Chapter 3

THAT I might die in my early childhood was a thought which frequently recurred to the mind of my Mother. She endeavoured, with a Roman fortitude, to face it without apprehension. Soon after I had completed my fifth year, she had written as follows in her secret journal:

My mother often thought that I might die in early childhood. She tried to face the possibility without fear, with the fortitude of a Roman. Soon after I turned five, she wrote the following in her secret journal:

'Should we be called on to weep over the early grave of the dear one whom now we are endeavouring to train for heaven, may we be able to remember that we never ceased to pray for and watch over him. It is easy, comparatively, to watch over an infant. Yet shall I be sufficient for these things? I am not. But God is sufficient. In his strength I have begun the warfare, in his strength I will persevere, and I will faint not until either I myself or my little one is beyond the reach of earthly solicitude.'

'If we are called to weep over the early grave of our dear child, whom we are now trying to prepare for heaven, may we remember that we never stopped praying for him and watching over him. It is relatively easy to watch over an infant. Yet am I equal to this task? I am not. But God is. In his strength I have begun the struggle, and in his strength I will continue. I will not give up until either I or my little one is beyond the reach of earthly cares.'

That either she or I would be called away from earth, and that our physical separation was at hand, seems to have been always vaguely present in my Mother's dreams, as an obstinate conviction to be carefully recognized and jealously guarded against.

My Mother seems always to have had a vague sense in her dreams that either she or I would die and that we would soon be separated. This persistent conviction had to be carefully acknowledged and guarded against.

It was not, however, until the course of my seventh year that the tragedy occurred, which altered the whole course of our family existence. My Mother had hitherto seemed strong and in good health; she had even made the remark to my Father, that 'sorrow and pain, the badges of Christian discipleship', appeared to be withheld from her. On her birthday, which was to be her last, she had written these ejaculations in her locked diary:

It was not until I was six, however, that the tragedy occurred. It changed the whole course of our family life. Until then, my Mother had seemed strong and healthy. She had even remarked to my Father that ‘sorrow and pain, the marks of Christian discipleship’, seemed to have been withheld from her. On her birthday, which was to be her last, she had written these heartfelt expressions in her locked diary:

'Lord, forgive the sins of the past, and help me to be faithful in future! May this be a year of much blessing, a year of jubilee! May I be kept lowly, trusting, loving! May I have more blessing than in all former years combined! May I be happier as a wife, mother, sister, writer, mistress, friend!'

'Lord, forgive my past sins and help me to be faithful in the future! May this be a year of great blessing, a year of jubilee! May I remain humble, trusting, and loving! May I receive more blessings than in all previous years combined! May I be happier as a wife, mother, sister, writer, head of the household, and friend!'

But a symptom began to alarm her, and in the beginning of May, having consulted a local physician without being satisfied, she went to see a specialist in a northern suburb in whose judgement she had great confidence. This occasion I recollect with extreme vividness. I had been put to bed by my Father, in itself a noteworthy event. My crib stood near a window overlooking the street; my parents' ancient four-poster, a relic of the eighteenth century, hid me from the door, but I could see the rest of the room. After falling asleep on this particular evening, I awoke silently, surprised to see two lighted candles on the table, and my Father seated writing by them. I also saw a little meal arranged.

But a symptom began to worry her. Early in May, she consulted a local doctor, but was not satisfied. So she went to see a specialist in a northern suburb. She had great confidence in his judgment. I remember this occasion very vividly. My Father had put me to bed, which was unusual in itself. My crib stood near a window overlooking the street. My parents' old four-poster bed, a relic of the eighteenth century, hid me from the door. But I could see the rest of the room. After falling asleep that evening, I woke silently. I was surprised to see two lit candles on the table and my Father sitting and writing by their light. I also saw a small meal laid out.

While I was wondering at all this, the door opened, and my Mother entered the room; she emerged from behind the bed-curtains, with her bonnet on, having returned from her expedition. My Father rose hurriedly, pushing back his chair. There was a pause, while my Mother seemed to be steadying her voice, and then she replied, loudly and distinctly, 'He says it is—' and she mentioned one of the most cruel maladies by which our poor mortal nature can be tormented. Then I saw them hold one another in a silent long embrace, and presently sink together out of sight on their knees, at the farther side of the bed, whereupon my Father lifted up his voice in prayer. Neither of them had noticed me, and now I lay back on my pillow and fell asleep.

While I was wondering about all this, the door opened, and my Mother entered the room. She appeared from behind the bed curtains, still wearing her bonnet, having returned from her outing. My Father got up quickly, pushing back his chair. There was a pause while my Mother seemed to steady her voice. Then she replied, loudly and clearly, 'He says it is...' and named one of the cruelest diseases that can torment our poor mortal bodies. Then I saw them hold each other in a long, silent embrace. Soon they sank to their knees together on the far side of the bed, out of sight. My Father began to pray aloud. Neither of them had noticed me, and now I lay back on my pillow and fell asleep.

Next morning, when we three sat at breakfast, my mind reverted to the scene of the previous night. With my eyes on my plate, as I was cutting up my food, I asked, casually, 'What is—?' mentioning the disease whose unfamiliar name I had heard from my bed. Receiving no reply, I looked up to discover why my question was not answered, and I saw my parents gazing at each other with lamentable eyes. In some way, I know not how, I was conscious of the presence of an incommunicable mystery, and I kept silence, though tortured with curiosity, nor did I ever repeat my inquiry.

