Chapter 5
A NEW element now entered into my life, a fresh rival arose to compete for me with my Father's dogmatic theology. This rival was the Sea. When Wordsworth was a little child, the presence of the mountains and the clouds lighted up his spirit with gleams that were like the flashing of a shield. He has described, in the marvellous pages of the 'Prelude', the impact of nature upon the infant soul, but he has described it vaguely and faintly, with some 'infirmity of love for days disowned by memory',—I think because he was brought up in the midst of spectacular beauty, and could name no moment, mark no 'here' or 'now', when the wonder broke upon him. It was at the age of twice five summers, he thought, that he began to hold unconscious intercourse with nature, 'drinking in a pure organic pleasure' from the floating mists and winding waters. Perhaps, in his anxiety to be truthful, and in the absence of any record, he put the date of this conscious rapture too late rather than too early. Certainly my own impregnation with the obscurely-defined but keenly-felt loveliness of the open sea dates from the first week of my ninth year.
A new element now entered my life, a fresh rival to my Father's dogmatic theology. This rival was the Sea. When Wordsworth was a small child, the mountains and clouds lit up his spirit with flashes like those of a shield. In the marvelous pages of the 'Prelude', he described nature's effect on a child's soul. But he described it vaguely and faintly, with some 'infirmity of love for days disowned by memory'. I think this was because he grew up surrounded by spectacular beauty. He could name no moment, no 'here' or 'now', when its wonder first struck him. He thought he was ten when he began to commune with nature without being conscious of it. He was 'drinking in a pure organic pleasure' from the floating mists and winding waters. Perhaps he wanted to be truthful, and had no record to guide him. If so, he may have dated this conscious delight too late rather than too early. Certainly, the open sea first filled me with its beauty during the first week of my ninth year. I felt that beauty keenly, though I could not clearly define it.
The village, on the outskirts of which we had taken up our abode, was built parallel to the cliff line above the shore, but half a mile inland. For a long time after the date I have now reached, no other form of natural scenery than the sea had any effect upon me at all. The tors of the distant moor might be drawn in deep blue against the pallor of our morning or our evening sky, but I never looked at them. It was the Sea, always the sea, nothing but the sea. From our house, or from the field at the back of our house, or from any part of the village itself, there was no appearance to suggest that there could lie anything in an easterly direction to break the infinitude of red ploughed fields. But on that earliest morning, how my heart remembers we hastened,—Miss Marks, the maid, and I between them, along a couple of high-walled lanes, when suddenly, far below us, in an immense arc of light, there stretched the enormous plain of waters. We had but to cross a step or two of downs, when the hollow sides of the great limestone cove yawned at our feet, descending, like a broken cup, down, down to the moon of snow- white shingle and the expanse of blue-green sea.
The village where we had settled on the outskirts ran parallel to the cliffs above the shore, but half a mile inland. For a long time after this point in my story, no other natural scenery affected me at all. The tors of the distant moor might stand out in deep blue against our pale morning or evening sky, but I never looked at them. It was the Sea, always the sea, nothing but the sea. From our house, the field behind it, or anywhere in the village, nothing suggested a break in the endless red ploughed fields to the east. But how my heart remembers that first morning. Miss Marks, the maid, and I hurried along two lanes between high walls, with me between them. Suddenly, far below us, the vast plain of water stretched out in an immense arc of light. We had only to take a few steps across the downs to reach the edge of the great limestone cove. Its hollow sides opened at our feet, sloping down like a broken cup to a crescent of snow-white shingle and the expanse of blue-green sea.
In these twentieth-century days, a careful municipality has studded the down with rustic seats and has shut its dangers out with railings, has cut a winding carriage-drive round the curves of the cove down to the shore, and has planted sausage-laurels at intervals in clearings made for that aesthetic purpose. When last I saw the place, thus smartened and secured, with its hair in curl-papers and its feet in patent-leathers, I turned from it in anger and disgust, and could almost have wept. I suppose that to those who knew it in no other guise, it may still have beauty. No parish councils, beneficent and shrewd, can obscure the lustre of the waters or compress the vastness of the sky. But what man could do to make wild beauty ineffectual, tame and empty, has amply been performed at Oddicombe.
In these twentieth-century days, a careful local council has dotted the downs with rustic seats and fenced off the dangers. It has cut a winding carriage road around the curves of the cove, down to the shore. It has also planted sausage laurels at intervals in clearings made for that decorative purpose. When I last saw the place, it had been dressed up and made safe, with its hair in curlers and patent leather shoes on its feet. I turned away in anger and disgust, and could almost have wept. I suppose the place may still be beautiful to those who never knew it any other way. No parish council, however well-meaning and shrewd, can dim the brilliance of the water or shrink the vast sky. But everything people could do to make the wild beauty of Oddicombe powerless, tame, and empty has been thoroughly done.
Very different was it fifty years ago, in its uncouth majesty. No road, save the merest goat-path, led down its concave wilderness, in which loose furze-bushes and untrimmed brambles wantoned into the likeness of trees, each draped in audacious tissue of wild clematis. Through this fantastic maze the traveller wound his way, led by little other clue than by the instinct of descent. For me, as a child, it meant the labour of a long, an endless morning, to descend to the snow-white pebbles, to sport at the edge of the cold, sharp sea, and then to climb up home again, slipping in the sticky red mud, clutching at the smooth boughs of the wild ash, toiling, toiling upwards into flat land out of that hollow world of rocks.
Fifty years ago, it was very different, with a wild, rugged majesty. No road led down through the hollow wilderness, only the narrowest goat path. Gorse bushes and untended brambles grew as freely as trees, each draped in bold veils of wild clematis. Travellers wound their way through this strange maze with little to guide them except the instinct to go downhill. As a child, it took me a long, endless morning to make the journey. I would descend to the snow-white pebbles, play at the edge of the cold, sharp sea, and then climb home again. I slipped in the sticky red mud and grabbed the smooth branches of wild ash trees. I struggled upward, climbing and climbing out of that hollow world of rocks and onto flat land.
