Chapter 4

CERTAINLY the preceding year, the seventh of my life, had been weighted for us with comprehensive disaster. I have not yet mentioned that, at the beginning of my Mother's fatal illness, misfortune came upon her brothers. I have never known the particulars of their ruin, but, I believe in consequence of A.'s unsuccessful speculations, and of the fact that E. had allowed the use of his name as a surety, both my uncles were obliged to fly from their creditors, and take refuge in Paris. This happened just when our need was the sorest, and this, together with the poignancy of knowing that their sister's devoted labours for them had been all in vain, added to their unhappiness. It was doubtless also the reason why, having left England, they wrote to us no more, carefully concealing from us even their address, so that when my Mother died, my Father was unable to communicate with them. I fear that they fell into dire distress; before very long we learned that A. had died, but it was fifteen years more before we heard anything of E., whose life had at length been preserved by the kindness of an old servant, but whose mind was now so clouded that he could recollect little or nothing of the past; and soon he also died. Amiable, gentle, without any species of practical ability, they were quite unfitted to struggle with the world, which had touched them only to wreck them.

The previous year, the seventh of my life, had certainly brought us disaster on every side. I have not yet mentioned the misfortune that befell my Mother's brothers when her fatal illness began. I never learned the details of their financial ruin. But I believe it resulted from A.'s unsuccessful investments and E.'s agreement to act as his guarantor. Both my uncles were forced to flee their creditors and take refuge in Paris. This happened just when our need was greatest. Their unhappiness was made worse by this timing and by the painful knowledge that their sister's devoted work for them had all been in vain. These were doubtless also the reasons they never wrote to us after leaving England. They carefully concealed even their address from us, so my Father could not contact them when my Mother died. I fear they fell into terrible hardship. Before long, we learned that A. had died. But another fifteen years passed before we heard anything of E. An old servant's kindness had saved his life. By then, though, his mind was so clouded that he could remember little or nothing of the past. Soon he too died. Both men were kind and gentle, but they had no practical ability of any kind. They were quite unfit to struggle with a world that had touched them only to wreck them.

The flight of my uncles at this particular juncture left me without a relative on my Mother's side at the time of her death. This isolation threw my Father into a sad perplexity. His only obvious source of income—but it happened to be a remarkably hopeful one—was an engagement to deliver a long series of lectures on marine natural history throughout the north and centre of England. These lectures were an entire novelty; nothing like them had been offered to the provincial public before; and the fact that the newly-invented marine aquarium was the fashionable toy of the moment added to their attraction. My Father was bowed down by sorrow and care, but he was not broken. His intellectual forces were at their height, and so was his popularity as an author. The lectures were to begin in march; my Mother was buried on 13 February. It seemed at first, in the inertia of bereavement, to be all beyond his powers to make the supreme effort, but the wholesome prick of need urged him on. It was a question of paying for food and clothes, of keeping a roof above our heads. The captain of a vessel in a storm must navigate his ship, although his wife lies dead in the cabin. That was my Father's position in the spring of 1857; he had to stimulate, instruct, amuse large audiences of strangers, and seem gay, although affliction and loneliness had settled in his heart. He had to do this, or starve.

My uncles had fled at just this time, leaving me without a relative on my Mother’s side when she died. This isolation left my Father sadly uncertain what to do. His only obvious source of income was an engagement to give a long series of lectures on marine natural history. He was to deliver them throughout northern and central England, and they promised to do remarkably well. The lectures were entirely new. Nothing like them had ever been offered to the public outside London before. The newly invented marine aquarium was also the fashionable toy of the moment, which made the lectures even more appealing. My Father was weighed down by grief and worry, but he was not broken. His intellectual powers were at their peak, as was his popularity as an author. The lectures were to begin in March. My Mother was buried on 13 February. At first, numb with grief, he felt unable to make such a great effort. But the healthy spur of necessity drove him on. He had to pay for food and clothes and keep a roof over our heads. In a storm, a ship’s captain must navigate his vessel, even if his wife lies dead in the cabin. That was my Father’s position in the spring of 1857. He had to stimulate, instruct, and entertain large audiences of strangers and appear cheerful, although grief and loneliness had settled in his heart. He had to do this or starve.

But the difficulty still remained. During these months what was to become of me? My Father could not take me with him from hotel to hotel and from lecture-hall to lecture-hall. Nor could he leave me, as people leave the domestic cat, in an empty house for the neighbours to feed at intervals. The dilemma threatened to be insurmountable, when suddenly there descended upon us a kind, but little-known, paternal cousin from the west of England, who had heard of our calamities. This lady had a large family of her own at Bristol; she offered to find room in it for me so long as ever my Father should be away in the north; and when my Father, bewildered by so much goodness, hesitated, she came up to London and carried me forcibly away in a whirlwind of good-nature. Her benevolence was quite spontaneous; and I am not sure that she had not added to it already by helping to nurse our beloved sufferer through part of her illness. Of that I am not positive, but I recollect very clearly her snatching me from our cold and desolate hearthstone, and carrying me off to her cheerful house at Clifton.

But the problem remained. What was to become of me during those months? My Father could not take me from hotel to hotel and from lecture hall to lecture hall. Nor could he leave me in an empty house for the neighbors to feed now and then, like a pet cat. The problem seemed impossible to solve. Then, suddenly, a kind cousin on my Father’s side arrived from the west of England. We hardly knew her, but she had heard of our misfortunes. She had a large family of her own in Bristol. She offered to make room for me for as long as my Father was away in the north. My Father hesitated, overwhelmed by her kindness. So she came to London and swept me away by force in a whirlwind of good nature. Her kindness was entirely spontaneous. And I think she may already have shown us more kindness by helping to nurse our beloved sufferer through part of her illness. I am not certain of that. But I remember very clearly how she snatched me from our cold and desolate hearth and carried me off to her cheerful house in Clifton.

Here, for the first time, when half through my eighth year, I was thrown into the society of young people. My cousins were none of them, I believe, any longer children, but they were youths and maidens busily engaged in various personal interests, all collected in a hive of wholesome family energy. Everybody was very kind to me, and I sank back, after the strain of so many months, into mere childhood again. This long visit to my cousins at Clifton must have been very delightful; I am dimly aware that it was—yet I remember but few of its incidents. My memory, so clear and vivid about earlier solitary times, now in all this society becomes blurred and vague. I recollect certain pleasures; being taken, for instance, to a menagerie, and having a practical joke, in the worst taste, played upon me by the pelican. One of my cousins, who was a medical student, showed me a pistol, and helped me to fire it; he smoked a pipe, and I was oddly conscious that both the firearm and the tobacco were definitely hostile to my 'dedication'. My girl-cousins took turns in putting me to bed, and on cold nights, or when they were in a hurry, allowed me to say my prayer under the bed-clothes instead of kneeling at a chair. The result of this was further spiritual laxity, because I could not help going to sleep before the prayer was ended.