The next morning, as the three of us sat at breakfast, I thought again about the scene from the night before. Looking down at my plate as I cut up my food, I casually asked, 'What is...?' I named the disease whose unfamiliar name I had heard from my bed. When no one answered, I looked up to see why. My parents were looking at each other with sorrowful eyes. Somehow, I don't know how, I sensed a mystery that could not be spoken of. Though I was tortured by curiosity, I kept silent and never asked again.

About a fortnight later, my Mother began to go three times a week all the long way from Islington to Pimlico, in order to visit a certain practitioner, who undertook to apply a special treatment to her case. This involved great fatigue and distress to her, but so far as I was personally concerned it did me a great deal of good. I invariably accompanied her, and when she was very tired and weak, I enjoyed the pride of believing that I protected her. The movement, the exercise, the occupation, lifted my morbid fears and superstitions like a cloud. The medical treatment to which my poor Mother was subjected was very painful, and she had a peculiar sensitiveness to pain. She carried on her evangelical work as long as she possibly could, continuing to converse with her fellow passengers on spiritual matters. It was wonderful that a woman, so reserved and proud as she by nature was, could conquer so completely her natural timidity. In those last months, she scarcely ever got into a railway carriage or into an omnibus, without presently offering tracts to the persons sitting within reach of her, or endeavouring to begin a conversation with some one of the sufficiency of the Blood of Jesus to cleanse the human heart from sin. Her manners were so gentle and persuasive, she looked so innocent, her small, sparkling features were lighted up with so much benevolence, that I do not think she ever met with discourtesy or roughness. Imitative imp that I was, I sometimes took part in these strange conversations, and was mightily puffed up by compliments paid, in whispers, to my infant piety. But my Mother very properly discouraged this, as tending in me to spiritual pride.

About two weeks later, my Mother began making the long journey from Islington to Pimlico three times a week. She went to see a practitioner who had agreed to give her a special treatment. The journeys left her exhausted and distressed, but they did me a great deal of good. I always went with her. When she was very tired and weak, I took pride in believing that I protected her. The movement, exercise, and activity lifted my morbid fears and superstitions like a cloud. The medical treatment my poor Mother underwent was very painful, and she was unusually sensitive to pain. She carried on her evangelical work as long as she possibly could, continuing to talk with her fellow passengers about spiritual matters. She was naturally reserved and proud, so it was remarkable that she could overcome her shyness so completely. In those last months, she hardly ever got into a railway carriage or an omnibus without soon offering tracts to people sitting within reach. Or she would try to start a conversation about the power of the Blood of Jesus to cleanse the human heart of sin. Her manner was so gentle and persuasive, and she looked so innocent. Her small, sparkling features were lit up with such kindness that I do not think anyone ever treated her rudely or roughly. I was a little imp who liked to imitate her, and I sometimes joined in these strange conversations. I was immensely proud when people whispered compliments about my childhood piety. But my Mother quite rightly discouraged me, because she thought it could lead to spiritual pride.

If my parents, in their desire to separate themselves from the world, had regretted that through their happiness they seemed to have forfeited the Christian privilege of affliction, they could not continue to complain of any absence of temporal adversity. Everything seemed to combine, in the course of this fatal year 1856, to harass and alarm them. Just at the moment when illness created a special drain upon their resources, their slender income, instead of being increased, was seriously diminished. There is little sympathy felt in this world of rhetoric for the silent sufferings of the genteel poor, yet there is no class that deserves a more charitable commiseration.

My parents wanted to separate themselves from the world. If they had regretted that their happiness seemed to have cost them the Christian privilege of suffering, they could no longer complain that they lacked worldly troubles. In the disastrous year of 1856, everything seemed to come together to distress and alarm them. Just when illness put a particular strain on their resources, their small income was seriously reduced instead of increasing. In this world of rhetoric, little sympathy is felt for the silent suffering of the genteel poor. Yet no class deserves more compassionate sympathy.

At the best of times, the money which my parents had to spend was an exiguous and an inelastic sum. Strictly economical, proud—in an old-fashioned mode now quite out of fashion—to conceal the fact of their poverty, painfully scrupulous to avoid giving inconvenience to shop-people, tradesmen or servants, their whole financial career had to be carried on with the adroitness of a campaign through a hostile country. But now, at the moment when fresh pressing claims were made on their resources, my Mother's small capital suddenly disappeared. It had been placed, on bad advice (they were as children in such matters), in a Cornish mine, the grotesque name of which, Wheal Maria, became familiar to my ears. One day the river Tamar, in a playful mood, broke into Wheal Maria, and not a penny more was ever lifted from that unfortunate enterprise. About the same time, a small annuity which my Mother had inherited also ceased to be paid.