On the first occasion I recollect, our Cockney housemaid, enthusiastic young creature that she was, flung herself down upon her knees, and drank of the salt waters. Miss Marks, more instructed in phenomena, refrained, but I, although I was perfectly aware what the taste would be, insisted on sipping a few drops from the palm of my hand. This was a slight recurrence of what I have called my 'natural magic' practices, which had passed into the background of my mind, but had not quite disappeared. I recollect that I thought I might secure some power of walking on the sea, if I drank of it—a perfectly irrational movement of mind, like those of savages.
The first time I remember this happening, our Cockney housemaid, an enthusiastic young woman, threw herself on her knees and drank the salt water. Miss Marks, who knew more about such things, did not drink it. But I insisted on sipping a few drops from the palm of my hand, although I knew perfectly well how it would taste. This was a small return to what I have called my 'natural magic' practices. They had faded into the background of my mind, but had not quite disappeared. I remember thinking that if I drank the sea water, I might gain some power to walk on the sea. It was a perfectly irrational thought, like those of savages.
My great desire was to walk out over the sea as far as I could, and then lie flat on it, face downwards, and peer into the depths. I was tormented with this ambition, and, like many grown- up people, was so fully occupied by these vain and ridiculous desires that I neglected the actual natural pleasures around me. The idea was not quite so demented as it may seem, because we were in the habit of singing, as well as reading, of those enraptured beings who spend their days in 'flinging down their golden crowns upon the jasper sea'. Why, I argued, should I not be able to fling down my straw hat upon the tides of Oddicombe? And, without question, a majestic scene upon the Lake of Gennesaret had also inflamed my fancy. Of all these things, of course, I was careful to speak to no one.
My greatest wish was to walk out over the sea as far as I could. Then I wanted to lie flat on it, face down, and peer into the depths. This ambition tormented me. Like many adults, I was so caught up in these foolish, impossible desires that I neglected the real pleasures of nature around me. The idea was not quite as crazy as it may seem. We often sang and read about those blissful beings who spend their days 'flinging down their golden crowns upon the jasper sea'. Why, I asked myself, should I not be able to fling my straw hat down upon the tides of Oddicombe? And, without question, a majestic scene on the Lake of Gennesaret had also fired my imagination. Of course, I was careful not to speak to anyone about any of this.
It was not with Miss Marks, however, but with my Father, that I became accustomed to make the laborious and exquisite journeys down to the sea and back again. His work as a naturalist eventually took him, laden with implements, to the rock-pools on the shore, and I was in attendance as an acolyte. But our earliest winter in South Devon was darkened for us both by disappointments, the cause of which lay, at the time, far out of my reach. In the spirit of my Father were then running, with furious velocity, two hostile streams of influence. I was standing, just now, thinking of these things, where the Cascine ends in the wooded point which is carved out sharply by the lion- coloured swirl of the Arno on the one side and by the pure flow of the Mugnone on the other. The rivers meet, and run parallel, but there comes a moment when the one or the other must conquer, and it is the yellow vehemence that drowns the purer tide.
It was with my Father, not Miss Marks, that I grew used to making the difficult and wonderful journeys down to the sea and back. His work as a naturalist eventually took him to the rock pools on the shore, carrying his equipment. I went with him as his devoted helper. But disappointments darkened our first winter in South Devon for both of us. At the time, their cause was far beyond my understanding. Two opposing currents of influence were then rushing through my Father’s spirit. Just now, I was thinking about these things as I stood at the end of the Cascine. There, the Cascine forms a wooded point, sharply defined by the lion-colored swirl of the Arno on one side and the clear flow of the Mugnone on the other. The rivers meet and flow side by side, but eventually one must overcome the other. It is the fierce yellow water that overwhelms the clearer current.
So, through my Father's brain, in that year of scientific crisis, 1857, there rushed two kinds of thought, each absorbing, each convincing, yet totally irreconcilable. There is a peculiar agony in the paradox that truth has two forms, each of them indisputable, yet each antagonistic to the other. It was this discovery, that there were two theories of physical life, each of which was true, but the truth of each incompatible with the truth of the other, which shook the spirit of my Father with perturbation. It was not, really, a paradox, it was a fallacy, if he could only have known it, but he allowed the turbid volume of superstition to drown the delicate stream of reason. He took one step in the service of truth, and then he drew back in an agony, and accepted the servitude of error.
So, in 1857, a year of scientific crisis, two kinds of thought raced through my Father's mind. Each absorbed him, and each convinced him, yet they were completely incompatible. There is a peculiar agony in the paradox that truth has two forms, each beyond dispute, yet each opposed to the other. My Father discovered that there were two theories of physical life, each true, yet each incompatible with the other. This discovery deeply troubled him. In fact, it was not a paradox but a fallacy, if only he could have known it. But he let the muddy flood of superstition drown the delicate stream of reason. He took one step in the service of truth, then drew back in agony and accepted slavery to error.
This was the great moment in the history of thought when the theory of the mutability of species was preparing to throw a flood of light upon all departments of human speculation and action. It was becoming necessary to stand emphatically in one army or the other. Lyell was surrounding himself with disciples, who were making strides in the direction of discovery. Darwin had long been collecting facts with regard to the variation of animals and plants. Hooker and Wallace, Asa Gray and even Agassiz, each in his own sphere, were coming closer and closer to a perception of that secret which was first to reveal itself clearly to the patient and humble genius of Darwin. In the year before, in 1856, Darwin, under pressure from Lyell, had begun that modest statement of the new revelation, that 'abstract of an essay', which developed so mightily into 'The Origin of Species'. Wollaston's 'Variation of Species' had just appeared, and had been a nine days' wonder in the wilderness.
This was a great moment in the history of thought. The theory that species could change was about to shed a flood of light on all areas of human thought and action. It was becoming necessary to take a firm stand on one side or the other. Lyell was gathering followers who were making great advances in discovery. Darwin had long been collecting facts about variation in animals and plants. Hooker and Wallace, Asa Gray and even Agassiz were each, in their own fields, coming closer to understanding the secret. That secret would first reveal itself clearly to Darwin’s patient and humble genius. In 1856, the year before, Lyell had pressed Darwin to begin a modest account of the new revelation. This ‘abstract of an essay’ grew enormously into ‘The Origin of Species’. Wollaston’s ‘Variation of Species’ had just appeared and had caused a brief sensation in the wilderness.
