting. I questioned my Father closely about the nature of this sin. I pressed him until he stated plainly that idolatry meant praying to anyone or anything but God himself. In the words of the hymn, the heathen, in their blindness, were especially likely to bow down to wood and stone. I pressed my Father further on the subject. He assured me that God would be very angry if anyone in a Christian country bowed down to wood and stone. God would also make his anger known. I cannot remember why I was so persistent, but I remember that my Father grew a little impatient with my questions. However, I decided to test the matter for myself. One morning, when both my parents were safely out of the house, I prepared for the great act of heresy. I was in the morning room on the ground floor. With much effort, I lifted a small chair onto the table near the window. My heart was beating as if it would leap out of my side, but I went on with my experiment. I knelt on the carpet in front of the table and looked up. Then I said my daily prayer in a loud voice, but substituted 'Oh Chair!' for my usual address.

Having carried this act of idolatry safely through, I waited to see what would happen. It was a fine day, and I gazed up at the slip of white sky above the houses opposite, and expected something to appear in it. God would certainly exhibit his anger in some terrible form, and would chastise my impious and willful action. I was very much alarmed, but still more excited; I breathed the high, sharp air of defiance. But nothing happened; there was not a cloud in the sky, not an unusual sound in the street. Presently, I was quite sure that nothing would happen. I had committed idolatry, flagrantly and deliberately, and God did not care.

Having carried out this act of idolatry without harm, I waited to see what would happen. It was a fine day. I looked up at the narrow strip of white sky above the houses opposite, expecting something to appear there. God would surely show his anger in some terrible form. He would punish me for my defiant, ungodly act. I was very frightened, but even more excited. I breathed in the sharp, exhilarating air of defiance. But nothing happened. There was not a cloud in the sky or an unusual sound in the street. Soon I was quite sure that nothing would happen. I had committed idolatry openly and deliberately, and God did not care.

The result of this ridiculous act was not to make me question the existence and power of God; those were forces which I did not dream of ignoring. But what it did was to lessen still further my confidence in my Father's knowledge of the Divine mind. My Father had said, positively, that if I worshipped a thing made of wood, God would manifest his anger. I had then worshipped a chair, made (or partly made) of wood, and God had made no sign whatever. My Father, therefore, was not really acquainted with the Divine practice in cases of idolatry. And with that, dismissing the subject, I dived again into the unplumbed depths of the Penny Cyclopaedia.

This ridiculous act did not make me question God's existence or power. I had never dreamed of ignoring either. But it did further weaken my confidence in my Father's knowledge of God's mind. My Father had said with certainty that if I worshipped something made of wood, God would show his anger. I had then worshipped a chair, made of wood, or at least partly made of wood. But God had given no sign at all. So my Father did not really know how God dealt with idolatry. With that, I dismissed the subject and dived again into the unexplored depths of the Penny Cyclopaedia.