Even at the best of times, my parents had very little money to spend, and there was no room to stretch it. They were strictly economical. In an old-fashioned way that has now quite gone out of fashion, they were proud to conceal their poverty. They were also painfully careful not to inconvenience shopkeepers, tradesmen, or servants. Managing their finances required all the skill of a campaign through hostile country. But now, just as urgent new demands were being made on their resources, my Mother's small savings suddenly disappeared. On bad advice, she had invested them in a Cornish mine. My parents were like children in such matters. The mine's grotesque name, Wheal Maria, became familiar to me. One day the river Tamar, in a playful mood, broke into Wheal Maria. Not another penny was ever taken from that unfortunate enterprise. About the same time, a small annuity my Mother had inherited also stopped being paid.

On my Father's books and lectures, therefore, the whole weight now rested, and that at a moment when he was depressed and unnerved by anxiety. It was contrary to his principles to borrow money, so that it became necessary to pay doctor's and chemist's bills punctually, and yet to carry on the little household with the very small margin. Each artifice of economy was now exercised to enable this to be done without falling into debt, and every branch of expenditure was cut down, clothes, books, the little garden which was my Father's pride, all felt the pressure of new poverty. Even our food, which had always been simple, now became Spartan indeed, and I am sure that my Mother often pretended to have no appetite that there might remain enough to satisfy my hunger. Fortunately my Father was able to take us away in the autumn for six weeks by the sea in Wales, the expenses of this tour being paid for by a professional engagement, so that my seventh birthday was spent in an ecstasy of happiness, on golden sands, under a brilliant sky, and in sight of the glorious azure ocean beating in from an infinitude of melting horizons. Here, too, my Mother, perched in a nook of the high rocks, surveyed the west, and forgot for a little while her weakness and the gnawing, grinding pain.

The whole burden therefore rested on the income from my Father’s books and lectures. This came at a time when anxiety had left him depressed and shaken. His principles forbade him to borrow money. So he had to pay the doctor’s and chemist’s bills on time and run our small household on very little money. Every possible saving was made to avoid falling into debt, and all spending was cut back. Clothes, books, and the little garden that was my Father’s pride all felt the pressure of our new poverty. Even our food, which had always been simple, now became truly meagre. I am sure my Mother often pretended to have no appetite so that enough would be left to satisfy my hunger. Fortunately, my Father was able to take us to the Welsh seaside for six weeks that autumn. A professional engagement paid for the trip. So I spent my seventh birthday in a state of perfect happiness, on golden sands beneath a brilliant sky. Before me lay the glorious blue ocean, its waves rolling in from endless, hazy horizons. There, too, my Mother sat in a nook among the high rocks and looked west. For a little while she forgot her weakness and the gnawing, grinding pain.

But in October, our sorrows seemed to close in upon us. We went back to London, and for the first time in their married life, my parents were divided. My Mother was now so seriously weaker that the omnibus journeys to Pimlico became impossible. My Father could not leave his work and so my Mother and I had to take a gloomy lodging close to the doctor's house. The experiences upon which I presently entered were of a nature in which childhood rarely takes a part. I was now my Mother's sole and ceaseless companion; the silent witness of her suffering, of her patience, of her vain and delusive attempts to obtain alleviation of her anguish. For nearly three months I breathed the atmosphere of pain, saw no other light, heard no other sounds, thought no other thoughts than those which accompany physical suffering and weariness. To my memory these weeks seem years; I have no measure of their monotony. The lodgings were bare and yet tawdry; out of dingy windows we looked from a second storey upon a dull small street, drowned in autumnal fog. My Father came to see us when he could, but otherwise, save when we made our morning expedition to the doctor, or when a slatternly girl waited upon us with our distasteful meals, we were alone, without any other occupation than to look forward to that occasional abatement of suffering which was what we hoped for most.

But in October, our sorrows seemed to close in on us. We returned to London, and for the first time in their married life, my parents were separated. My Mother had grown so much weaker that she could no longer make the omnibus journeys to Pimlico. My Father could not leave his work, so my Mother and I had to take gloomy lodgings near the doctor’s house. I was about to enter a world that children rarely experience. I was now my Mother’s only and constant companion. I watched silently as she suffered, endured her pain, and tried in vain to find relief. For nearly three months, I lived in an atmosphere of pain. I saw no other light, heard no other sounds, and thought no other thoughts than those of physical suffering and weariness. In my memory, those weeks seem like years. I cannot measure their monotony. The lodgings were bare yet shabby and gaudy. From the dingy windows of the second floor, we looked out on a dull little street, drowned in autumn fog. My Father came to see us when he could. Otherwise, we were alone, except for our morning visits to the doctor and the visits of a slovenly girl who served our unappetizing meals. We had nothing else to do but look forward to the occasional easing of my Mother’s pain. That was what we hoped for most.