On the other side, the reactionaries, although never dreaming of the fate which hung over them, had not been idle. In 1857 the astounding question had for the first time been propounded with contumely, 'What, then, did we come from an orang-outang?' The famous 'Vestiges of Creation' had been supplying a sugar-and- water panacea for those who could not escape from the trend of evidence, and who yet clung to revelation. Owen was encouraging reaction by resisting, with all the strength of his prestige, the theory of the mutability of species.
On the other side, the reactionaries had not been idle, though they never dreamed of the fate awaiting them. In 1857, the astonishing question had been asked scornfully for the first time: 'What, then, did we come from an orangutan?' The famous 'Vestiges of Creation' had offered a sugar-water cure-all for those who could not escape the weight of the evidence but still clung to revelation. Owen was encouraging the reactionaries. He used all the strength of his prestige to resist the theory that species could change.
In this period of intellectual ferment, as when a great political revolution is being planned, many possible adherents were confidentially tested with hints and encouraged to reveal their bias in a whisper. It was the notion of Lyell, himself a great mover of men, that, before the doctrine of natural selection was given to a world which would be sure to lift up at it a howl of execration, a certain bodyguard of sound and experienced naturalists, expert in the description of species, should be privately made aware of its tenor. Among those who were thus initiated, or approached with a view towards possible illumination, was my Father. He was spoken to by Hooker, and later on by Darwin, after meetings of the Royal Society in the summer of 1857.
During this period of intellectual excitement, many potential supporters were quietly tested, much as they might be when a great political revolution is being planned. They were given hints and encouraged to whisper their views. Lyell, who was himself a great influence on others, had an idea. He thought that a reliable group of experienced naturalists, skilled in describing species, should be told privately what the doctrine of natural selection involved. They would form a kind of bodyguard before the doctrine was presented to the world, which would surely greet it with a howl of outrage. My Father was among those who were either told about the doctrine or approached as possible candidates for enlightenment. Hooker spoke to him, and later Darwin did too, after meetings of the Royal Society in the summer of 1857.
My Father's attitude towards the theory of natural selection was critical in his career, and oddly enough, it exercised an immense influence on my own experience as a child. Let it be admitted at once, mournful as the admission is, that every instinct in his intelligence went out at first to greet the new light. It had hardly done so, when a recollection of the opening chapter of 'Genesis' checked it at the outset. He consulted with Carpenter, a great investigator, but one who was fully as incapable as himself of remodelling his ideas with regard to the old, accepted hypotheses. They both determined, on various grounds, to have nothing to do with the terrible theory, but to hold steadily to the law of the fixity of species. It was exactly at this juncture that we left London, and the slight and occasional but always extremely salutary personal intercourse with men of scientific leading which my Father had enjoyed at the British Museum and at the Royal Society came to an end. His next act was to burn his ships down to the last beam and log out of which a raft could have been made. By a strange act of wilfulness, he closed the doors upon himself forever.
My Father's response to the theory of natural selection was a turning point in his career. Oddly enough, it also had an immense influence on my own childhood. I must admit at once, sad as it is, that every instinct of his mind first welcomed the new light. But he had hardly begun to welcome it when he remembered the opening chapter of 'Genesis'. This stopped him at once. He consulted Carpenter, a great investigator. But Carpenter was just as incapable as my Father of changing his ideas about the old, accepted hypotheses. For various reasons, both men decided to have nothing to do with the terrible theory. Instead, they resolved to hold firmly to the law of the fixity of species. Just at this point, we left London. My Father's personal contact with leading scientists at the British Museum and the Royal Society then came to an end. These meetings had been brief and occasional, but always extremely beneficial. His next act was to burn his ships, down to the last beam and log from which he might have made a raft. In a strange act of stubbornness, he closed the doors on himself forever.
My Father had never admired Sir Charles Lyell. I think that the famous 'Lord Chancellor manner' of the geologist intimidated him, and we undervalue the intelligence of those whose conversation puts us at a disadvantage. For Darwin and Hooker, on the other hand, he had a profound esteem, and I know not whether this had anything to do with the fact that he chose, for his impetuous experiment in reaction, the field of geology, rather than that of zoology or botany. Lyell had been threatening to publish a book on the geological history of Man, which was to be a bombshell flung into the camp of the catastrophists. My Father, after long reflection, prepared a theory of his own, which, as he fondly hoped, would take the wind out of Lyell's sails, and justify geology to godly readers of 'Genesis'. It was, very briefly, that there had been no gradual modification of the surface of the earth, or slow development of organic forms, but that when the catastrophic act of creation took place, the world presented, instantly, the structural appearance of a planet on which life had long existed.
My Father had never admired Sir Charles Lyell. I think the geologist’s famous 'Lord Chancellor manner' intimidated him. We tend to underestimate the intelligence of people whose conversation puts us at a disadvantage. For Darwin and Hooker, on the other hand, he had profound respect. I do not know whether this had anything to do with his choice of geology, rather than zoology or botany, for his impetuous experiment in opposition. Lyell had been threatening to publish a book on the geological history of Man. The book was to be a bombshell thrown into the camp of the catastrophists. After much thought, my Father developed a theory of his own. He fondly hoped it would take the wind out of Lyell’s sails and make geology acceptable to devout readers of 'Genesis'. In brief, his theory was that the earth’s surface had not changed gradually, nor had living forms developed slowly. Instead, when the catastrophic act of creation took place, the world instantly had the structure of a planet where life had existed for a long time.
