Chapter 6

DURING the first year of our life in Devonshire, the ninth year of my age, my Father's existence, and therefore mine, was almost entirely divided between attending to the little community of 'Saints' in the village and collecting, examining and describing marine creatures from the seashore. In the course of these twelve months, we had scarcely any social distractions of any kind, and I never once crossed the bounds of the parish. After the worst of the winter was over, my Father recovered much of his spirits and his power of work, and the earliest sunshine soothed and refreshed us both. I was still almost always with him, but we had now some curious companions.

During our first year in Devonshire, when I was nine, my Father spent almost all his time on two things. He cared for the little community of 'Saints' in the village and collected, examined, and described marine creatures from the seashore. My life was divided between these activities too. During those twelve months, we had hardly any social activities of any kind, and I never once left the parish. After the worst of winter was over, my Father regained much of his energy and ability to work. The first sunshine soothed and refreshed us both. I was still with him almost all the time, but now we had some curious companions.

The village, at the southern end of which our villa stood, was not pretty. It had no rural picturesqueness of any kind. The only pleasant feature of it, the handsome and ancient parish church with its umbrageous churchyard, was then almost entirely concealed by a congress of mean shops, which were ultimately, before the close of my childhood, removed. The village consisted of two parallel lines of contiguous houses, all white-washed and most of them fronted by a trifling shop-window; for half a mile this street ascended to the church, and then descended for another half-mile, ending suddenly in fields, the hedges of which displayed, at intervals, the inevitable pollard elm-tree.

Our villa stood at the southern end of the village, which was not pretty. The village had no rural charm of any kind. Its only pleasant feature was the handsome old parish church and its shady churchyard. At the time, a cluster of shabby shops almost completely hid the church and churchyard. The shops were eventually removed before my childhood ended. The village consisted of two parallel rows of adjoining houses. All were whitewashed, and most had a small shop window at the front. The street climbed for half a mile to the church, then descended for another half-mile. It ended suddenly in fields, with the inevitable pollarded elm trees appearing at intervals along the hedges.

The walk through the village, which we seemed make incessantly, was very wearisome to me. I dreaded the rudeness of the children, and there was nothing in the shops to amuse me. Walking on the inch or two of broken pavement in front of the houses was disagreeable and tiresome, and the odor which breathed on close days from the open doors and windows made me feel faint. But this walk was obligatory, since the 'Public Room', as our little chapel was called, lay at the farther extremity of the dreary street.

The walk through the village, which we seemed to make constantly, was very tiring for me. I dreaded the children’s rudeness, and there was nothing in the shops to entertain me. Walking on the inch or two of broken pavement in front of the houses was unpleasant and tiring. On hot, airless days, the smell from the open doors and windows made me feel faint. But we had to make this walk because our little chapel stood at the far end of the dreary street. It was called the 'Public Room'.

We attended this place of worship immediately on our arrival, and my Father, uninvited but unresisted, immediately assumed the administration of it. It was a square, empty room, built, for I know not what purpose, over a stable. Ammoniac odours used to rise through the floor as we sat there at our long devotions. Before our coming, a little flock of persons met in the Room, a community of the indefinite sort just then becoming frequent in the West of England, pious rustics connected with no other recognized body of Christians, and depending directly on the independent study of the Bible. They were largely women, but there was more than a sprinkling of men, poor, simple and generally sickly. In later days, under my Father's ministration, the body increased and positively flourished. It came to include retired professional men, an admiral, nay, even the brother of a peer. But in those earliest years the 'brethren' and 'sisters' were all of them ordinary peasants. They were jobbing gardeners and journeymen carpenters, masons and tailors, washerwomen and domestic servants. I wish that I could paint, in colours so vivid that my readers could perceive what their little society consisted of, this quaint collection of humble, conscientious, ignorant and gentle persons. In chronicle or fiction I have never been fortunate enough to meet with anything which resembled them. The caricatures of enmity and worldly scorn are as crude, to my memory, as the unction of religious conventionality is featureless.

We attended this place of worship as soon as we arrived. My Father immediately took charge of it, without being invited, but without meeting any resistance. It was a bare, square room built over a stable. I do not know what it had been built for. As we sat through our long devotions, the smell of ammonia rose through the floor. Before we arrived, a small flock had met in the Room. It was a loosely defined community of a kind then becoming common in the West of England. Its members were devout country people who belonged to no other recognized Christian group. They relied directly on their own independent study of the Bible. Most were women, but there were quite a few men, poor, simple, and generally sickly. Later, under my Father's ministry, the group grew and positively flourished. It came to include retired professional men, an admiral, and even the brother of a peer. But in those earliest years, the 'brethren' and 'sisters' were all ordinary peasants. They were gardeners who took casual jobs, qualified carpenters working for wages, masons, tailors, washerwomen, and domestic servants. I wish I could paint this quaint collection of humble, conscientious, ignorant, and gentle people in such vivid colors that my readers could see what their little society was like. I have never been fortunate enough to find anything resembling them in history or fiction. To my memory, the caricatures drawn by hostility and worldly scorn are as crude as the pious descriptions of conventional religion are featureless.