Here, halfway through my eighth year, I found myself among young people for the first time. I believe none of my cousins were children anymore. They were young men and women, busy with their own interests, all together in a hive of healthy family energy. Everyone was very kind to me. After the strain of so many months, I relaxed and became simply a child again. My long visit to my cousins at Clifton must have been delightful. I have a faint sense that it was, yet I remember only a few things that happened. My memory of earlier, solitary times is clear and vivid. But now, surrounded by people, my memory becomes blurred and vague. I remember certain pleasures. For instance, I was taken to a menagerie, where the pelican played a practical joke on me in the worst possible taste. One of my cousins, a medical student, showed me a pistol and helped me fire it. He smoked a pipe, and I was strangely aware that both the gun and the tobacco were definitely hostile to my 'dedication'. My girl cousins took turns putting me to bed. On cold nights, or when they were in a hurry, they let me say my prayer under the bedclothes. I did not have to kneel at a chair. This led to further spiritual laxity, because I could not help falling asleep before I finished the prayer.

The visit to Clifton was, in fact, a blessed interval in my strenuous childhood. It probably prevented my nerves from breaking down under the pressure of the previous months. The Clifton family was God-fearing, in a quiet, sensible way, but there was a total absence of all the intensity and compulsion of our religious life at Islington. I was not encouraged—I even remember that I was gently snubbed—when I rattled forth, parrot- fashion, the conventional phraseology of 'the saints'. For a short, enchanting period of respite, I lived the life of an ordinary little boy, relapsing, to a degree which would have filled my Father with despair, into childish thoughts and childish language. The result was that of this little happy breathing-space I have nothing to report. Vague, half-blind remembrances of walks, with my tall cousins waving like trees above me, pleasant noisy evenings in a great room on the ground- floor, faint silver-points of excursions into the country, all this is the very pale and shadowy testimony to a brief interval of healthy, happy child-life, when my hard-driven soul was allowed to have, for a little while, no history.

The visit to Clifton was, in fact, a blessed break from my demanding childhood. It probably kept my nerves from breaking down under the pressure of the previous months. The Clifton family feared God in a quiet, sensible way. But their religious life had none of the intensity and compulsion of ours at Islington. When I rattled off the usual phrases of 'the saints' like a parrot, I was not encouraged. I even remember being gently rebuked. For a short, enchanting break, I lived like an ordinary little boy. I returned to childish thoughts and language, to a degree that would have filled my Father with despair. As a result, I have nothing to report about this little happy breathing space. I have vague, half-blind memories of walks, with my tall cousins swaying like trees above me. I remember pleasant, noisy evenings in a large room on the ground floor. Faint silver points of memory remain from trips into the country. All these are pale, shadowy traces of a brief time of healthy, happy childhood. For a little while, my hard-driven soul was allowed to have no history.

The life of a child is so brief, its impressions are so illusory and fugitive, that it is as difficult to record its history as it would be to design a morning cloud sailing before the wind. It is short, as we count shortness in after years, when the drag of lead pulls down to earth the foot that used to flutter with a winged impetuosity, and to float with the pulse of Hermes. But in memory, my childhood was long, long with interminable hours, hours with the pale cheek pressed against the windowpane, hours of mechanical and repeated lonely 'games', which had lost their savour, and were kept going by sheer inertness. Not unhappy, not fretful, but long,—long, long. It seems to me, as I look back to the life in the motherless Islington house, as I resumed it in that slow eighth year of my life, that time had ceased to move. There was a whole age between one tick of the eight-day clock in the hall, and the next tick. When the milkman went his rounds in our grey street, with his eldritch scream over the top of each set of area railings, it seemed as though he would never disappear again. There was no past and no future for me, and the present felt as though it were sealed up in a Leyden jar. Even my dreams were interminable, and hung stationary from the nightly sky.

A child's life is so brief, and its impressions so deceptive and fleeting, that its history is hard to record. It is as hard as drawing a morning cloud sailing before the wind. Childhood is short, as we measure shortness in later years. By then, leaden weight pulls down the foot that once fluttered with winged eagerness and floated with the pulse of Hermes. But in my memory, childhood was long, full of endless hours. I spent hours with my pale cheek pressed against the windowpane. I spent hours playing the same solitary 'games' over and over. They had lost their pleasure, and I kept them going only out of sheer inertia. I was not unhappy or fretful, but the hours were long, long, long. Looking back on life in the motherless house in Islington, I remember taking it up again during my slow eighth year. It seemed that time had stopped moving. A whole age passed between one tick of the eight-day clock in the hall and the next. The milkman made his rounds in our grey street, giving his eerie cry over each set of railings by the basement steps. It seemed as though he would never go away again. For me, there was no past and no future, and the present felt sealed up in a Leyden jar. Even my dreams were endless, hanging motionless from the night sky.

At this time, the street was my theatre, and I spent long periods, as I have said, leaning against the window. I feel now that coldness of the pane, and the feverish heat that was produced, by contrast, in the orbit round the eye. Now and then amusing things happened. The onion-man was a joy long waited for. This worthy was a tall and bony Jersey Protestant with a raucous voice, who strode up our street several times a week, carrying a yoke across his shoulders, from the ends of which hung ropes of onions. He used to shout, at abrupt intervals, in a tone which might wake the dead:

At this time, the street was my theater, and I spent long periods leaning against the window, as I have said. Even now, I can feel the cold glass and the feverish heat it caused around my eye by contrast. Every now and then, something amusing happened. The onion man was a joy I waited a long time for. He was a tall, bony Protestant from Jersey with a harsh voice. Several times a week, he strode up our street carrying a yoke across his shoulders. Ropes of onions hung from its ends. At sudden intervals, he would shout in a voice that could wake the dead:

The cheese appeared to be legendary; he sold only onions. My Father did not eat onions, but he encouraged this terrible fellow, with his wild eyes and long strips of hair, because of his godly attitude towards the 'Papacy', and I used to watch him dart out of the front door, present his penny, and retire, graciously waving back the proffered onion. On the other hand, my Father did not approve of a fat sailor, who was a constant passer-by. This man, who was probably crazed, used to wall very slowly up the centre of our street, vociferating with the voice of a bull,

The cheese seemed to be legendary. He sold only onions. My Father did not eat onions, but he supported this terrible fellow with his wild eyes and long strips of hair. He did so because of the man's godly attitude toward the 'Papacy'. I used to watch my Father dart out of the front door and give him a penny. Then he would go back inside, graciously waving away the onion the man offered him. On the other hand, my Father did not approve of a fat sailor who constantly passed by. This man was probably mad. He used to walk very slowly down the middle of our street, shouting in a voice like a bull's,

This melancholy admonition was the entire business of his life. He did nothing at all but walk up and down the streets of Islington exhorting the inhabitants to watch and pray. I do not recollect that this sailor-man stopped to collect pennies, and my impression is that he was, after his fashion, a volunteer evangelist.