The theory, coarsely enough, and to my Father's great indignation, was defined by a hasty press as being this—that God hid the fossils in the rocks in order to tempt geologists into infidelity. In truth, it was the logical and inevitable conclusion of accepting, literally, the doctrine of a sudden act of creation; it emphasized the fact that any breach in the circular course of nature could be conceived only on the supposition that the object created bore false witness to past processes, which had never taken place. For instance, Adam would certainly possess hair and teeth and bones in a condition which it must have taken many years to accomplish, yet he was created full-grown yesterday. He would certainly—though Sir Thomas Browne denied it—display an 'omphalos', yet no umbilical cord had ever attached him to a mother.
The press hastily and crudely summed up the theory this way, much to my Father's indignation: God hid fossils in rocks to tempt geologists into religious disbelief. In truth, the theory was the logical and inevitable conclusion of accepting the doctrine of a sudden act of creation literally. It emphasized that any break in nature's continuous cycle could be imagined only on one assumption. The created object must falsely suggest that it had undergone processes that had never taken place. For example, Adam would certainly have hair, teeth, and bones in a condition that must have taken many years to develop. Yet he was created fully grown only yesterday. He would certainly have an 'omphalos', or navel, though Sir Thomas Browne denied it. Yet no umbilical cord had ever attached him to a mother.
Never was a book cast upon the waters with greater anticipations of success than was this curious, this obstinate, this fanatical volume. My Father lived in a fever of suspense, waiting for the tremendous issue. This 'Omphalos' of his, he thought, was to bring all the turmoil of scientific speculation to a close, fling geology into the arms of Scripture, and make the lion eat grass with the lamb. It was not surprising, he admitted, that there had been experienced an ever-increasing discord between the facts which geology brings to light and the direct statements of the early chapters of 'Genesis'. Nobody was to blame for that. My Father, and my Father alone, possessed the secret of the enigma; he alone held the key which could smoothly open the lock of geological mystery. He offered it, with a glowing gesture, to atheists and Christians alike. This was to be the universal panacea; this the system of intellectual therapeutics which could not but heal all the maladies of the age. But, alas! atheists and Christians alike looked at it, and laughed, and threw it away.
Never was a book sent out into the world with greater hopes of success than this curious, stubborn, fanatical volume. My Father waited in feverish suspense for the momentous outcome. He thought his 'Omphalos' would put an end to all the turmoil of scientific speculation. It would fling geology into the arms of Scripture and make the lion eat grass with the lamb. He admitted that the growing conflict was not surprising. The facts uncovered by geology increasingly disagreed with the direct statements in the early chapters of 'Genesis'. Nobody was to blame for that. My Father, and my Father alone, possessed the secret of the riddle. He alone held the key that could smoothly unlock the mystery of geology. With a glowing gesture, he offered the key to atheists and Christians alike. This was to be the universal cure, a system of intellectual treatment that could not fail to heal every illness of the age. But, alas! Atheists and Christians alike looked at it, laughed, and threw it away.
In the course of that dismal winter, as the post began to bring in private letters, few and chilly, and public reviews, many and scornful, my Father looked in vain for the approval of the churches, and in vain for the acquiescence of the scientific societies, and in vain for the gratitude of those 'thousands of thinking persons', which he had rashly assured himself of receiving. As his reconciliation of Scripture statements and geological deductions was welcomed nowhere, as Darwin continued silent, and the youthful Huxley was scornful, and even Charles Kingsley, from whom my Father had expected the most instant appreciation, wrote that he could not 'give up the painful and slow conclusion of five and twenty years' study of geology, and believe that God has written on the rocks one enormous and superfluous lie',—as all this happened or failed to happen, a gloom, cold and dismal, descended upon our morning teacups. It was what the poets mean by an 'inspissated' gloom; it thickened day by day, as hope and self-confidence evaporated in thin clouds of disappointment. My Father was not prepared for such a fate. He had been the spoiled darling of the public, the constant favourite of the press, and now, like the dark angels of old,
During that miserable winter, the post began to bring a few cold private letters and many scornful public reviews. My Father waited in vain for the churches to approve and the scientific societies to agree with him. He also waited in vain for the gratitude of those 'thousands of thinking persons'. He had rashly assumed they would be grateful. No one welcomed his attempt to reconcile the statements of Scripture with the conclusions of geology. Darwin remained silent, and the young Huxley was scornful. Even Charles Kingsley, whom my Father had expected to appreciate his work immediately, wrote that he could not 'give up the painful and slow conclusion of five and twenty years' study of geology, and believe that God has written on the rocks one enormous and superfluous lie'. As all this happened or failed to happen, a cold, miserable gloom settled over our morning teacups. It was what poets mean by a 'thickened' gloom. It grew thicker each day, as hope and self-confidence evaporated in thin clouds of disappointment. My Father was not prepared for such a fate. He had been the spoiled darling of the public and a constant favorite of the press. Now, like the dark angels of old,
so huge a rout Encumbered him with ruin.
such a huge crowd burdened him with ruin.
He could not recover from amazement at having offended everybody by an enterprise which had been undertaken in the cause of universal reconciliation.
He could not get over his amazement at having offended everyone by an effort meant to bring everyone together.
During that grim season, my Father was no lively companion, and circumstance after circumstance combined to drive him further from humanity. He missed more than ever the sympathetic ear of my Mother; there was present to support him nothing of that artful, female casuistry which insinuates into the wounded consciousness of a man the conviction that, after all, he is right and all the rest of the world is wrong. My Father used to tramp in solitude around and around the red ploughed field which was going to be his lawn, or sheltering himself from the thin Devonian rain, pace up and down the still-naked verandah where blossoming creepers were to be. And I think that there was added to his chagrin with all his fellow mortals a first tincture of that heresy which was to attack him later on. It was now that, I fancy, he began, in his depression, to be angry with God. How much devotion had he given, how many sacrifices had he made, only to be left storming around this red morass with no one in all the world to care for him except one pale-faced child with its cheek pressed to the window!