The origin of the meeting had been odd. A few years before we came, a crew of Cornish fishermen, quite unknown to the villagers, were driven by stress of weather into the haven under the cliff. They landed, and, instead of going to a public-house, they looked about for a room where they could hold a prayer- meeting. They were devout Wesleyans; they had come from the open sea, they were far from home, and they had been starved by lack of their customary religious privileges. As they stood about in the street before their meeting, they challenged the respectable girls who came out to stare at them, with the question, 'Do you love the Lord Jesus, my maid?' Receiving dubious answers, they pressed the inhabitants to come in and pray with them, which several did. Ann Burmington, who long afterwards told me about it, was one of those girls, and she repeated that the fishermen said, 'What a dreadful thing it will be, at the Last Day, when the Lord says, "Come, ye blessed", and says it not to you, and then, "Depart ye cursed", and you maidens have to depart.' They were finely-built young men, with black beards and shining eyes, and I do not question that some flash of sex unconsciously mingled with the curious episode, although their behaviour was in all respects discreet. It was, perhaps, not wholly a coincidence that almost all those particular girls remained unmarried to the end of their lives. After two or three days, the fishermen went off to sea again. They prayed and sailed away, and the girls, who had not even asked their names, never heard of them again. But several of the young women were definitely converted, and they formed the nucleus of our little gathering.

The meeting had an unusual beginning. A few years before we arrived, bad weather drove a crew of Cornish fishermen into the harbor beneath the cliff. The villagers did not know them at all. The fishermen landed and, instead of going to a pub, looked for a room where they could hold a prayer meeting. They were devout Wesleyans. They had come from the open sea, were far from home, and had been deprived of their usual opportunities for worship. Before their meeting, they stood in the street. Respectable young women came out to stare at them, and the fishermen challenged them with the question, 'Do you love the Lord Jesus, my girl?' The answers were uncertain, so they urged the villagers to come in and pray with them. Several did. Ann Burmington was one of those young women, and she told me about it long afterward. She repeated what the fishermen had said: 'What a dreadful thing it will be on the Last Day, when the Lord says, "Come, you blessed ones", but does not say it to you. Then he will say, "Depart, you cursed ones", and you young women will have to depart.' The fishermen were well-built young men, with black beards and shining eyes. I have no doubt that some unconscious sexual attraction mingled with this curious episode, although they behaved discreetly in every respect. Perhaps it was not entirely a coincidence that almost all those particular young women remained unmarried for the rest of their lives. After two or three days, the fishermen went back to sea. They prayed and sailed away, and the young women, who had not even asked their names, never heard of them again. But several of the young women were genuinely converted, and they formed the core of our little gathering.

My Father preached, standing at a desk; or celebrated the communion in front of a deal table, with a white napkin spread over it. Sometimes the audience was so small, generally so unexhilarating, that he was discouraged, but he never flagged in energy and zeal. Only those who had given evidence of intelligent acceptance of the theory of simple faith in their atonement through the Blood of Jesus were admitted to the communion, or, as it was called, 'the Breaking of Bread'. It was made a very strong point that no one should 'break bread', unless for good reason shown—until he or she had been baptized, that is to say, totally immersed, in solemn conclave, by the ministering brother. This rite used, in our earliest days, to be performed, with picturesque simplicity, in the sea on the Oddicombe beach, but to this there were, even in those quiet years, extreme objections. A jeering crowd could scarcely be avoided, and women, in particular, shrank from the ordeal. This used to be a practical difficulty, and my Father, when communicants confessed that they had not yet been baptized, would shake his head and say gravely, 'Ah! ah! you shun the Cross of Christ!' But that baptism in the sea on the open beach was a 'cross', he would not deny, and when we built our own little chapel, a sort of font, planked over, was arranged in the room itself.