It is difficult for me to recollect how these interminable hours were spent. But I read aloud in a great part of them. I have now in my mind's cabinet a picture of my chair turned towards the window, partly that I might see the book more distinctly, partly not to see quite so distinctly that dear patient figure rocking on her sofa, or leaning, like a funeral statue, like a muse upon a monument, with her head on her arms against the mantelpiece. I read the Bible every day, and at much length; also,—with I cannot but think some praiseworthy patience,—a book of incommunicable dreariness, called Newton's 'Thoughts on the Apocalypse'. Newton bore a great resemblance to my old aversion, Jukes, and I made a sort of playful compact with my Mother that if I read aloud a certain number of pages out of 'Thoughts on the Apocalypse', as a reward I should be allowed to recite 'my own favourite hymns'. Among these there was one which united her suffrages with mine. Both of us extremely admired the piece by Toplady which begins:

It is hard for me to remember how we spent those endless hours. But I spent much of that time reading aloud. I can still picture my chair turned toward the window. This was partly so I could see the book more clearly, and partly so I would not see that dear, patient figure quite so clearly. My Mother rocked on her sofa or leaned against the mantelpiece with her head on her arms. She looked like a funeral statue, like a muse on a monument. I read the Bible every day, and at great length. I also read a book of indescribable dreariness, called Newton's 'Thoughts on the Apocalypse'. I cannot help thinking that I showed some admirable patience in doing so. Newton was much like Jukes, whom I had long disliked. So I made a playful bargain with my Mother. If I read a certain number of pages from 'Thoughts on the Apocalypse' aloud, I would be rewarded by being allowed to recite 'my own favourite hymns'. Among them was one that she loved as much as I did. We both greatly admired the piece by Toplady that begins:

To this day, I cannot repeat this hymn without a sense of poignant emotion, nor can I pretend to decide how much of this is due to its merit and how much to the peculiar nature of the memories it recalls. But it might be as rude as I genuinely think it to be skilful, and I should continue to regard it as a sacred poem. Among all my childish memories none is clearer than my looking up,—after reading, in my high treble,

To this day, I cannot recite this hymn without feeling a sharp emotion. I cannot say how much of that feeling comes from the hymn’s merit and how much from its unusual associations. I truly believe the hymn is skillfully written. But even if it were as crude as I believe it is skillful, I would still regard it as a sacred poem. Of all my childhood memories, none is clearer than the memory of looking up, after reading in my high treble voice,

and hearing my Mother, her eyes brimming with tears and her alabastrine fingers tightly locked together, murmur in unconscious repetition:

and hearing my mother murmur the same words without realizing it, her eyes full of tears and her pale fingers tightly clasped together:

In our lodgings at Pimlico I came across a piece of verse which exercised a lasting influence on my taste. It was called 'The Cameronian's Dream', and it had been written by a certain James Hyslop, a schoolmaster on a man-of-war. I do not know how it came into my possession, but I remember it was adorned by an extremely dim and ill-executed wood-cut of a lake surrounded by mountains, with tombstones in the foreground. This lugubrious frontispiece positively fascinated me, and lent a further gloomy charm to the ballad itself. It was in this copy of mediocre verses that the sense of romance first appealed to me, the kind of nature-romance which is connected with hills, and lakes, and the picturesque costumes of old times. The following stanza, for instance, brought a revelation to me:

In our lodgings at Pimlico, I came across a poem that had a lasting influence on my taste. It was called 'The Cameronian's Dream'. Its author was a certain James Hyslop, a schoolmaster on a warship. I do not know how the poem came into my possession. But I remember that it was decorated with a very faint, poorly made woodcut. It showed a lake surrounded by mountains, with tombstones in the foreground. This gloomy frontispiece fascinated me and gave the ballad itself an even darker charm. These mediocre verses first awakened my sense of romance. It was the kind of romance in nature associated with hills, lakes, and the picturesque costumes of earlier times. The following stanza, for instance, was a revelation to me:

I persuaded my Mother to explain to me what it was all about, and she told me of the affliction of the Scottish saints, their flight to the waters and the wilderness, their cruel murder while they were singing 'their last song to the God of Salvation'. I was greatly fired, and the following stanza, in particular, reached my ideal of the Sublime:

I persuaded my Mother to explain what it was all about. She told me about the suffering of the Scottish saints and their flight to the waters and the wilderness. She told me how they were cruelly murdered while singing 'their last song to the God of Salvation'. I was deeply stirred, and the following stanza, in particular, struck me as perfectly Sublime:

Twenty years later I met with the only other person whom I have ever encountered who had even heard of 'The Cameronian's Dream'. This was Robert Louis Stevenson, who had been greatly struck by it when he was about my age. Probably the same ephemeral edition of it reached, at the same time, each of our pious households.

Twenty years later, I met the only other person I have ever encountered who had even heard of 'The Cameronian's Dream'. It was Robert Louis Stevenson, who had been deeply struck by it when he was about my age. Probably the same short-lived edition reached both our religious households at the same time.

As my Mother's illness progressed, she could neither sleep, save by the use of opiates, nor rest, except in a sloping posture, propped up by many pillows. It was my great joy, and a pleasant diversion, to be allowed to shift, beat up, and rearrange these pillows, a task which I learned to accomplish not too awkwardly. Her sufferings, I believe, were principally caused by the violence of the medicaments to which her doctor, who was trying a new and fantastic 'cure', thought it proper to subject her. Let those who take a pessimistic view of our social progress ask themselves whether such tortures could today be inflicted on a delicate patient, or whether that patient would be allowed to exist, in the greatest misery in a lodging with no professional nurse to wait upon her, and with no companion but a little helpless boy of seven years of age. Time passes smoothly and swiftly, and we do not perceive the mitigations which he brings in his hands. Everywhere, in the whole system of human life, improvements, alleviations, ingenious appliances and humane inventions are being introduced to lessen the great burden of suffering.