This sad warning was his whole life's work. He did nothing but walk up and down the streets of Islington, urging the residents to watch and pray. I do not remember the sailor stopping to collect pennies. My impression is that he was, in his own way, a volunteer evangelist.

The tragedy of Mr. Punch was another, and a still greater delight. I was never allowed to go out into the street to mingle with the little crowd which gathered under the stage, and as I was extremely near-sighted, the impression I received was vague. But when, by happy chance, the show stopped opposite our door, I saw enough of that ancient drama to be thrilled with terror and delight. I was much affected by the internal troubles of the Punch family; I thought that with a little more tact on the part of Mrs. Punch and some restraint held over a temper, naturally violent, by Mr. Punch, a great deal of this sad misunderstanding might have been prevented.

The tragedy of Mr. Punch was another, even greater delight. I was never allowed to go into the street and join the little crowd gathered below the stage. And because I was extremely near-sighted, I could not see much. But when the show happened to stop opposite our door, I saw enough of that old drama to feel both terror and delight. The troubles within the Punch family affected me deeply. I thought that Mrs. Punch could have shown a little more tact. If Mr. Punch had also kept his naturally violent temper under some control, much of this sad misunderstanding might have been avoided.

The momentous close, when a figure of shapeless horror appears on the stage, and quells the hitherto undaunted Mr. Punch, was to me the bouquet of the entire performance. When Mr. Punch, losing his nerve, points to this shape and says in an awestruck, squeaking whisper, 'Who's that? Is it the butcher?' and the stern answer comes, 'No, Mr. Punch!' And then, 'Is it the baker?' 'No, Mr. Punch!' 'Who is it then?' (this in a squeak trembling with emotion and terror); and then the full, loud reply, booming like a judgement-bell, 'It is the Devil come to take you down to Hell,' and the form of Punch, with kicking legs, sunken in epilepsy on the floor,—all this was solemn and exquisite to me beyond words. I was not amused—I was deeply moved and exhilarated, 'purged', as the old phrase hath it, 'with pity and terror'.

The dramatic ending was the highlight of the whole performance for me. A shapeless figure of horror appears on the stage and overcomes Mr. Punch, who has been fearless until then. Mr. Punch loses his nerve, points to the figure, and asks in an awestruck, squeaking whisper, 'Who's that? Is it the butcher?' The stern answer comes, 'No, Mr. Punch!' Then he asks, 'Is it the baker?' 'No, Mr. Punch!' 'Who is it then?' he squeaks, trembling with emotion and terror. Then comes the full, loud reply, booming like a bell of judgment: 'It is the Devil come to take you down to Hell.' Punch collapses on the floor in an epileptic fit, his legs kicking. All this was solemn and exquisite to me beyond words. I was not amused. I was deeply moved and exhilarated, 'purged', as the old saying puts it, 'with pity and terror'.

Another joy, in a lighter key, was watching a fantastic old man who came slowly up the street, hung about with drums and flutes and kites and coloured balls, and bearing over his shoulders a great sack. Children and servant-girls used to bolt up out of areas, and chaffer with this gaudy person, who would presently trudge on, always repeating the same set of words—

Another, lighter pleasure was watching a fantastical old man make his way slowly up the street. He was hung with drums, flutes, kites, and colored balls, and carried a great sack over his shoulders. Children and servant girls would rush up from the basement areas and bargain with this brightly dressed man. He would soon trudge on, always repeating the same set of words:

I was not permitted to go forth and trade with this old person, but sometimes our servant-maid did, thereby making me feel that if I did not hold the rose of merchandise, I was very near it. My experiences with my cousins at Clifton had given me the habit of looking out into the world—even though it was only into the pale world of our quiet street.

I was not allowed to go out and trade with the old person. But sometimes our maid did. This made me feel that, if I did not hold the rose of commerce, I was very close to it. My experiences with my cousins at Clifton had given me the habit of looking out into the world. That was true even though I could only look into the pale world of our quiet street.

My Father and I were now great friends. I do not doubt that he felt his responsibility to fill as far as might be the gap which the death of my Mother had made in my existence. I spent a large portion of my time in his study while he was writing or drawing, and though very little conversation passed between us, I think that each enjoyed the companionship of the other. There were two, and sometimes three aquaria in the room, tanks of sea-water, with glass sides, inside which all sorts of creatures crawled and swam; these were sources of endless pleasure to me, and at this time began to be laid upon me the occasional task of watching and afterwards reporting the habits of animals.

My Father and I were now great friends. I have no doubt that he felt responsible for filling, as far as he could, the gap my Mother’s death had left in my life. I spent much of my time in his study while he wrote or drew. Though we talked very little, I think we each enjoyed the other’s company. There were two, and sometimes three, aquariums in the room. They were glass-sided tanks of seawater, where all sorts of creatures crawled and swam. They gave me endless pleasure, and around this time I was occasionally given the task of watching the animals and reporting on their habits afterward.

At other times, I dragged a folio volume of the Penny Cyclopaedia up to the study with me, and sat there reading successive articles on such subjects as Parrots, Parthians, Passion-flowers, Passover and Pastry, without any invidious preferences, all information being equally welcome, and equally fugitive. That something of all this loose stream of knowledge clung to odd cells of the back of my brain seems to be shown by the fact that to this day, I occasionally find myself aware of some stray useless fact about peonies or pemmican or pepper, which I can only trace back to the Penny Cyclopaedia of my infancy.

At other times, I dragged a large volume of the Penny Cyclopaedia upstairs to the study. I sat there reading articles in succession on subjects such as Parrots, Parthians, Passion-flowers, Passover and Pastry. I favored none over the others. All information was equally welcome, and I forgot it all equally quickly. Yet some of this random stream of knowledge seems to have stuck in odd corners of my brain. Even today, I occasionally find that I know some stray, useless fact about peonies, pemmican or pepper. I can only trace it back to the Penny Cyclopaedia of my childhood.