During that grim season, my Father was not lively company. One circumstance after another pushed him further away from other people. More than ever, he missed my Mother’s sympathetic ear. There was no one to support him with that skillful female reasoning that gently convinces a wounded man that, after all, he is right and the rest of the world is wrong. My Father would walk alone, round and round the red ploughed field that was to become his lawn. Or, sheltered from the fine Devon rain, he would pace up and down the still bare verandah, where flowering vines were to grow. I think that, alongside his disappointment with all his fellow human beings, he felt the first hint of the heresy that would trouble him later. I imagine that it was now, in his depression, that he began to be angry with God. How much devotion had he given, how many sacrifices had he made? And all to be left storming around this red muddy field, with no one in the whole world to care for him except one pale-faced child with its cheek pressed to the window!
After one or two brilliant excursions to the sea, winter, in its dampest, muddiest, most languid form, had fallen upon us and shut us in. It was a dreary winter for the wifeless man and the motherless boy. We had come into the house, in precipitate abandonment to that supposed answer to prayer, a great deal too soon. In order to rake together the lump sum for buying it, my Father had denuded himself of almost everything, and our sticks of chairs and tables filled but two or three rooms. Half the little house, or 'villa' as we called it, was not papered, two- thirds were not furnished. The workmen were still finishing the outside when we arrived, and in that connection I recall a little incident which exhibits my Father's morbid delicacy of conscience. He was accustomed in his brighter moments—and this was before the publication of his 'Omphalos'—occasionally to sing loud Dorsetshire songs of his early days, in a strange, broad Wessex lingo that I loved. One October afternoon he and I were sitting on the verandah, and my Father was singing; just around the corner, out of sight, two carpenters were putting up the framework of a greenhouse. In a pause, one of them said to his fellow: 'He can zing a zong, zo well's another, though he be a minister.' My Father, who was holding my hand loosely, clutched it, and looking up, I saw his eyes darken. He never sang a secular song again during the whole of his life.
After one or two wonderful trips to the sea, winter closed in on us. It was as damp, muddy, and lifeless as winter could be. It was a dreary season for the man without a wife and the boy without a mother. We had rushed to embrace what we believed was an answer to prayer, and had moved into the house much too soon. To raise the lump sum needed to buy it, my Father had given up almost everything. Our few chairs and tables filled only two or three rooms. Half the little house, or 'villa' as we called it, had no wallpaper, and two thirds had no furniture. The workmen were still finishing the outside when we arrived. That reminds me of a small incident that shows how painfully sensitive my Father's conscience was. In his happier moments, he sometimes sang loudly the Dorsetshire songs he had learned in his youth. This was before the publication of his 'Omphalos'. He sang in a strange, broad Wessex dialect that I loved. One October afternoon, he and I were sitting on the verandah, and my Father was singing. Just around the corner, out of sight, two carpenters were putting up the frame of a greenhouse. When my Father paused, one said to the other: 'He can zing a zong, zo well's another, though he be a minister.' My Father, who had been holding my hand loosely, gripped it tightly. I looked up and saw his eyes darken. He never sang a secular song again for the rest of his life.
Later in the year, and after his literary misfortune, his conscience became more troublesome than ever. I think he considered the failure of his attempt at the reconciliation of science with religion to have been intended by God as a punishment for something he had done or left undone. In those brooding tramps around and around the garden, his soul was on its knees searching the corners of his conscience for some sin of omission or commission, and one by one every pleasure, every recreation, every trifle scraped out of the dust of past experience, was magnified into a huge offence. He thought that the smallest evidence of levity, the least unbending to human instinct, might be seized by those around him as evidence of inconsistency, and might lead the weaker brethren into offence. The incident of the carpenters and the comic song is typical of a condition of mind which now possessed my Father, in which act after act became taboo, not because each was sinful in itself, but because it might lead others into sin.
Later that year, after his literary disappointment, his conscience troubled him more than ever. I think he saw the failure of his attempt to reconcile science and religion as a punishment from God. He believed he was being punished for something he had done or failed to do. As he walked around and around the garden, lost in thought, his soul was on its knees. He searched every corner of his conscience for some sin, whether something he had done or left undone. One by one, he dug up every pleasure, every recreation, every little detail from his past. He turned each one into a huge offense. He thought those around him might seize on the slightest sign of lightheartedness, or the smallest indulgence of human instinct, as evidence of inconsistency. He feared this might lead the weaker members of the faith into sin. The incident of the carpenters and the comic song was typical of the state of mind that now possessed my Father. One act after another became forbidden, not because each was sinful in itself, but because it might lead others into sin.
I have the conviction that Miss Marks was now mightily afraid of my Father. Whenever she could, she withdrew to the room she called her 'boudoir', a small, chilly apartment, sparsely furnished, looking over what was in process of becoming the vegetable garden. Very properly, that she might have some sanctuary, Miss Marks forbade me to enter this virginal bower, which, of course, became to me an object of harrowing curiosity. Through the key-hole I could see practically nothing; one day I contrived to slip inside, and discovered that there was nothing to see but a plain bedstead and a toilet-table, void of all attraction. In this 'boudoir', on winter afternoons, a fire would be lighted, and Miss Marks would withdraw to it, not seen by us anymore between high-tea and the apocalyptic exercise known as 'worship'—in less strenuous households much less austerely practised under the name of 'family prayers'. Left meanwhile to our own devices, my Father would mainly be reading his book or paper held close up to the candle, while his lips and heavy eyebrows occasionally quivered and palpitated, with literary ardour, in a manner strangely exciting to me. Miss Marks, in a very high cap, and her large teeth shining, would occasionally appear in the doorway, desiring, with spurious geniality, to know how we were 'getting on'. But on these occasions neither of us replied to Miss Marks.
I am convinced that Miss Marks was now terribly afraid of my Father. Whenever she could, she withdrew to the room she called her 'boudoir'. It was a small, chilly room with little furniture, overlooking the area that was being turned into the vegetable garden. Quite properly, Miss Marks forbade me to enter this virginal retreat, so that she could have a sanctuary. Of course, this made me painfully curious about it. I could see almost nothing through the keyhole. One day I managed to slip inside and found nothing to see but a plain bedstead and a dressing table. Neither held any attraction. On winter afternoons, a fire would be lit in the 'boudoir', and Miss Marks would retreat there. We would not see her again between high tea and the apocalyptic exercise known as 'worship'. In less demanding households, this was much less sternly observed under the name of 'family prayers'. Left to ourselves in the meantime, my Father would mostly read his book or newspaper, holding it close to the candle. His lips and heavy eyebrows would occasionally quiver and tremble with literary excitement, in a way I found strangely exciting. Miss Marks would sometimes appear in the doorway, wearing a very tall cap, her large teeth shining. With false cheerfulness, she would ask how we were 'getting on'. But on these occasions neither of us answered Miss Marks.