As my mother's illness progressed, she could sleep only with the help of opiates. She could rest only while propped up at an angle by many pillows. It was a great joy and a pleasant distraction for me to be allowed to move, fluff up, and rearrange the pillows. I learned to do the job without too much awkwardness. I believe her suffering was caused mainly by the harsh medicines her doctor thought fit to give her. He was trying a new and fantastic 'cure'. Those who take a pessimistic view of our social progress should ask themselves whether such torture could be inflicted on a delicate patient today. Would a patient be allowed to live in such misery in rented rooms, with no professional nurse to care for her? Would she be left with no companion but a helpless little boy of seven? Time passes smoothly and swiftly, and we do not notice the relief it brings. Everywhere, throughout human life, improvements, ways to ease suffering, clever devices, and humane inventions are being introduced to lessen suffering's great burden.

If we were suddenly transplanted into the world of only fifty years ago, we should be startled and even horror-stricken by the wretchedness to which the step backwards would reintroduce us. It was in the very year of which I am speaking, a year of which my personal memories are still vivid, that Sir James Simpson received the Monthyon prize as a recognition of his discovery of the use of anaesthetics. Can our thoughts embrace the mitigation of human torment which the application of chloroform alone has caused? My early experiences, I confess, made me singularly conscious, at an age when one should know nothing about these things, of that torrent of sorrow and anguish and terror which flows under all footsteps of man. Within my childish conscience, already, some dim inquiry was awake as to the meaning of this mystery of pain—

If we were suddenly transported back just fifty years, the misery we found would shock and even horrify us. In the very year I am speaking of, Sir James Simpson received the Monthyon prize for discovering the use of anaesthetics. My personal memories of that year are still vivid. Can we even grasp how much human suffering chloroform alone has relieved? I confess that my early experiences made me unusually aware of the sorrow, anguish, and terror beneath every human step. I was aware of this at an age when one should know nothing of such things. Even as a child, I was beginning to wonder, dimly, what this mystery of pain meant.

In my Mother's case, the savage treatment did no good; it had to be abandoned, and a day or two before Christmas, while the fruits were piled in the shop-fronts and the butchers were shouting outside their forests of carcases, my Father brought us back in a cab through the streets to Islington, a feeble and languishing company. Our invalid bore the journey fairly well, enjoying the air, and pointing out to me the glittering evidences of the season, but we paid heavily for her little entertainment, since, at her earnest wish the window of the cab having been kept open, she caught a cold, which became, indeed, the technical cause of a death that no applications could now have long delayed.

In my Mother’s case, the brutal treatment did no good and had to be abandoned. A day or two before Christmas, my Father brought us back to Islington in a cab. We were a weak and weary party. Fruit was piled in the shop windows, and butchers shouted outside their forests of animal carcasses. My Mother, our patient, bore the journey fairly well. She enjoyed the air and pointed out the glittering signs of the season to me. But we paid heavily for her little pleasure. At her earnest request, the cab window had been kept open, and she caught a cold. The cold became the immediate cause of her death, though no treatment could now have delayed it for long.

Yet she lingered with us six weeks more, and during this time I again relapsed, very naturally, into solitude. She now had the care of a practised woman, one of the 'saints' from the Chapel, and I was only permitted to pay brief visits to her bedside. That I might not be kept indoors all day and everyday, a man, also connected with the meeting-house, was paid a trifle to take me out for a walk each morning. This person, who was by turns familiar and truculent, was the object of my intense dislike. Our relations became, in the truest sense, 'forced'; I was obliged to walk by his side, but I held that I had no further responsibility to be agreeable, and after a while I ceased to speak to him, or to answer his remarks. On one occasion, poor dreary man, he met a friend and stopped to chat with him. I considered this act to have dissolved the bond; I skipped lightly from his side, examined several shop-windows which I had been forbidden to look into, made several darts down courts and up passages, and finally, after a delightful morning, returned home, having known my directions perfectly. My official conductor, in a shocking condition of fear, was crouching by the area-rails looking up and down the street. He darted upon me, in a great rage, to know 'what I meant by it?' I drew myself up as tall as I could, hissed 'Blind leader of the blind!' at him, and, with this inappropriate but very effective Parthian shot, slipped into the house.

Yet she stayed with us for six more weeks, and during that time I naturally slipped back into solitude. She was now cared for by an experienced woman, one of the 'saints' from the Chapel. I was allowed only brief visits to her bedside. So that I would not be kept indoors all day, every day, a man was paid a small sum to take me for a walk each morning. He, too, was connected with the meeting-house. He was sometimes overly familiar and sometimes aggressive, and I disliked him intensely. Our relationship became 'forced' in the truest sense. I had to walk beside him, but I felt no further obligation to be pleasant. After a while I stopped speaking to him or answering his remarks. Once, the poor, dreary man met a friend and stopped to chat. I took this to mean that our bond was broken. I skipped away from him and examined several shop windows I had been forbidden to look into. I darted down several alleys and up passages. Finally, after a delightful morning, I returned home, having known my way perfectly. My official escort was crouching by the railings around the basement area, looking up and down the street. He was terribly frightened. He rushed at me in a great rage and demanded to know 'what I meant by it?' I drew myself up as tall as I could and hissed 'Blind leader of the blind!' at him. Then, with this inappropriate but very effective parting shot, I slipped into the house.