It will be asked what the attitude of my Father's mind was to me, and of mine to his, as regards religion, at this time, when we were thrown together alone so much. It is difficult to reply with exactitude. But so far as the former is concerned, I thinly that the extreme violence of the spiritual emotions to which my Father had been subjected, had now been followed by a certain reaction. He had not changed his views in any respect, and he was prepared to work out the results of them with greater zeal than ever, but just at present his religious nature, like his physical nature, was tired out with anxiety and sorrow. He accepted the supposition that I was entirely with him in all respects, so far, that is to say, as a being so rudimentary and feeble as a little child could be. My Mother, in her last hours, had dwelt on our unity in God; we were drawn together, she said, elect from the world, in a triplicity of faith and joy. She had constantly repeated the words: 'We shall be one family, one song. One song! one family!' My Father, I think, accepted this as a prophecy, he felt no doubt of our triple unity; my Mother had now merely passed before us, through a door, into a world of light, where we should presently join her, where all things would be radiant and blissful, but where we three would, in some unknown way, be particularly drawn together in a tie of inexpressible beatitude. He fretted at the delay; he would have taken me by the hand, and have joined her in the realms of holiness and light, at once, without this dreary dalliance with earthly cares.

People may ask how my Father and I regarded each other’s religious beliefs at this time, when we spent so much time alone together. It is difficult to answer precisely. But as far as my Father was concerned, I think the intense spiritual emotions he had experienced had now given way to a reaction. His views had not changed in any way. He was prepared to put them into practice with greater zeal than ever. But for the moment, his religious nature, like his body, was exhausted by anxiety and sorrow. He assumed that I agreed with him entirely in every respect, as far as a little child, so undeveloped and weak, could do so. In her last hours, my Mother had spoken often of our unity in God. She said we were drawn together, chosen from the world, as three united in faith and joy. She had constantly repeated the words: 'We shall be one family, one song. One song! one family!' I think my Father accepted this as a prophecy. He had no doubt that the three of us were united. My Mother had merely gone ahead of us, through a door, into a world of light. We would soon join her there. Everything would be radiant and blissful, but the three of us would be especially close in some unknown way, bound together in a happiness beyond words. He was impatient at the delay. He would have taken me by the hand and joined her at once in that holy world of light, without this dreary lingering over earthly cares.

He held this confidence and vision steadily before him, but nothing availed against the melancholy of his natural state. He was conscious of his dull and solitary condition, and he saw, too, that it enveloped me. I think his heart was, at this time, drawn out towards me in an immense tenderness. Sometimes, when the early twilight descended upon us in the study, and he could no longer peer with advantage into the depths of his microscope, he would beckon me to him silently, and fold me closely in his arms. I used to turn my face up to his, patiently and wonderingly, while the large, unwilling tears gathered in the corners of his eyelids. My training had given me a preternatural faculty of stillness, and we would stay so, without a word or a movement, until the darkness filled the room. And then, with my little hand in his, we would walk sedately downstairs to the parlour, where we would find that the lamp was lighted, and that our melancholy vigil was ended. I do not think that at any part of our lives my Father and I were drawn so close to one another as we were in that summer of 1857. Yet we seldom spoke of what lay so warm and fragrant between us, the flower-like thought of our Departed.

He held firmly to this confidence and vision, but nothing could overcome his natural melancholy. He knew how dull and lonely his life was, and he saw that mine was, too. I think he felt an immense tenderness toward me at this time. Sometimes, as the early twilight fell on us in the study, he could no longer see well enough to use his microscope. Then he would silently beckon me over and hold me close in his arms. I would turn my face up to his, patient and wondering, as large, reluctant tears gathered in his eyes. My upbringing had given me an uncanny ability to sit still. We would stay like that, without a word or a movement, until darkness filled the room. Then, with my little hand in his, we would walk calmly downstairs to the parlour. There we would find the lamp lit, and our sad vigil would be over. I do not think my Father and I were ever closer than we were in that summer of 1857. Yet we seldom spoke of what lay so warm and fragrant between us, the flower-like thought of our Departed.

The visit to my cousins had made one considerable change in me. Under the old solitary discipline, my intelligence had grown at the expense of my sentiment. I was innocent, but inhuman. The long suffering and the death of my Mother had awakened my heart, had taught me what pain was, but had left me savage and morose. I had still no idea of the relations of human beings to one another; I had learned no word of that philosophy which comes to the children of the poor in the struggle of the street and to the children of the well-to-do in the clash of the nursery. In other words, I had no humanity; I had been carefully shielded from the chance of 'catching' it, as though it were the most dangerous of microbes. But now that I had enjoyed a little of the common experience of childhood, a great change had come upon me. Before I went to Clifton, my mental life was all interior, a rack of baseless dream upon dream. But, now, I was eager to look out of the window, to go out in the streets; I was taken with a curiosity about human life. Even from my vantage of the window- pane, I watched boys and girls go by with an interest which began to be almost wistful.

My visit to my cousins had brought about one considerable change in me. Under my old, solitary upbringing, my intelligence had grown at the expense of my feelings. I was innocent, but inhuman. My Mother’s long suffering and death had awakened my heart and taught me what pain was. But they had left me savage and gloomy. I still had no idea how people related to one another. I had learned nothing of the wisdom poor children gain from struggling in the streets. Nor had I learned what children of well-to-do families gain from clashes in the nursery. In other words, I had no humanity. I had been carefully protected from any chance of 'catching' humanity, as though it were the most dangerous of microbes. But now I had enjoyed a little of the ordinary experience of childhood, and a great change had come over me. Before I went to Clifton, my mental life was entirely inward, a tangle of baseless dreams piled upon dreams. But now I was eager to look out of the window and go out into the streets. I had become curious about human life. Even from my place at the window, I watched boys and girls pass by with an interest that was becoming almost wistful.

Still I continued to have no young companions. But on summer evenings I used to drag my Father out, taking the initiative myself, stamping in playful impatience at his irresolution, fetching his hat and stick, and waiting. We used to sally forth at last together, hand in hand, descending the Caledonian Road, with all its shops, as far as Mother Shipton, or else winding among the semi-genteel squares and terraces westward by Copenhagen Street, or, best of all, mounting to the Regent's Canal, where we paused to lean over the bridge and watch flotillas of ducks steer under us, or little white dogs dash, impotently furious, from stem to stern of the great, lazy barges painted in a crude vehemence of vermilion and azure. These were happy hours, when the spectre of Religion ceased to overshadow us for a little while, when my Father forgot the Apocalypse and dropped his austere phraseology, and when our bass and treble voices used to ring out together over some foolish little jest or some mirthful recollection of his past experiences. Little soft oases these, in the hard desert of our sandy spiritual life at home.