Sometimes in the course of this winter, my Father and I had long cosy talks together over the fire. Our favourite subject was murders. I wonder whether little boys of eight, soon to go upstairs alone at night, often discuss violent crime with a widower-papa? The practice, I cannot help thinking, is unusual; it was, however, consecutive with us. We tried other secular subjects, but we were sure to come around at last to 'what do you suppose they really did with the body?' I was told, a thrilled listener, the adventure of Mrs. Manning, who killed a gentleman on the stairs and buried him in quick-lime in the back-kitchen, and it was at this time that I learned the useful historical fact, which abides with me after half a century, that Mrs. Manning was hanged in black satin, which thereupon went wholly out of fashion in England. I also heard about Burke and Hare, whose story nearly froze me into stone with horror.
Sometimes that winter, my Father and I had long, cosy talks by the fire. Our favourite subject was murder. I wonder whether eight-year-old boys, soon to go upstairs alone at night, often discuss violent crime with their widowed fathers? I cannot help thinking the practice is unusual, but we did it regularly. We tried other nonreligious subjects, but we always came back to 'what do you suppose they really did with the body?' I listened with a thrill as I heard the story of Mrs. Manning. She killed a gentleman on the stairs and buried him in quicklime in the back kitchen. At this time, I also learned a useful historical fact that has stayed with me for half a century. Mrs. Manning was hanged in black satin, which then went completely out of fashion in England. I also heard about Burke and Hare, whose story nearly froze me into stone with horror.
These were crimes which appear in the chronicles. But who will tell me what 'the Carpet-bag Mystery' was, which my Father and I discussed evening after evening? I have never come across a whisper of it since, and I suspect it of having been a hoax. As I recall the details, people in a boat, passing down the Thames, saw a carpet-bag hung high in air, on one of the projections of a pier of Waterloo Bridge. Being with difficulty dragged down—or perhaps up—this bag was found to be full of human remains, dreadful butcher's business of joints and fragments. Persons were missed, were identified, were again denied—the whole is a vapour in my memory which shifts as I try to define it. But clear enough is the picture I hold of myself, in a high chair, on the left- hand side of the sitting-room fireplace, the leaping flames reflected in the glass-case of tropical insects on the opposite wall, and my Father, leaning anxiously forward, with uplifted finger, emphasizing to me the pros and cons of the horrible carpet-bag evidence.
These were crimes recorded in the chronicles. But who can tell me what 'the Carpet-bag Mystery' was? My Father and I discussed it evening after evening. I have never heard a whisper of it since, and I suspect it was a hoax. As I remember it, some people in a boat were traveling down the Thames. They saw a carpet-bag hanging high in the air from a projection on a pier of Waterloo Bridge. It was difficult to pull the bag down, or perhaps up. When they did, they found it full of human remains, a dreadful butcher's mess of joints and fragments. People went missing, were identified, and then were said not to be the victims after all. The whole affair is a mist in my memory, shifting whenever I try to make it out. But I have a clear picture of myself in a high chair, to the left of the sitting-room fireplace. The leaping flames are reflected in the glass case of tropical insects on the opposite wall. My Father is leaning forward anxiously, with one finger raised, explaining the arguments for and against the horrible carpet-bag evidence.
I suppose that my interest in these discussions—and Heaven knows I was animated enough—amused and distracted my Father, whose idea of a suitable theme for childhood's ear now seems to me surprising. I soon found that these subjects were not welcome to everybody, for, starting the Carpet-bag Mystery one morning with Miss Marks, in the hope of delaying my arithmetic lesson, she fairly threw her apron over her ears, and told me, from that vantage, that if I did not desist at once, she should scream.
I suppose my interest in these discussions amused and distracted my Father. Heaven knows I was enthusiastic enough. His idea of a suitable subject for a child now seems surprising to me. I soon found that not everyone welcomed these subjects. One morning, I brought up the Carpet-bag Mystery with Miss Marks, hoping to delay my arithmetic lesson. She threw her apron over her ears and told me from behind it that if I did not stop at once, she would scream.
Occasionally we took winter walks together, my Father and I, down some lane that led to a sight of the sea, or over the rolling downs. We tried to recapture the charm of those delightful strolls in London, when we used to lean over the bridges and watch the ducks. But we could not recover this pleasure. My Father was deeply enwoven in the chain of his own thoughts, and would stalk on, without a word, buried in angry reverie. If he spoke to me, on these excursions, it was a pain to me to answer him. I could talk on easy terms with him indoors, seated in my high chair, with our heads on a level, but it was intolerably laborious to look up into the firmament and converse with a dark face against the sky. The actual exercise of walking, too, was very exhausting to me; the bright red mud, to the strange colour of which I could not for a long while get accustomed, becoming caked about my little shoes, and wearying me extremely. I would grow petulant and cross, contradict my Father, and oppose his whims. These walks were distressing to us both, yet he did not like to walk alone, and he had no other friend. However, as the winter advanced, they had to be abandoned, and the habit of our taking a 'constitutional' together was never resumed.
Sometimes my Father and I took walks together in winter, down a lane with a view of the sea, or over the rolling downs. We tried to recapture the charm of our delightful London walks, when we used to lean over bridges and watch the ducks. But we could not regain that pleasure. My Father was deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. He would stride along without a word, lost in angry thought. If he spoke to me on these walks, answering him was painful. I could talk comfortably with him indoors, sitting in my high chair with our heads level. But it was unbearably hard to look up at a dark face against the sky and hold a conversation. Walking itself was also exhausting for me. The bright red mud caked around my little shoes and tired me out. It took me a long time to get used to its strange color. I would become irritable and cross, contradict my Father, and resist his whims. These walks distressed us both, yet he did not like walking alone, and he had no other friend. As winter went on, however, we had to give up the walks. We never resumed our habit of taking a 'constitutional' together.