When it was quite certain that no alleviations and no medical care could prevent, or even any longer postpone the departure of my Mother, I believe that my future conduct became the object of her greatest and her most painful solicitude. She said to my Father that the worst trial of her faith came from the feeling that she was called upon to leave that child whom she had so carefully trained from his earliest infancy for the peculiar service of the Lord, without any knowledge of what his further course would be. In many conversations, she most tenderly and closely urged my Father, who, however, needed no urging, to watch with unceasing care over my spiritual welfare. As she grew nearer her end, it was observed that she became calmer, and less troubled by fears about me. The intensity of her prayers and hopes seemed to have a prevailing force; it would have been a sin to doubt that such supplications, such confidence and devotion, such an emphasis of will, should not be rewarded by an answer from above in the affirmative. She was able, she said, to leave me 'in the hands of her loving Lord', or, on another occasion, 'to the care of her covenant God'.

When it was certain that no comfort or medical care could prevent, or even delay, my Mother’s death, I believe she worried most about how I would live. This was her greatest and most painful concern. She told my Father that the hardest test of her faith was having to leave me without knowing what course I would take. She had carefully trained me from earliest infancy for the Lord’s special service. In many conversations, she tenderly and earnestly urged my Father to watch over my spiritual welfare with constant care. But he needed no urging. As she approached the end, people noticed that she became calmer and less troubled by fears about me. The intensity of her prayers and hopes seemed to have a compelling force. It would have been a sin to doubt that God would grant her requests, given such confidence, devotion, and strength of will. She said she could leave me 'in the hands of her loving Lord', or, as she said on another occasion, 'to the care of her covenant God'.

Although her faith was so strong and simple, my Mother possessed no quality of the mystic. She never pretended to any visionary gifts, believed not at all in dreams or portents, and encouraged nothing in herself or others which was superstitious or fantastic. In order to realize her condition of mind, it is necessary, I think, to accept the view that she had formed a definite conception of the absolute, unmodified and historical veracity, in its direct and obvious sense, of every statement contained within the covers of the Bible. For her, and for my Father, nothing was symbolic, nothing allegorical or allusive in any part of Scripture, except what was, in so many words, proffered as a parable or a picture. Pushing this to its extreme limit, and allowing nothing for the changes of scene or time or race, my parents read injunctions to the Corinthian converts without any suspicion that what was apposite in dealing with half-breed Achaian colonists of the first century might not exactly apply to respectable English men and women of the nineteenth. They took it, text by text, as if no sort of difference existed between the surroundings of Trimalchion's feast and those of a City dinner. Both my parents, I think, were devoid of sympathetic imagination; in my Father, I am sure, it was singularly absent. Hence, although their faith was so strenuous that many persons might have called it fanatical, there was no mysticism about them. They went rather to the opposite extreme, to the cultivation of a rigid and iconoclastic literalness.

Although her faith was so strong and simple, my Mother had none of the qualities of a mystic. She never claimed to have visions or believed in dreams or omens. She discouraged anything superstitious or fanciful in herself and others. To understand her state of mind, I think, one must accept that she had formed a definite belief about the Bible. She believed that every statement in it was absolutely and historically true, exactly as it was written. For her and my Father, nothing in Scripture was symbolic, allegorical, or allusive unless it was explicitly presented as a parable or an image. My parents took this belief to its furthest limit. They made no allowance for changes in place, time, or race when reading instructions to the Corinthian converts. It never occurred to them that advice suited to mixed-race Achaian colonists of the first century might not exactly apply to respectable English men and women of the nineteenth. They read each passage as if there were no difference between the setting of Trimalchion's feast and that of a City dinner. I think both my parents lacked the ability to imagine themselves in other people's circumstances. I am sure this ability was remarkably absent in my Father. So, although their faith was so intense that many people might have called it fanatical, there was no mysticism about them. Instead, they went to the opposite extreme, cultivating a rigid, image-breaking literalness.

This was curiously exemplified in the very lively interest which they both took in what is called 'the interpretation of prophecy', and particularly in unwrapping the dark sayings bound up in the Book of Revelation. In their impartial survey of the Bible, they came to this collection of solemn and splendid visions, sinister and obscure, and they had no intention of allowing these to be merely stimulating to the fancy, or vaguely doctrinal in symbol. When they read of seals broken and of vials poured forth, of the star which was called Wormwood that fell from Heaven, and of men whose hair was as the hair of women and their teeth as the teeth of lions, they did not admit for a moment that these vivid mental pictures were of a poetic character, but they regarded them as positive statements, in guarded language, describing events which were to happen, and could be recognized when they did happen. It was the explanation, the perfectly prosaic and positive explanation, of all these wonders which drew them to study the Habershons and the Newtons whose books they so much enjoyed. They were helped by these guides to recognize in wild Oriental visions direct statements regarding Napoleon III and Pope Pius IX and the King of Piedmont, historic figures which they conceived as foreshadowed, in language which admitted of plain interpretation, under the names of denizens of Babylon and companions of the Wild Beast.