Still, I had no young companions. But on summer evenings, I would take the initiative and coax my Father outside. I would stamp my feet in playful impatience at his hesitation, fetch his hat and stick, and wait. At last we would set out together, hand in hand. We walked down the Caledonian Road, past all its shops, as far as Mother Shipton. Or we wound through the somewhat respectable squares and terraces west of Copenhagen Street. Best of all, we climbed up to the Regent's Canal. There we paused to lean over the bridge and watch fleets of ducks swim beneath us. We also watched little white dogs race furiously from end to end of the great, sluggish barges, unable to do anything. The barges were painted in vivid, crude shades of red and blue. Those were happy hours. For a little while, the shadow of Religion lifted from us. My Father forgot the Apocalypse and stopped speaking so sternly. Our deep and high voices would ring out together over some silly little joke or some amusing memory from his past. These were little, soft oases in the hard desert of our sandy spiritual life at home.

There was an unbending, too, when we used to sing together, in my case very tunelessly. I had inherited a plentiful lack of musical genius from my Mother, who had neither ear nor voice, and who had said, in the course of her last illness, 'I shall sing His praise, at length, in strains I never could master here below'. My Father, on the other hand, had some knowledge of the principles of vocal music, although not, I am afraid, much taste. He had at least great fondness for singing hymns, in the manner then popular with the Evangelicals, very loudly, and so slowly that I used to count how many words I could read silently, between one syllable of the singing and another. My lack of skill did not prevent me from being zealous at these vocal exercises, and my Father and I used to sing lustily together. The Wesleys, Charlotte Elliott ('Just as I am, without one plea'), and James Montgomery ('Forever with the Lord') represented his predilection in hymnology. I acquiesced, although that would not have been my independent choice. These represented the devotional verse which made its direct appeal to the evangelical mind, and served in those 'Puseyite' days to counteract the High Church poetry founded on 'The Christian Year'. Of that famous volume I never met with a copy until I was grown up, and equally unknown in our circle were the hymns of Newman, Faber and Neale.

We also relaxed when we sang together, though I sang badly out of tune. I had inherited a generous lack of musical talent from my Mother. She had neither an ear for music nor a singing voice. During her last illness, she had said, 'I shall sing His praise, at length, in strains I never could master here below'. My Father, on the other hand, knew something about the principles of vocal music. I am afraid he did not have much taste, though. At least he was very fond of singing hymns in the style then popular with Evangelicals. He sang very loudly and so slowly that I used to count how many words I could read silently between syllables. My lack of skill did not stop me from throwing myself into these singing sessions. My Father and I used to sing heartily together. His favorite hymn writers were the Wesleys, Charlotte Elliott ('Just as I am, without one plea'), and James Montgomery ('Forever with the Lord'). I went along with his choices, though I would not have chosen them myself. Their devotional verse appealed directly to the evangelical mind. In those 'Puseyite' days, it served as a counterweight to the High Church poetry inspired by 'The Christian Year'. I never saw a copy of that famous volume until I was grown up. The hymns of Newman, Faber and Neale were just as unknown in our circle.

It was my Father's plan from the first to keep me entirely ignorant of the poetry of the High Church, which deeply offended his Calvinism; he thought that religious truth could be sucked in, like mother's milk, from hymns which were godly and sound, and yet correctly versified; and I was therefore carefully trained in this direction from an early date. But my spirit had rebelled against some of these hymns, especially against those written—a mighty multitude—by Horatius Bonar; naughtily refusing to read Bonar's 'I heard the voice of Jesus say' to my Mother in our Pimlico lodgings. A secret hostility to this particular form of effusion was already, at the age of seven, beginning to define itself in my brain, side by side with an unctuous infantile conformity.

From the first, my Father planned to keep me entirely ignorant of High Church poetry. It deeply offended his Calvinist beliefs. He thought that religious truth could be absorbed like mother's milk from hymns that were godly, sound, and properly written in verse. So I was carefully trained in this way from an early age. But my spirit rebelled against some of these hymns, especially the vast number written by Horatius Bonar. I once naughtily refused to read Bonar's 'I heard the voice of Jesus say' to my Mother in our Pimlico lodgings. By the age of seven, a secret hostility to this particular kind of outpouring was already beginning to take shape in my mind, alongside a smug, childish willingness to conform.

I find a difficulty in recalling the precise nature of the religious instruction which my Father gave me at this time. It was incessant, and it was founded on the close inspection of the Bible, particularly of the epistles of the New Testament. This summer, as my eighth year advanced, we read the 'Epistle to the Hebrews', with very great deliberation, stopping every moment, that my Father might expound it, verse by verse. The extraordinary beauty of the language—for instance, the matchless cadences and images of the first chapter—made a certain impression upon my imagination, and were (I think) my earliest initiation into the magic of literature. I was incapable of defining what I felt, but I certainly had a grip in the throat, which was in its essence a purely aesthetic emotion, when my Father read, in his pure, large, ringing voice, such passages as 'The heavens are the works of Thy hands. They shall perish, but Thou remainest, and they all shall wax old as doth a garment, and as a vesture shalt Thou fold them up, and they shall be changed; but Thou art the same, and Thy years shall not fail.' But the dialectic parts of the Epistle puzzled and confused me. Such metaphysical ideas as 'laying again the foundation of repentance from dead works' and 'crucifying the Son of God afresh' were not successfully brought down to the level of my understanding.

I find it difficult to remember exactly what religious instruction my Father gave me at this time. It was constant and based on close study of the Bible, especially the letters of the New Testament. That summer, as I approached my eighth birthday, we read the 'Epistle to the Hebrews' very slowly. We stopped at every moment so my Father could explain it, verse by verse. The extraordinary beauty of the language made an impression on my imagination. The first chapter, for example, had rhythms and images beyond compare. I think this was my first experience of the magic of literature. I could not have explained what I felt, but I certainly felt a tightness in my throat. It was, at heart, a purely aesthetic emotion. I felt it when my Father read, in his clear, full, ringing voice, passages such as 'The heavens are the works of Thy hands. They shall perish, but Thou remainest, and they all shall wax old as doth a garment, and as a vesture shalt Thou fold them up, and they shall be changed; but Thou art the same, and Thy years shall not fail.' But the Epistle's arguments puzzled and confused me. My Father could not make its abstract ideas understandable to me. These included 'laying again the foundation of repentance from dead works' and 'crucifying the Son of God afresh'.