My Father preached standing at a desk, or celebrated communion before a plain wooden table covered with a white cloth. Sometimes the audience was so small, and generally so uninspiring, that he felt discouraged. But he never lost his energy or zeal. Only people who had shown that they understood and accepted the belief in simple faith in their atonement through the Blood of Jesus were admitted to communion. It was called 'the Breaking of Bread'. Great importance was placed on the rule that no one should 'break bread' without first being baptized, unless they had a good reason. Baptism meant being completely immersed by the ministering brother at a solemn gathering. In our earliest days, the rite was performed with picturesque simplicity in the sea at Oddicombe beach. But even in those quiet years, there were serious objections to the practice. A jeering crowd was hard to avoid, and women in particular shrank from the ordeal. This was a practical difficulty. When people wishing to take communion admitted that they had not yet been baptized, my Father would shake his head and say gravely, 'Ah! ah! you shun the Cross of Christ!' But he would not deny that baptism in the sea on an open beach was a 'cross'. So, when we built our own little chapel, a sort of font was installed in the room itself and covered with boards.

Among these quiet, taciturn people, there were several whom I recall with affection. In this remote corner of Devonshire, on the road nowhither, they had preserved much of the air of that eighteenth century which the elders among them perfectly remembered. There was one old man, born before the French Revolution, whose figure often recurs to me. This was James Petherbridge, the Nestor of our meeting, extremely tall and attenuated; he came on Sundays in a full, white smockfrock, smartly embroidered down the front, and when he settled himself to listen, he would raise this smock like a skirt, and reveal a pair of immensely long thin legs, cased in tight leggings, and ending in shoes with buckles. As the sacred message fell from my Father's lips the lantern jaws of Mr. Petherbridge slowly fell apart, while his knees sloped to so immense a distance from one another that it seemed as though they never could meet again. He had been pious all his life, and he would tell us, in some modest pride, that when he was a lad, the farmer's wife who was his mistress used to say, 'I think our Jem is going to be a Methody, he do so hanker after godly discoursings.' Mr. Petherbridge was accustomed to pray orally at our prayer-meetings, in a funny old voice like wind in a hollow tree, and he seldom failed to express a hope that 'the Lord would support Miss Lafroy'— who was the village schoolmistress, and one of our congregation,—'in her labour of teaching the young idea how to shoot'. I, not understanding this literary allusion, long believed the school to be addicted to some species of pistol-practice.

Among these quiet, reserved people were several whom I remember with affection. This remote corner of Devonshire lay on a road that led nowhere. Its people had preserved much of the spirit of the eighteenth century, which the older ones remembered perfectly. One old man, born before the French Revolution, often comes back to mind. He was James Petherbridge, the wise elder of our congregation. He was extremely tall and thin. On Sundays he wore a loose white smock, neatly embroidered down the front. When he settled down to listen, he would lift the smock like a skirt. This revealed a pair of immensely long, thin legs in tight leggings, with buckled shoes on his feet. As the sacred message came from my Father's lips, Mr. Petherbridge's long, gaunt jaws slowly fell apart. His knees spread so far apart that it seemed they could never meet again. He had been devout all his life. With modest pride, he would tell us what his employer, a farmer's wife, used to say when he was a boy: 'I think our Jem is going to be a Methodist, he does so long for godly conversations.' Mr. Petherbridge often prayed aloud at our prayer meetings. His funny old voice sounded like wind in a hollow tree. He seldom failed to express a hope that 'the Lord would support Miss Lafroy in her work of teaching the young idea how to shoot'. Miss Lafroy was the village schoolmistress and a member of our congregation. I did not understand the literary reference, and for a long time I believed the school practiced some kind of pistol shooting.

The key of the Room was kept by Richard Moxhay, the mason, who was of a generation younger than Mr. Petherbridge, but yet 'getting on in years'. Moxhay, I cannot tell why, was always dressed in white corduroy, on which any stain of Devonshire scarlet mud was painfully conspicuous; when he was smartened up, his appearance suggested that somebody had given him a coating of that rich Western whitewash which looks like Devonshire cream. His locks were long and sparse, and as deadly black as his clothes were white. He was a modest, gentle man, with a wife even more meek and gracious than himself. They never, to my recollection, spoke unless they were spoken to, and their melancholy impassiveness used to vex my Father, who once, referring to the Moxhays, described them, sententiously but justly, as being 'laborious, but it would be an exaggeration to say happy, Christians'. Indeed, my memory pictures almost all the 'saints' of that early time as sad and humble souls, lacking vitality, yet not complaining of anything definite. A quite surprising number of them, it is true, male and female, suffered from different forms of consumption, so that the Room rang in winter evenings with a discord of hacking coughs. But it seems to me that, when I was quite young, half the inhabitants of our rural district were affected with phthisis. No doubt, our peculiar religious community was more likely to attract the feeble members of a population, than to tempt the flush and the fair.