This was curiously illustrated by their lively interest in what is called 'the interpretation of prophecy'. In particular, they wanted to uncover the meaning of the mysterious sayings in the Book of Revelation. As they examined the Bible impartially, they came to this collection of solemn and splendid visions, sinister and obscure. They had no intention of treating the visions as merely stimulating to the imagination, or as symbols with vague doctrinal meanings. They read of seals being broken and vials poured out, and of the star called Wormwood falling from Heaven. They also read of men whose hair was like women’s hair and whose teeth were like lions’ teeth. They never admitted that these vivid mental pictures were poetic. Instead, they saw them as definite statements, expressed in guarded language, about events yet to happen. They believed these events could be recognized when they did happen. They studied the books of Habershon and Newton, which they enjoyed so much, for explanations of all these wonders. They wanted perfectly plain and definite explanations. With the help of these guides, they found direct statements about Napoleon III, Pope Pius IX, and the King of Piedmont in wild Oriental visions. They believed these historic figures were foretold in language open to plain interpretation, under the names of inhabitants of Babylon and companions of the Wild Beast.

My Father was in the habit of saying, in later years, that no small element in his wedded happiness had been the fact that my Mother and he were of one mind in the interpretation of Sacred Prophecy. Looking back, it appears to me that this unusual mental exercise was almost their only relaxation, and that in their economy it took the place which is taken, in profaner families, by cards or the piano. It was a distraction; it took them completely out of themselves. During those melancholy weeks at Pimlico, I read aloud another work of the same nature as those of Habershon and Jukes, the Horae Apocalypticae of a Mr. Elliott. This was written, I think, in a less disagreeable style, and certainly it was less opaquely obscure to me. My recollection distinctly is that when my Mother could endure nothing else, the arguments of this book took her thoughts away from her pain and lifted her spirits. Elliott saw 'the queenly arrogance of Popery' everywhere, and believed that the very last days of Babylon the Great were came. Lest I say what may be thought extravagant, let me quote what my Father wrote in his diary at the time of my Mother's death. He said that the thought that Rome was doomed (as seemed not impossible in 1857) so affected my Mother that it 'irradiated' her dying hours with an assurance that was like 'the light of the Morning Star, the harbinger of the rising sun'.

In later years, my Father used to say that a significant part of his marital happiness came from his agreement with my Mother about the interpretation of Sacred Prophecy. Looking back, it seems to me that this unusual mental exercise was almost their only relaxation. In their lives, it took the place that cards or the piano took in less religious families. It was a distraction that took them completely out of themselves. During those melancholy weeks at Pimlico, I read aloud another work like those of Habershon and Jukes, the Horae Apocalypticae by a Mr. Elliott. I think it was written in a less unpleasant style, and it was certainly less baffling to me. I distinctly remember that when my Mother could bear nothing else, the book's arguments took her thoughts away from her pain and lifted her spirits. Elliott saw 'the queenly arrogance of Popery' everywhere and believed that the very last days of Babylon the Great had come. What I have said may sound exaggerated, so let me quote what my Father wrote in his diary at the time of my Mother's death. He said that the thought that Rome was doomed (as seemed not impossible in 1857) had a powerful effect on my Mother. It 'irradiated' her dying hours with an assurance like 'the light of the Morning Star, the harbinger of the rising sun'.

After our return to Islington, there was a complete change in my relation to my Mother. At Pimlico, I had been all-important, her only companion, her friend, her confidant. But now that she was at home again, people and things combined to separate me from her. Now, and for the first time in my life, I no longer slept in her room, no longer sank to sleep under her kiss, no longer saw her mild eyes smile on me with the earliest sunshine. Twice a day, after breakfast and before I went to rest, I was brought to her bedside; but we were never alone; other people, sometimes strange people, were there. We had no cosy talk; often she was too weak to do more than pat my hand; her loud and almost constant cough terrified and harassed me. I felt, as I stood, awkwardly and shyly, by her high bed, that I had shrunken into a very small and insignificant figure, that she was floating out of my reach, that all things, but I knew not what nor how, were corning to an end. She herself was not herself; her head, that used to be held so erect, now rolled or sank upon the pillow; the sparkle was all extinguished from those bright, dear eyes. I could not understand it; I meditated long, long upon it all in my infantile darkness, in the garret, or in the little slip of a cold room where my bed was now placed; and a great, blind anger against I knew not what awakened in my soul.

After we returned to Islington, my relationship with my Mother changed completely. At Pimlico, I had been everything to her, her only companion, her friend, her confidant. But now that she was home again, people and things combined to separate me from her. For the first time in my life, I no longer slept in her room. I no longer fell asleep under her kiss or saw her gentle eyes smile at me in the first sunlight. Twice a day, after breakfast and before bed, I was brought to her bedside. But we were never alone. Other people, sometimes strangers, were there. We had no cozy talks. Often she was too weak to do more than pat my hand. Her loud, almost constant cough terrified and distressed me. I stood awkwardly and shyly beside her high bed. I felt that I had become very small and unimportant, and that she was floating out of my reach. I felt that everything was coming to an end, though I did not know what was ending or how. She was not herself. Her head, which she used to hold so upright, now rolled or sank onto the pillow. All the sparkle had gone from those bright, dear eyes. I could not understand it. In the darkness of my childish ignorance, I thought about it all for a long, long time. I thought about it in the attic or in the tiny, cold room where my bed had been placed. And a great, blind anger against I knew not what awoke in my soul.