I look back upon myself at this time as upon a cantankerous, ill- tempered and unobliging child. The only excuse I can offer is that I really was not well. The change to Devonshire had not suited me; my health gave the excellent Miss Marks some anxiety, but she was not ready in resource. The dampness of the house was terrible; indoors and out, the atmosphere seemed soaked in chilly vapours. Under my bed-clothes at night I shook like a jelly, unable to sleep for cold, though I was heaped with coverings, while my skin was all puckered with gooseflesh. I could eat nothing solid, without suffering immediately from violent hiccough, so that much of my time was spent lying prone on my back upon the hearthrug, awakening the echoes like a cuckoo. Miss Marks, therefore, cut off all food but milk-sop, a loathly bowl of which appeared at every meal. In consequence the hiccough lessened, but my strength declined with it. I languished in a perpetual catarrh. I was roused to a conscious-ness that I was not considered well by the fact that my Father prayed publicly at morning and evening 'worship' that if it was the Lord's will to take me to himself there might be no doubt whatever about my being a sealed child of God and an inheritor of glory. I was partly disconcerted by, partly vain of, this open advertisement of my ailments.
I look back on myself at this time as a bad-tempered, disagreeable and unhelpful child. My only excuse is that I really was not well. The move to Devonshire had not suited me. My health caused the excellent Miss Marks some anxiety, but she was not very resourceful. The house was terribly damp. Indoors and out, the air seemed soaked with cold mist. At night, I shook like jelly under the bedclothes. Though I was piled with blankets, I could not sleep for cold, and my skin was covered in goose bumps. I could eat nothing solid without immediately suffering violent hiccups. So I spent much of my time lying flat on my back on the hearthrug, making the room echo like a cuckoo. Miss Marks therefore stopped giving me any food except milk-sop, a disgusting bowl of which appeared at every meal. As a result, the hiccups lessened, but my strength declined too. I was always suffering from catarrh. I realized that I was not considered well because of my Father's public prayers at morning and evening 'worship'. He prayed that, if it was the Lord's will to take me to himself, there might be no doubt at all that I was a sealed child of God and an inheritor of glory. I was partly embarrassed and partly proud to have my ailments announced so openly.
Of our dealings with the 'Saints', a fresh assortment of whom met us on our arrival in Devonshire, I shall speak presently. My Father's austerity of behaviour was, I think, perpetually accentuated by his fear of doing anything to offend the consciences of these persons, whom he supposed, no doubt, to be more sensitive than they really were. He was fond of saying that 'a very little stain upon the conscience makes a wide breach in our communion with God', and he counted possible errors of conduct by hundreds and by thousands. It was in this winter that his attention was particularly drawn to the festival of Christmas, which, apparently, he had scarcely noticed in London.
I will speak shortly about our dealings with the 'Saints', a new group of whom we met on arriving in Devonshire. I think my Father's strict behaviour was constantly made stricter by his fear of offending their consciences. No doubt he supposed they were more sensitive than they really were. He liked to say that 'a very small stain on the conscience creates a wide break in our communion with God', and he counted possible errors of conduct by the hundreds and thousands. That winter, his attention was drawn particularly to the festival of Christmas, which he had apparently scarcely noticed in London.
On the subject of all feasts of the Church he held views of an almost grotesque peculiarity. He looked upon each of them as nugatory and worthless, but the keeping of Christmas appeared to him by far the most hateful, and nothing less than an act of idolatry. 'The very word is Popish', he used to exclaim, 'Christ's Mass!' pursing up his lips with the gesture of one who tastes assafoetida by accident. Then he would adduce the antiquity of the so-called feast, adapted from horrible heathen rites, and itself a soiled relic of the abominable Yule-Tide. He would denounce the horrors of Christmas until it almost made me blush to look at a holly-berry.
His views on all Church feasts were almost grotesquely peculiar. He regarded every one of them as pointless and worthless. But celebrating Christmas seemed to him by far the most hateful, nothing less than an act of idolatry. 'The very word is Popish', he used to exclaim, 'Christ's Mass!' He would purse his lips like someone who had accidentally tasted asafoetida. Then he would point to the antiquity of the so-called feast. It had been adapted from horrible pagan rites and was itself a tainted relic of the abominable Yule-Tide. He would denounce the horrors of Christmas until I almost blushed at the sight of a holly berry.
On Christmas Day of this year 1857 our villa saw a very unusual sight. My Father had given strictest charge that no difference whatever was to be made in our meals on that day; the dinner was to be neither more copious than usual nor less so. He was obeyed, but the servants, secretly rebellious, made a small plum-pudding for themselves. (I discovered afterwards, with pain, that Miss Marks received a slice of it in her boudoir.) Early in the afternoon, the maids,—of whom we were now advanced to keeping two,—kindly remarked that 'the poor dear child ought to have a bit, anyhow', and wheedled me into the kitchen, where I ate a slice of plum-pudding. Shortly I began to feel that pain inside which in my frail state was inevitable, and my conscience smote me violently. At length I could bear my spiritual anguish no longer, and bursting into the study I called out: 'Oh! Papa, Papa, I have eaten of flesh offered to idols!' It took some time, between my sobs, to explain what had happened. Then my Father sternly said: 'Where is the accursed thing?' I explained that as much as was left of it was still on the kitchen table. He took me by the hand, and ran with me into the midst of the startled servants, seized what remained of the pudding, and with the plate in one hand and me still tight in the other, ran until we reached the dust-heap, when he flung the idolatrous confectionery on to the middle of the ashes, and then raked it deep down into the mass. The suddenness, the violence, the velocity of this extraordinary act made an impression on my memory which nothing will ever efface.