Richard Moxhay, the mason, kept the key to the Room. He was a generation younger than Mr. Petherbridge, but still 'getting on in years'. I cannot say why, but Moxhay always dressed in white corduroy. Any stain from the scarlet Devonshire mud showed up painfully clearly on it. When he was dressed up, he looked as though someone had coated him in the rich Western whitewash that resembles Devonshire cream. His hair was long and thin, and as deathly black as his clothes were white. He was a modest, gentle man, and his wife was even more meek and gracious than he was. As far as I can remember, neither of them ever spoke unless spoken to. Their sad lack of expression used to annoy my Father. Once, speaking of the Moxhays, he solemnly but fairly described them as 'hardworking Christians, but it would be an exaggeration to say they were happy'. Indeed, I remember almost all the 'saints' of that early time as sad and humble souls. They lacked vitality, yet complained of nothing in particular. It is true that a surprisingly large number of them, men and women, suffered from various forms of consumption. As a result, the Room rang with a discord of hacking coughs on winter evenings. But it seems to me that, when I was very young, half the people in our rural district had phthisis, or consumption. No doubt, our unusual religious community was more likely to attract the weak members of the population than the healthy and attractive ones.

Miss Marks, patient pilgrim that she was, accepted this quaint society without a murmur, although I do not think it was much to her taste. But in a very short time it was sweetened to her by the formation of a devoted and romantic friendship for one of the 'sisters', who was, indeed, if my childish recollection does not fail me, a very charming person. The consequence of this enthusiastic alliance was that I was carried into the bosom of the family to which Miss Marks' new friend belonged, and of these excellent people I must give what picture I can.

Miss Marks was a patient pilgrim, and she accepted this quaint company without complaint. Still, I do not think it was much to her taste. But she soon grew more fond of the company through a devoted and romantic friendship with one of the 'sisters'. If my childhood memory is reliable, this sister was indeed a very charming person. As a result of this enthusiastic friendship, I was welcomed into the family of Miss Marks' new friend. I must now describe these excellent people as best I can.

Almost opposite the Room, therefore at the far end of the village, across one of the rare small gardens (in which this first winter I discovered with rapture the magenta stars of a new flower, hepatica)—a shop-window displayed a thin row of plates and dishes, cups and saucers; above it was painted the name of Burmington. This china-shop was the property of three orphan sisters, Ann, Mary Grace, and Bess, the latter lately married to a carpenter, who was 'elder' at our meeting; the other two, resolute old maids. Ann, whom I have already mentioned, had been one of the girls converted by the Cornish fishermen. She was about ten years older than Bess, and Mary Grace came halfway between them. Ann was a very worthy woman, but masterful and passionate, suffering from an ungovernable temper, which at calmer moments she used to refer to, not without complacency, as 'the sin which doth most easily beset me'. Bess was insignificant, and vulgarized by domestic cares. But Mary Grace was a delightful creature. The Burmingtons lived in what was almost the only old house surviving in the village. It was an extraordinary construction of two storeys, with vast rooms, and winding passages, and surprising changes of level. The sisters were poor, but very industrious, and never in anything like want; they sold, as I have said, crockery, and they took in washing, and did a little fine needlework, and sold the produce of a great, vague garden at the back. In process of time, the elder sisters took a young woman, whose name was Drusilla Elliott, to live with them as servant and companion; she was a converted person, worshipping with a kindred sect, the Bible Christians. I remember being much interested in hearing how Bess, before her marriage, became converted. Mary Grace, on account of her infirm health, slept alone in one room; in another, of vast size, stood a family fourposter, where Ann slept with Drusilla Elliott, and another bed in the same room took Bess. The sisters and their friend had been constantly praying that Bess might 'find peace', for she was still a stranger to salvation. One night, she suddenly called out, rather crossly, 'What are you two whispering about? Do go to sleep,' to which Ann replied: 'We are praying for you.' 'How do you know,' answered Bess, 'that I don't believe?' And then she told them that, that very night, when she was sitting in the shop, she had closed with God's offer of redemption. Late in the night as it was, Ann and Drusilla could do no less than go in and waken Mary Grace, whom, however, they found awake, praying, she too, for the conversion of Bess. They told her the good news, and all four, kneeling in the darkness, gave thanks aloud to God for his infinite mercy.