The two retreats which I have mentioned were now all that were left to me. In the back-parlour someone from outside gave me occasional lessons of a desultory character. The breakfast-room was often haunted by visitors, unknown to me by face or name,— ladies, who used to pity me and even to pet me, until I became nimble in escaping from their caresses. Everything seemed to be unfixed, uncertain; it was like being on the platform of a railway-station waiting for a train. In all this time, the agitated, nervous presence of my Father, whose pale face was permanently drawn with anxiety, added to my perturbation, and I became miserable, stupid—as if I had lost my way in a cold fog.

The two places of refuge I have mentioned were now all I had left. In the back parlour, someone from outside gave me occasional, irregular lessons. Visitors often came to the breakfast room. They were ladies whose faces and names I did not know. They used to pity me and even pet me, until I learned to slip quickly away from their caresses. Everything seemed unsettled and uncertain. It was like waiting for a train on a railway platform. Throughout this time, my Father’s agitated, nervous presence added to my distress. His pale face was always strained with anxiety. I became miserable and dull, as if I had lost my way in a cold fog.

Had I been older and more intelligent, of course, it might have been of him and not of myself that I should have been thinking. As I now look back upon that tragic time, it is for him that my heart bleeds,—for them both, so singularly fitted as they were to support and cheer one another in an existence which their own innate and cultivated characteristics had made little hospitable to other sources of comfort. This is not to be dwelt on here. But what must be recorded was the extraordinary tranquillity, the serene and sensible resignation, with which at length my parents faced the awful hour. Language cannot utter what they suffered, but there was no rebellion, no repining; in their case even an atheist might admit that the overpowering miracle of grace was mightily efficient.

If I had been older and more intelligent, of course, I might have been thinking of him rather than myself. As I look back on that tragic time, my heart bleeds for him and for them both. They were so well suited to support and comfort each other. Their own natural and cultivated traits had made their lives unwelcoming to other sources of comfort. I will not dwell on this here. But I must record the extraordinary calm and the peaceful, sensible acceptance with which my parents finally faced that terrible hour. Words cannot express what they suffered, but they did not rebel or complain. In their case, even an atheist might admit that the overwhelming miracle of grace was powerfully effective.

It seems almost cruel to the memory of their opinions that the only words which rise to my mind, the only ones which seem in the least degree adequate to describe the attitude of my parents, had fallen from the pen of one whom, in their want of imaginative sympathy, they had regarded as anathema. But John Henry Newman might have come from the contemplation of my Mother's death-bed when he wrote: 'All the trouble which the world inflicts upon us, and which flesh cannot but feel,—sorrow, pain, care, bereavement,—these avail not to disturb the tranquillity and the intensity with which faith gazes at the Divine Majesty.' It was 'tranquillity', it was not the rapture of the mystic. Almost in the last hour of her life, urged to confess her 'joy' in the Lord, my Mother, rigidly honest, meticulous in self-analysis, as ever, replied: 'I have peace, but not joy. It would not do to go into eternity with a lie in my mouth.'

It seems almost cruel to their memory and their beliefs. The only words that come to mind, the only ones that seem at all adequate to describe my parents' attitude, were written by someone they had regarded as anathema because they lacked imaginative sympathy. But John Henry Newman might have been thinking of my Mother's deathbed when he wrote: 'All the trouble the world inflicts on us, and which the flesh cannot help feeling, sorrow, pain, worry, and loss, cannot disturb the calm and intensity with which faith looks toward the Divine Majesty.' It was 'tranquillity', not the rapture of a mystic. Almost in the last hour of her life, my Mother was urged to confess her 'joy' in the Lord. As always, she was strictly honest and careful in examining her own feelings. She replied: 'I have peace, but not joy. It would not do to go into eternity with a lie in my mouth.'

When the very end approached, and her mind was growing clouded, she gathered her strength together to say to my Father, 'I shall walk with Him in white. Won't you take your lamb and walk with me?' Confused with sorrow and alarm, my Father failed to understand her meaning. She became agitated, and she repeated two or three times: 'Take our lamb, and walk with me!' Then my Father comprehended, and pressed me forward; her hand fell softly upon mine and she seemed content. Thus was my dedication, that had begun in my cradle, sealed with the most solemn, the most poignant and irresistible insistence, at the death-bed of the holiest and purest of women. But what a weight, intolerable as the burden of Atlas, to lay on the shoulders of a little fragile child!

As the very end approached and her mind grew clouded, she gathered her strength and said to my Father, 'I shall walk with him in white. Won't you take your lamb and walk with me?' Confused by grief and fear, my Father did not understand what she meant. She became upset and repeated two or three times: 'Take our lamb, and walk with me!' Then my Father understood and pushed me forward. Her hand fell gently on mine, and she seemed content. My dedication had begun in my cradle. Now, at the deathbed of the holiest and purest of women, it was sealed by the most solemn, poignant, and irresistible plea. But what a weight to place on the shoulders of a small, fragile child! It was as unbearable as the burden of Atlas.