On Christmas Day in 1857, our villa witnessed a very unusual sight. My Father had given strict orders that our meals should be no different that day. Dinner was to be neither larger nor smaller than usual. He was obeyed, but the servants secretly rebelled and made a small plum pudding for themselves. (I learned later, to my distress, that Miss Marks received a slice in her boudoir.) Early that afternoon, the maids kindly remarked that 'the poor dear child ought to have a bit, anyhow'. We had by then progressed to keeping two maids. They coaxed me into the kitchen, where I ate a slice of plum pudding. Soon I began to feel the pain in my stomach that was inevitable in my frail condition. My conscience troubled me terribly. At last I could no longer bear my spiritual anguish. I burst into the study and called out: 'Oh! Papa, Papa, I have eaten of flesh offered to idols!' It took some time to explain what had happened between my sobs. Then my Father said sternly: 'Where is the accursed thing?' I explained that the rest of the pudding was still on the kitchen table. He took me by the hand and ran with me into the kitchen among the startled servants. He seized what remained of the pudding and ran to the ash heap. He held the plate in one hand and still held me tightly with the other. There he flung the idolatrous confection into the middle of the ashes and raked it deep into the heap. The suddenness, violence and speed of this extraordinary act left an impression on my memory that nothing will ever erase.
The key is lost by which I might unlock the perverse malady from which my Father's conscience seemed to suffer during the whole of this melancholy winter. But I think that a dislocation of his intellectual system had a great deal to do with it. Up to this point in his career, he had, as we have seen, nourished the delusion that science and revelation could be mutually justified, that some sort of compromise was possible. With great and ever greater distinctness, his investigations had shown him that in all departments of organic nature there are visible the evidences of slow modification of forms, of the type developed by the pressure and practice of aeons. This conviction had been borne in upon him until it was positively irresistible. Where was his place, then, as a sincere and accurate observer? Manifestly, it was with the pioneers of the new truth, it was with Darwin, Wallace and Hooker. But did not the second chapter of 'Genesis' say that in six days the heavens and earth were finished, and the host of them, and that on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made?
I no longer have the key to understanding the strange affliction that seemed to trouble my Father's conscience throughout that melancholy winter. But I think a disruption in his way of thinking had a great deal to do with it. Until then, as we have seen, he had held on to the mistaken belief that science and revelation could support each other. He believed some kind of compromise was possible. His investigations had shown him, with increasing clarity, evidence of gradual changes in form throughout all organic nature. These forms had developed under the pressure and habits of countless ages. This conviction had grown until it became impossible to resist. Where, then, did he belong as a sincere and accurate observer? Clearly, he belonged with the pioneers of the new truth, with Darwin, Wallace and Hooker. But did not the second chapter of 'Genesis' say that the heavens and earth and everything in them were finished in six days? And did it not say that on the seventh day God ended the work he had made?
Here was a dilemma! Geology certainly seemed to be true, but the Bible, which was God's word, was true. If the Bible said that all things in Heaven and Earth were created in six days, created in six days they were,—in six literal days of twenty-four hours each. The evidences of spontaneous variation of form, acting, over an immense space of time, upon ever-modifying organic structures, seemed overwhelming, but they must either be brought into line with the six-day labour of creation, or they must be rejected. I have already shown how my Father worked out the ingenious 'Omphalos' theory in order to justify himself as a strictly scientific observer who was also a humble slave of revelation. But the old convention and the new rebellion would alike have none of his compromise.
What a dilemma! Geology certainly seemed to be true, but the Bible was God's word, and it was true. If the Bible said that all things in Heaven and Earth were created in six days, then they were. Those were six literal days of twenty-four hours each. The evidence for spontaneous changes in form seemed overwhelming. Over an immense span of time, these changes acted on organic structures that were continually changing. But the evidence either had to be reconciled with the six days of creation or rejected. I have already shown how my Father developed the ingenious 'Omphalos' theory. He did this to justify himself as a strictly scientific observer who was also a humble slave to revelation. But both the old convention and the new rebellion rejected his compromise.
To a mind so acute and at the same time so narrow as that of my Father—a mind which is all logical and positive without breadth, without suppleness and without imagination—to be subjected to a check of this kind is agony. It has not the relief of a smaller nature, which escapes from the dilemma by some foggy formula; nor the resolution of a larger nature to take to its wings and surmount the obstacle. My Father, although half suffocated by the emotion of being lifted, as it were, on the great biological wave, never dreamed of letting go his clutch of the ancient tradition, but hung there, strained and buffeted. It is extraordinary that he—an 'honest hodman of science', as Huxley once called him—should not have been content to allow others, whose horizons were wider than his could be, to pursue those purely intellectual surveys for which he had no species of aptitude. As a collector of facts and marshaller of observations, he had not a rival in that age; his very absence of imagination aided him in this work. But he was more an attorney than philosopher, and he lacked that sublime humility which is the crown of genius. For, this obstinate persuasion that he alone knew the mind of God, that he alone could interpret the designs of the Creator, what did it result from if not from a congenital lack of that highest modesty which replies 'I do not know' even to the questions which Faith, with menacing forger, insists on having most positively answered?
For a mind as sharp and yet as narrow as my Father's, a setback like this is agony. His mind is entirely logical and grounded in facts, but lacks breadth, flexibility, and imagination. A lesser mind can find relief by escaping the dilemma through some vague formula. A greater mind can resolve to take wing and rise above the obstacle. My Father had neither escape. Although he was nearly suffocated by the feeling of being lifted on the great biological wave, he never dreamed of loosening his grip on ancient tradition. He hung on, strained and battered. Huxley once called my Father an 'honest hodman of science'. Yet, extraordinarily, my Father would not let others pursue purely intellectual investigations for which he had no aptitude. Their horizons were wider than his could be. In collecting facts and organizing observations, he had no rival in his age. His very lack of imagination helped him in this work. But he was more a lawyer than a philosopher, and he lacked the sublime humility that crowns genius. He stubbornly believed that he alone knew the mind of God and could interpret the Creator's designs. What else could this belief come from but an inborn lack of the highest modesty? Such modesty replies 'I do not know' even to questions that Faith, with a threatening finger, insists must be answered with absolute certainty.