Almost opposite the Room, at the far end of the village, a shop stood across one of the village's few small gardens. That first winter, I was delighted to discover a new flower there, the hepatica, with its magenta stars. The shop window displayed a thin row of plates and dishes, cups and saucers. Above it was painted the name Burmington. The china shop belonged to three orphaned sisters, Ann, Mary Grace, and Bess. Bess had recently married a carpenter who was an 'elder' at our meeting. The other two were determined old maids. Ann, whom I have already mentioned, was one of the girls converted by the Cornish fishermen. She was about ten years older than Bess, and Mary Grace was halfway between them in age. Ann was a very good woman, but domineering and passionate. She had an uncontrollable temper, which she mentioned in calmer moments with some satisfaction as 'the sin which doth most easily beset me'. Bess was insignificant and had been made coarse by household cares. But Mary Grace was a delightful creature. The Burmingtons lived in what was almost the only old house left in the village. It was an extraordinary two-storey building, with vast rooms, winding passages, and surprising changes of level. The sisters were poor but very hardworking, and they were never close to going without. They sold crockery, as I have said, took in washing, did some fine needlework, and sold produce from a large, sprawling garden at the back. In time, the elder sisters took in a young woman named Drusilla Elliott as a servant and companion. She was a convert who worshipped with a related sect, the Bible Christians. I remember being very interested to hear how Bess was converted before her marriage. Because of her poor health, Mary Grace slept alone in one room. In another, very large room, stood a family four-poster bed, where Ann slept with Drusilla Elliott. Bess slept in another bed in the same room. The sisters and their friend had been praying constantly that Bess would 'find peace', for she had not yet found salvation. One night, she suddenly called out, rather crossly, 'What are you two whispering about? Do go to sleep.' Ann replied, 'We are praying for you.' 'How do you know,' Bess answered, 'that I don't believe?' She then told them that, that very night, she had accepted God's offer of redemption while sitting in the shop. Though it was late at night, Ann and Drusilla felt they had to go and wake Mary Grace. But they found her awake, also praying for Bess's conversion. They told her the good news, and all four knelt in the darkness and thanked God aloud for his infinite mercy.

It was Mary Grace Burmington who now became the romantic friend of Miss Marks, and a sort of second benevolence to me. She must have been under thirty years of age; she wax very small, and she was distressingly deformed in the spine, but she had an animated, almost a sparkling countenance. When we first arrived in the village, Mary Grace was only just recovering from a gastric fever which had taken her close to the grave. I remember hearing that the vicar, a stout and pompous man at whom we always glared defiance, went, in Mary Grace's supposed extremity, to the Burmingtons' shop-door, and shouted: 'Peace be to this house,' intending to offer his ministrations, but that Ann, who was in one of her tantrums, positively hounded him from the doorstep and down the garden, in her passionate nonconformity. Mary Grace, however, recovered, and soon became, not merely Miss Marks' inseparable friend, but my Father's spiritual factotum. He found it irksome to visit the 'saints' from house to house, and Mary Grace Burmington gladly assumed this labour. She proved a most efficient coadjutor; searched out, cherished and confirmed any of those, especially the young, who were attracted by my Father's preaching, and for several years was a great joy and comfort to us all. Even when her illness so increased that she could no longer rise from her bed, she was a centre of usefulness and cheerfulness from that retreat, where she 'received', in a kind of rustic state, under a patchwork coverlid that was like a basket of flowers.

Mary Grace Burmington now became Miss Marks' romantic friend and a second source of kindness to me. She must have been under thirty. She was very small and had a distressing deformity of the spine, but her face was lively, almost sparkling. When we first arrived in the village, Mary Grace was just recovering from a gastric fever that had nearly killed her. I remember hearing how the vicar came to the Burmingtons' shop door when Mary Grace seemed close to death. He was a stout, pompous man, and we always glared at him in defiance. He called out, 'Peace be to this house,' intending to offer his spiritual help. But Ann was in one of her tantrums. In her fierce devotion to nonconformity, she practically chased him off the doorstep and down the garden. Mary Grace recovered, however, and soon became not only Miss Marks' inseparable friend but my Father's spiritual helper in all things. He found it tiring to visit the 'saints' from house to house, and Mary Grace Burmington gladly took on the work. She was a most effective helper. She sought out, nurtured and strengthened those attracted by my Father's preaching, especially the young. For several years she was a great joy and comfort to us all. Even when her illness grew so severe that she could no longer leave her bed, she remained a source of help and cheer from her room. There she 'received' visitors with a kind of country dignity, under a patchwork quilt that looked like a basket of flowers.