My Father's religious teaching to me was almost exclusively doctrinal. He did not observe the value of negative education, that is to say, of leaving Nature alone to fill up the gaps which it is her design to deal with at a later and riper date. He did not, even, satisfy himself with those moral injunctions which should form the basis of infantile discipline. He was in a tremendous hurry to push on my spiritual growth, and he fed me with theological meat which it was impossible for me to digest. Some glimmer of a suspicion that he was sailing on the wrong tack must, I should suppose, have broken in upon him when we had reached the eighth and ninth chapters of Hebrews, where, addressing readers who had been brought up under the Jewish dispensation, and had the formalities of the Law of Moses in their very blood, the apostle battles with their dangerous conservatism. It is a very noble piece of spiritual casuistry, but it is signally unfitted for the comprehension of a child. Suddenly by my flushing up with anger and saying, 'Oh how I do hate that Law,' my Father perceived, and paused in amazement to perceive, that I took the Law to be a person of malignant temper from whose cruel bondage, and from whose intolerable tyranny and unfairness, some excellent person was crying out to be delivered. I wished to hit Law with my fist, for being so mean and unreasonable.

My Father’s religious teaching was almost entirely about doctrine. He did not see the value of letting a child learn naturally. Nature has its own plan to fill certain gaps later, when a child is more mature. He was not even content to give me the moral guidance that should form the basis of a young child’s discipline. He was in a tremendous hurry to advance my spiritual growth, and he fed me theological meat that I could not possibly digest. I suppose he must have had some faint suspicion that he was on the wrong course when we reached the eighth and ninth chapters of Hebrews. There, the apostle addresses readers who had been brought up under the Jewish dispensation. The practices required by the Law of Moses were in their very blood, and the apostle battles their dangerous resistance to change. It is a very noble piece of spiritual reasoning, but it is entirely beyond a child’s understanding. Suddenly I flushed with anger and said, 'Oh how I do hate that Law.' My Father realized, and paused in amazement at the realization, that I thought the Law was a malicious person. I imagined that some excellent person was crying out to be freed from Law’s cruel bondage and unbearable tyranny and unfairness. I wanted to hit Law with my fist for being so mean and unreasonable.

Upon this, of course, it was necessary to reopen the whole line of exposition. My Father, without realizing it, had been talking on his own level, not on mine, and now he condescended to me. But without very great success. The melodious language, the divine forensic audacities, the magnificent ebb and flow of argument which make the 'Epistle to the Hebrews' such a miracle, were far and away beyond my reach, and they only bewildered me. Some evangelical children of my generation, I understand, were brought up on a work called 'Line upon Line: Here a Little, and there a Little'. My Father's ambition would not submit to anything suggested by such a title as that, and he committed, from his own point of view, a fatal mistake when he sought to build spires and battlements without having been at the pains to settle a foundation beneath them.

After this, the whole explanation had to start again. My Father had been speaking at his own level without realizing it, rather than at mine. Now he lowered himself to my level. But he had little success. The beautiful language, the divinely bold reasoning, and the magnificent ebb and flow of argument make the 'Epistle to the Hebrews' a miracle. But they were far beyond my reach and only confused me. I understand that some evangelical children of my generation were brought up on a work called 'Line upon Line: Here a Little, and there a Little'. My Father's ambition would not allow him to follow an approach suggested by such a title. From his own point of view, he made a fatal mistake. He tried to build spires and battlements without taking the trouble to lay a foundation beneath them.

We were not always reading the 'Epistle to the Hebrews', however; not always was my flesh being made to creep by having it insisted upon that 'almost all things are by the Law purged with blood, and without blood is no remission of sin'. In our lighter moods, we turned to the 'Book of Revelation', and chased the phantom of Popery through its fuliginous pages. My Father, I think, missed my Mother's company almost more acutely in his researches into prophecy than in anything else. This had been their unceasing recreation, and no third person could possibly follow the curious path which they had hewn for themselves through this jungle of symbols. But, more and more, my Father persuaded himself that I, too, was initiated, and by degrees I was made to share in all his speculations and interpretations.

We did not always read the 'Epistle to the Hebrews', however. My flesh did not always creep as I was told that 'almost all things are by the Law purged with blood, and without blood is no remission of sin'. In our lighter moods, we turned to the 'Book of Revelation' and chased the ghost of Popery through its dark pages. I think my Father missed my Mother's company in his study of prophecy almost more keenly than in anything else. They had pursued this study endlessly for recreation. No third person could possibly follow the strange path they had cut for themselves through this jungle of symbols. But my Father increasingly persuaded himself that I, too, had been initiated into their understanding. Gradually, I was made to share in all his speculations and interpretations.

Hand in hand we investigated the number of the Beast, which number is six hundred three score and six. Hand in hand we inspected the nations, to see whether they had the mark of Babylon in their foreheads. Hand in hand we watched the spirits of devils gathering the kings of the earth into the place which is called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon. Our unity in these excursions was so delightful, that my Father was lulled in any suspicion he might have formed that I did not quite understand what it was all about. Nor could he have desired a pupil more docile or more ardent than I was in my flaming denunciations of the Papacy.

Hand in hand, we investigated the number of the Beast, which is 666. Hand in hand, we examined the nations to see whether they had the mark of Babylon on their foreheads. Hand in hand, we watched the spirits of devils gather the kings of the earth at the place called Armageddon in Hebrew. Our shared adventures were so delightful that my Father was no longer suspicious that I did not quite understand it all. He could not have wished for a more obedient or enthusiastic pupil. I fiercely denounced the Papacy.

If there was one institution more than another which, at this early stage of my history, I loathed and feared, it was what we invariably spoke of as 'the so-called Church of Rome'. In later years, I have met with stout Protestants, gallant 'Down-with-the- Pope' men from County Antrim, and ladies who see the hand of the Jesuits in every public and private misfortune. It is the habit of a loose and indifferent age to consider this dwindling body of enthusiasts with suspicion, and to regard their attitude towards Rome as illiberal. But my own feeling is that they are all too mild, that their denunciations err on the side of the anodyne. I have no longer the slightest wish myself to denounce the Roman communion, but, if it is to be done, I have an idea that the latter-day Protestants do not know how to do it. In Lord Chesterfield's phrase, these anti-Pope men 'don't understand their own silly business'. They make concessions and allowances, they put on gloves to touch the accursed thing.