My Father, ever reflecting on what could be done to confirm my spiritual vocation, to pin me down, as it were, beyond any possibility of escape, bethought him that it would accustom me to what he called 'pastoral work in the Lord's service', if I accompanied Mary Grace on her visits from house to house. If it is remembered that I was only eight and a half when this scheme was carried into practice, it will surprise no one to hear that it was not crowned with success. I disliked extremely this visitation of the poor. I felt shy, I had nothing to say, with difficulty could I understand their soft Devonian patois, and most of all—a signal perhaps of my neurotic condition—I dreaded and loathed the smells of their cottages. One had to run over the whole gamut of odours, some so faint that they embraced the nostril with a fairy kiss, others bluntly gross, of the 'knock- you-down' order; some sweet, with a dreadful sourness; some bitter, with a smack of rancid hair-oil. There were fine manly smells of the pigsty and the open drain, and these prided themselves on being all they seemed to be; but there were also feminine odours, masquerading as you knew not what, in which penny whiffs, vials of balm and opoponax, seemed to have become tainted, vaguely, with the residue of the slop-pail. It was not, I think, that the villagers were particularly dirty, but those were days before the invention of sanitary science, and my poor young nose was morbidly, nay ridiculously sensitive. I often came home from 'visiting the saints' absolutely incapable of eating the milk-sop, with brown sugar strewn over it, which was my evening meal.

My Father was always thinking about how to strengthen my spiritual calling and, so to speak, bind me to it beyond any possibility of escape. He thought that accompanying Mary Grace on her house-to-house visits would get me used to what he called 'pastoral work in the Lord's service'. I was only eight and a half when this plan was put into practice. Remembering that, no one will be surprised to hear that it was not a success. I intensely disliked visiting the poor. I felt shy and had nothing to say. I could hardly understand their soft Devonian dialect. Most of all, I dreaded and loathed the smells of their cottages. This was perhaps a sign of my nervous condition. One had to endure the whole range of smells. Some were so faint that they touched the nostrils with a fairy's kiss. Others were bluntly gross, of the 'knock-you-down' kind. Some were sweet, with a dreadful sourness. Others were bitter, with a hint of rancid hair oil. There were fine, manly smells from the pigsty and the open drain. These prided themselves on being exactly what they seemed. But there were also feminine smells, disguised as one could not tell what. Cheap perfumes, little bottles of balm and opoponax seemed to have been vaguely tainted with the remains of the slop-pail. I do not think the villagers were particularly dirty. But those were the days before the invention of sanitary science, and my poor young nose was morbidly, even ridiculously sensitive. I often came home from 'visiting the saints' quite unable to eat my evening meal of bread soaked in milk, sprinkled with brown sugar.

There was one exception to my unwillingness to join in the pastoral labours of Mary Grace. When she announced, on a fine afternoon, that we were going to Pavor and Barton, I was always agog to start. These were two hamlets in our parish, and, I should suppose, the original home of its population. Pavor was, even then, decayed almost to extinction, but Barton preserved its desultory street of ancient, detached cottages. Each, however poor, had a wild garden around it, and, where the inhabitants possessed some pride in their surroundings, the roses and the jasmines and that distinguished creeper,—which one sees nowhere at its best but in Devonshire cottage-gardens,—the stately cotoneaster, made the whole place a bower. Barton was in vivid contrast to our own harsh, open, squalid village, with its mean modern houses, its absence of all vegetation. The ancient thatched cottages of Barton were shut in by moist hills, and canopied by ancient trees; they were approached along a deep lane which was all a wonder and a revelation to me that spring, since, in the very words of Shelley:

There was one exception to my reluctance to join Mary Grace in her visits to parishioners. Whenever she announced on a fine afternoon that we were going to Pavor and Barton, I was eager to start. These were two hamlets in our parish, and I suppose they were the original home of its population. Even then, Pavor had declined almost to extinction, but Barton still had its scattered street of old, separate cottages. Each cottage, however poor, had a wild garden around it. Where the residents took some pride in their surroundings, roses, jasmine, and the stately cotoneaster turned the whole place into a bower. The cotoneaster is a distinguished climbing plant, seen at its best only in Devonshire cottage gardens. Barton was a vivid contrast to our own harsh, exposed, squalid village, with its shabby modern houses and complete lack of vegetation. Barton's old thatched cottages were enclosed by damp hills and shaded by ancient trees. A deep lane led to the cottages. That spring, the lane was a source of wonder and revelation to me, since, in the very words of Shelley:

Around and beyond Barton there lay fairyland. All was mysterious, unexplored, rich with infinite possibilities. I should one day enter it, the sword of make-believe in my hand, the cap of courage on my head, 'when you are a big boy', said the oracle of Mary Grace. For the present, we had to content ourselves with being an unadventurous couple—a little woman, bent half-double, and a preternaturally sedate small boy—as we walked very slowly, side by side, conversing on terms of high familiarity, in which Biblical and colloquial phrases were quaintly jumbled, through the sticky red mud of the Pavor lanes with Barton as a bourne before us.

Around and beyond Barton lay fairyland. All of it was mysterious, unexplored, and full of endless possibilities. One day I would enter it, with the sword of make-believe in my hand and the cap of courage on my head. This would happen 'when you are a big boy', as Mary Grace declared like an oracle. For now, we had to be content with being an unadventurous pair: a little woman bent almost double and an unusually serious little boy. We walked very slowly, side by side, through the sticky red mud of the Pavor lanes, with Barton as our destination. We talked with great familiarity, mixing Biblical and everyday phrases in a quaint way.

When we came home, my Father would sometimes ask me for particulars. Where had we been, whom had we found at home, what testimony had those visited been able to give of the Lord's goodness to them, what had Mary Grace replied in the way of exhortation, reproof or condolence? These questions I hated at the time, but they were very useful to me, since they gave me the habit of concentrating my attention on what was going on in the course of our visits, in case I might be called upon to give a report. My Father was very kind in the matter; he cultivated my powers of expression, he did not snub me when I failed to be intelligent. But I overheard Miss Marks and Mary Grace discussing the whole question under the guise of referring to 'you know whom, not a hundred miles hence', fancying that I could not recognize their little ostrich because its head was in a bag of metaphor. I understood perfectly, and gathered that they both of them thought this business of my going into undrained cottages injudicious. Accordingly, I was by degrees taken 'visiting' only when Mary Grace was going into the country-hamlets, and then I was usually left outside, to skip among the flowers and stalk the butterflies.

When we came home, my Father would sometimes ask me for details. Where had we been? Whom had we found at home? What had the people we visited said about the Lord's goodness to them? How had Mary Grace responded with encouragement, rebuke, or sympathy? I hated these questions at the time, but they were very useful to me. They taught me to pay close attention during our visits, in case I was asked to report on them. My Father was very kind about it. He helped me learn to express myself and did not dismiss me when I failed to be clever. But I overheard Miss Marks and Mary Grace discussing the whole matter. They referred to me as 'you know whom, not a hundred miles hence'. They imagined I could not recognize their little ostrich because its head was in a bag of metaphor. I understood perfectly and gathered that they both thought it unwise for me to enter cottages without drainage. So, little by little, I was taken 'visiting' only when Mary Grace went to the country hamlets. Even then, I was usually left outside, to skip among the flowers and stalk the butterflies.

I must not, however, underestimate the very prominent part taken all through this spring and summer of 1858 by the collection of specimens on the seashore. My Father had returned, the chagrin of his failure in theorizing now being mitigated, to what was his real work in life, the practical study of animal forms in detail. He was not a biologist, in the true sense of the term. That luminous indication which Flaubert gives of what the action of the scientific mind should be, affranchissant esprit et pesant les mondes, sans haine, sans peur, sans pitie, sans amour et sans Dieu, was opposed in every segment to the attitude of my Father, who, nevertheless, was a man of very high scientific attainment.

I must not, however, underestimate how important collecting specimens on the seashore was throughout the spring and summer of 1858. My Father’s disappointment at the failure of his theorizing had eased. He had returned to his real life’s work, the detailed practical study of animal forms. He was not a biologist in the true sense of the word. Flaubert gives an illuminating picture of how the scientific mind should work: freeing the mind and weighing the worlds, without hatred, without fear, without pity, without love and without God. This ideal was opposed in every respect to my Father’s outlook. Nevertheless, he was a man of great scientific accomplishment.

But, again I repeat, he was not a philosopher; he was incapable, by temperament and education, of forming broad generalizations and of escaping in a vast survey from the troublesome pettiness of detail. He saw everything through a lens, nothing in the immensity of nature. Certain senses were absent in him; I think that, with all his justice, he had no conception of the importance of liberty; with all his intelligence, the boundaries of the atmosphere in which his mind could think at all were always close about him; with all his faith in the Word of God, he had no confidence in the Divine Benevolence; and with all his passionate piety, he habitually mistook fear for love.

But I repeat, he was not a philosopher. His temperament and education made him incapable of forming broad generalizations. He could not escape the troublesome pettiness of detail by taking a broad view. He saw everything through a lens, nothing against the vastness of nature. He lacked certain senses. I think that, for all his sense of justice, he had no idea how important liberty was. For all his intelligence, the boundaries of his thinking were always close around him. For all his faith in the Word of God, he had no confidence in God’s goodness. And for all his passionate piety, he habitually mistook fear for love.

It was down on the shore, tramping along the pebbled terraces of the beach, clambering over the great blocks of fallen conglomerate which broke the white curve with rufous promontories that jutted into the sea, or, finally, bending over those shallow tidal pools in the limestone rocks which were our proper hunting- ground,—it was in such circumstances as these that my Father became most easy, most happy, most human. That hard look across his brows, which it wearied me to see, the look that came from sleepless anxiety of conscience, faded away, and left the dark countenance still always stern indeed, but serene and unupbraiding. Those pools were our mirrors, in which, reflected in the dark hyaline and framed by the sleek and shining fronds of oar-weed there used to appear the shapes of a middle-aged man and a funny little boy, equally eager, and, I almost find the presumption to say, equally well prepared fog business.