At this early stage of my life, I loathed and feared one institution above all others. We always called it 'the so-called Church of Rome'. In later years, I have met staunch Protestants, brave 'Down-with-the- Pope' men from County Antrim, and ladies who see the hand of the Jesuits in every public and private misfortune. In this permissive and indifferent age, people tend to view this dwindling group of enthusiasts with suspicion. They consider the group’s attitude toward Rome intolerant. But I feel they are all too mild. Their denunciations are too tame. I no longer have the slightest wish to denounce the Roman Catholic Church myself. But if it is to be denounced, I think modern Protestants do not know how to do it. In Lord Chesterfield's phrase, these anti-Pope men 'don't understand their own silly business'. They make concessions and allowances. They put on gloves to touch the accursed thing.

Not thus did we approach the Scarlet Woman in the 'fifties. We palliated nothing, we believed in no good intentions, we used (I myself used, in my tender innocency) language of the seventeenth century such as is now no longer introduced into any species of controversy. As a little boy, when I thought, with intense vagueness, of the Pope, I used to shut my eyes tight and clench my fists. We welcomed any social disorder in any part of Italy, as likely to be annoying to the Papacy. If there was a custom- house officer stabbed in a fracas at Sassari, we gave loud thanks that liberty and light were breaking in upon Sardinia. If there was an unsuccessful attempt to murder the Grand Duke, we lifted up our voices to celebrate the faith and sufferings of the dear persecuted Tuscans, and the record of some apocryphal monstrosity in Naples would only reveal to us a glorious opening for Gospel energy. My Father celebrated the announcement in the newspapers of a considerable emigration from the Papal Dominions by rejoicing at 'this outcrowding of many, throughout the harlot's domain, from her sins and her plagues'.

This was not how we approached the Scarlet Woman in the 1850s. We excused nothing and believed in no good intentions. We used seventeenth-century language that no one now uses in any kind of dispute. I used it myself, in my tender innocence. As a little boy, I had only the vaguest idea of the Pope. But when I thought of him, I would shut my eyes tight and clench my fists. We welcomed any social disorder anywhere in Italy, since it was likely to trouble the Papacy. If a customs officer was stabbed in a fight at Sassari, we gave loud thanks. Liberty and light were breaking through in Sardinia. If an attempt to murder the Grand Duke failed, we raised our voices to celebrate the faith and suffering of the dear persecuted Tuscans. And a report of some invented outrage in Naples would reveal only a glorious opening for Gospel energy. My Father read in the newspapers that many people were emigrating from the Papal Dominions. He rejoiced at 'this outcrowding of many, throughout the harlot's domain, from her sins and her plagues'.

No, the Protestant League may consider itself to be an earnest and active body, but I can never look upon its efforts as anything but lukewarm, standing, as I do, with the light of other days around me. As a child, whatever I might question, I never doubted the turpitude of Rome. I do not think I had formed any idea whatever of the character or pretensions or practices of the Catholic Church, or indeed of what it consisted, or its nature; but I regarded it with a vague terror as a wild beast, the only good point about it being that it was very old and was soon to die. When I turned to Jukes or Newton for further detail, I could not understand what they said. Perhaps, on the whole, there was no disadvantage in that.

No, the Protestant League may consider itself serious and active. But, remembering earlier days, I can only see its efforts as lukewarm. As a child, whatever else I might question, I never doubted the wickedness of Rome. I do not think I had any idea of the Catholic Church’s character, claims, or practices. Nor did I know what it consisted of or what kind of thing it was. But I regarded it with a vague terror, as though it were a wild beast. Its only good point was that it was very old and would soon die. When I turned to Jukes or Newton for more details, I could not understand what they said. Perhaps, on the whole, that was no disadvantage.

It is possible that someone may have observed to my Father that the conditions of our life were unfavourable to our health, although I hardly think that he would have encouraged any such advice. As I look back upon this far-away time, I am surprised at the absence in it of any figures but our own. He and I together, now in the study among the sea-anemones and starfishes; now on the canal-bridge, looking down at the ducks; now at our hard little meals, served up as those of a dreamy widower are likely to be when one maid-of-all-work provides them, now under the lamp at the maps we both loved so much, this is what I see—no third presence is ever with us. Whether it occurred to himself that such a solitude a deux was excellent, in the long run, for neither of us, or whether any chance visitor or one of the 'Saints', who used to see me at the Room every Sunday morning, suggested that a female influence might put a little rose-colour into my pasty cheeks, I know not. All I am sure of is that one day, towards the close of the summer, as I was gazing into the street, I saw a four-wheeled cab stop outside our door, and deposit, with several packages, a strange lady, who was shown up into my Father's study and was presently brought down and introduced to me.

Someone may have told my Father that our living conditions were bad for our health. But I hardly think he would have welcomed such advice. Looking back on that distant time, I am surprised that I remember no one but the two of us. I see him and me together in the study among the sea-anemones and starfish. I see us on the canal bridge, looking down at the ducks. I see us at our meager little meals, the kind a dreamy widower is likely to have when one maid does all the housework. I see us under the lamp, studying the maps we both loved so much. No third person is ever with us. Perhaps my Father realized that such solitude a deux, just the two of us, was good for neither of us in the long run. Or perhaps a chance visitor or one of the 'Saints', who used to see me at the Room every Sunday morning, suggested that a woman's influence might put a little color in my pale cheeks. I do not know. All I am sure of is that one day, toward the end of summer, I was gazing into the street. I saw a four-wheeled cab stop outside our door, and a woman I did not know got out with several packages. She was shown up to my Father's study, then soon brought down and introduced to me.

Miss Marks, as I shall take the liberty of calling this person, was so long a part of my life that I must pause to describe her. She was tall, rather gaunt, with high cheek-bones; her teeth were prominent and very white; her eyes were china-blue, and were always absolutely fixed, wide open, on the person she spoke to; her nose was inclined to be red at the tip. She had a kind, hearty, sharp mode of talking, but did not exercise it much, being on the whole taciturn. She was bustling and nervous, not particularly refined, not quite, I imagine, what is called 'a lady'. I supposed her, if I thought of the matter at all, to be very old, but perhaps she may have been, when we knew her first, some forty-five summers. Miss Marks was an orphan, depending upon her work for her living; she would not, in these days of examinations, have come up to the necessary educational standards, but she had enjoyed experience in teaching, and was prepared to be a conscientious and careful governess, up to her lights. I was now informed by my Father that it was in this capacity that she would in future take her place in our household. I was not informed, what I gradually learned by observation, that she would also act in it as housekeeper.

Miss Marks, as I shall take the liberty of calling her, was part of my life for so long that I must pause to describe her. She was tall and rather gaunt, with high cheekbones. Her teeth were prominent and very white. Her china-blue eyes were always wide open, fixed steadily on the person she was speaking to. The tip of her nose tended to be red. Her manner of speaking was kind, hearty, and sharp, but she did not speak much. On the whole, she was quiet. She was bustling and nervous, not particularly refined, and not quite, I imagine, what is called 'a lady'. If I thought about her age at all, I assumed she was very old. But perhaps she was only about forty-five when we first knew her. Miss Marks was an orphan who depended on her work for a living. In these days of examinations, she would not have met the required educational standards. But she had experience in teaching and was prepared to be a conscientious and careful governess, according to her abilities. My Father now told me that she would serve as governess in our household from then on. He did not tell me that she would also act as housekeeper. I gradually learned that by watching her.

Miss Marks was a somewhat grotesque personage, and might easily be painted as a kind of eccentric Dickens character, a mixture of Mrs. Pipchin and Miss Sally Brass. I will confess that when, in years to come, I read 'Dombey and Son', certain features of Mrs. Pipchin did irresistibly remind me of my excellent past governess. I can imagine Miss Marks saying, but with a facetious intent, that children who sniffed would not go to heaven. But I was instantly ashamed of the parallel, because my gaunt old friend was a thoroughly good and honest woman, not intelligent and not graceful, but desirous in every way to do her duty. Her duty to me she certainly did, and I am afraid I hardly rewarded her with the devotion she deserved. From the first, I was indifferent to her wishes, and, as much as was convenient, I ignored her existence. She held no power over my attention, and if I accepted her guidance along the path of instruction, it was because, odd as it may sound, I really loved knowledge. I accepted her company without objection, and though there were occasional outbreaks of tantrums on both sides, we got on very well together for several years. I did not, however, at any time surrender my inward will to the wishes of Miss Marks.

Miss Marks was a somewhat grotesque person. She could easily be portrayed as an eccentric Dickens character, part Mrs. Pipchin and part Miss Sally Brass. I confess that, years later, when I read 'Dombey and Son', parts of Mrs. Pipchin inevitably reminded me of my excellent former governess. I can imagine Miss Marks saying that children who sniffed would not go to heaven, though she would have meant it as a joke. But I was instantly ashamed of the comparison. My gaunt old friend was a thoroughly good and honest woman. She was neither intelligent nor graceful, but she wanted to do her duty in every way. She certainly did her duty by me, and I fear I hardly rewarded her with the devotion she deserved. From the first, I was indifferent to her wishes and ignored her existence whenever it suited me. She could not hold my attention. If I accepted her guidance in my lessons, it was because I really loved knowledge, odd as that may sound. I accepted her company without objection. Although we both occasionally had tantrums, we got on very well together for several years. But I never inwardly gave in to Miss Marks’s wishes.

In the circle of our life the religious element took so preponderating a place, that it is impossible to avoid mentioning, what might otherwise seem unimportant, the theological views of Miss Marks. How my Father had discovered her, or from what field of educational enterprise he plucked her in her prime, I never knew, but she used to mention that my Father's ministrations had 'opened her eyes', from which 'scales' had fallen. She had accepted, on their presentation to her, the entire gamut of his principles. Miss Marks was accustomed, while putting me to bed, to dwell darkly on the incidents of her past, which had, I fear, been an afflicted one. I believe I do her rather limited intelligence no injury when I say that it was prepared to swallow, at one mouthful, whatever my Father presented to it, so delighted was its way-worn possessor to find herself in a comfortable, or, at least, an independent position. She soon bowed, if there was indeed any resistance from the first, very contentedly in the House of Rimmon, learning to repeat, with marked fluency, the customary formulas and shibboleths. On my own religious development she had no great influence. Any such guttering theological rushlight as Miss Marks might dutifully exhibit faded for me in the blaze of my Father's glaring beacon-lamp of faith.

Religion played such a dominant part in our lives that I cannot avoid mentioning Miss Marks’s theological views. Otherwise, they might seem unimportant. I never knew how my Father found her, or what field of education he plucked her from in her prime. But she used to say that my Father’s teaching had 'opened her eyes', from which 'scales' had fallen. She accepted the full range of his principles as soon as he presented them to her. While putting me to bed, Miss Marks used to speak darkly about her past. I fear it had been a troubled one. I believe I do her rather limited intelligence no injustice when I say that she was ready to swallow whatever my Father offered in a single mouthful. She was weary from her troubles and delighted to find herself in a comfortable, or at least independent, position. She soon bowed quite contentedly in the House of Rimmon, if indeed she had resisted at all at first. She learned to repeat the customary formulas and catchphrases with remarkable fluency. She had little influence on my own religious development. Whatever flickering theological candle Miss Marks might dutifully hold up faded for me beside my Father’s glaring beacon of faith.

Hardly was Miss Marks settled in the family, than my Father left us on an expedition about which my curiosity was exercised, but not until later, satisfied. He had gone, as we afterwards found, to South Devon, to a point on the coast which he had known of old. Here he had hired a horse, and had ridden about until he saw a spot he liked, where a villa was being built on speculation. Nothing equals the courage of these recluse men; my Father got off his horse, and tied it to the gate, and then he went in and bought the house on a ninety-nine years' lease. I need hardly say that he had made the matter a subject of the most earnest prayer, and had entreated the Lord for guidance. When he felt attracted to this particular villa, he did not doubt that he was directed to it in answer to his supplication, and he wasted no time in further balancing or inquiring. On my eighth birthday, with bag and baggage complete, we all made the toilful journey down into Devonshire, and I was a town-child no longer.

Miss Marks had hardly settled into the family when my Father left us on an expedition. I was curious about it, but my curiosity was not satisfied until later. As we later discovered, he had gone to a place on the South Devon coast that he knew from long ago. There he hired a horse and rode around until he found a spot he liked. A villa was being built there in the hope of finding a buyer. Nothing equals the courage of these reclusive men. My Father got off his horse and tied it to the gate. Then he went in and bought the house on a ninety-nine-year lease. I hardly need say that he had prayed most earnestly about the matter and begged the Lord for guidance. When he felt drawn to this particular villa, he had no doubt that his prayer had been answered. He wasted no time weighing his choice or asking further questions. On my eighth birthday, we all made the tiring journey down to Devonshire, with all our belongings. I was no longer a town child.