My Father was most relaxed, most happy, most human when we were down on the shore. We would tramp along the pebbled terraces of the beach and climb over great blocks of fallen conglomerate. The blocks broke the beach’s white curve with reddish headlands jutting into the sea. Or we would bend over the shallow tidal pools in the limestone rocks, our real hunting ground. The hard look across his brow, which it tired me to see, would fade away. That look came from sleepless anxiety about his conscience. Without it, his dark face was still stern, but calm and free of reproach. The pools were our mirrors. In their dark, glassy water, framed by the smooth, shining fronds of oarweed, we could see our reflections. They showed a middle-aged man and a funny little boy, equally eager. I almost dare to say we were equally well prepared for the task.

If anyone goes down to those shores now, if man or boy seeks to follow in our traces, let him realize at once, before he takes the trouble to roll up his sleeves, that his zeal will end in labour lost. There is nothing, now, where in our days there was so much. Then the rocks between tide and tide were submarine gardens of a beauty that seemed often to be fabulous, and was positively delusive, since, if we delicately lifted the weedcurtains of a windless pool, though we might for a moment see its sides and floor paven with living blossoms, ivory-white, rosy-red, grange and amethyst, yet all that panoply would melt away, furled into the hollow rock, if we so much as dropped a pebble in to disturb the magic dream.

If anyone visits those shores now, hoping to follow in our footsteps, they should know one thing before rolling up their sleeves. Their enthusiasm will be wasted. There is nothing there now, where in our day there was so much. Back then, the rocks between the high and low tide marks were underwater gardens. Their beauty often seemed almost too wonderful to be real, and it was actually deceptive. If we gently lifted the curtains of seaweed in a still pool, we might briefly see its sides and bottom covered with living flowers. They were ivory white, rosy red, orange and amethyst. But if we dropped so much as a pebble into the pool, the whole display would disappear. The flowers would fold themselves into the hollow rock, and the magical dream would be disturbed.

Half a century ago, in many parts of the coast of Devonshire and Cornwall, where the limestone at the water's edge is wrought into crevices and hollows, the tideline was, like Keats' Grecian vase, 'a still unravished bride of quietness'. These cups and basins were always full, whether the tide was high or low, and the only way in which they were affected was that twice in the twenty-four hours they were replenished by cold streams from the great sea, and then twice were left brimming to be vivified by the temperate movement of the upper air. They were living flower-beds, so exquisite in their perfection, that my Father, in spite of his scientific requirements, used not seldom to pause before he began to rifle them, ejaculating that it was indeed a pity to disturb such congregated beauty. The antiquity of these rock-pools, and the infinite succession of the soft and radiant forms, sea- anemones, seaweeds, shells, fishes, which had inhabited them, undisturbed since the creation of the world, used to occupy my Father's fancy. We burst in, he used to say, where no one had ever thought of intruding before; and if the Garden of Eden had been situate in Devonshire, Adam and Eve, stepping lightly down to bathe in the rainbow-coloured spray, would have seen the identical sights that we now saw,—the great prawns gliding like transparent launches, anthea waving in the twilight its thick white waxen tentacles, and the fronds of the duke faintly streaming on the water like huge red banners in some reverted atmosphere.

Half a century ago, the limestone along many parts of the Devonshire and Cornwall coast formed crevices and hollows. There, the tideline was, like Keats' Grecian vase, 'a still unravished bride of quietness'. These cups and basins were always full, whether the tide was high or low. Twice every twenty-four hours, cold streams from the great sea replenished them. Twice they were left brimming, to be brought to life by the gentle movement of the air above. They were living flower beds, so exquisitely perfect that my Father often paused before disturbing them. Despite the needs of his scientific work, he would exclaim that it was indeed a pity to disturb such gathered beauty. My Father often imagined how ancient these rock-pools were. He thought of the endless succession of soft, radiant forms that had lived in them: sea-anemones, seaweeds, shells and fishes. They had remained undisturbed since the creation of the world. We burst in, he used to say, where no one had ever thought of intruding before. If the Garden of Eden had been in Devonshire, Adam and Eve would have seen exactly what we saw. They would have stepped lightly down to bathe in the rainbow-coloured spray. There they would have seen great prawns gliding like transparent launches, and anthea waving its thick white, waxy tentacles in the twilight. They would also have seen the fronds of the duke streaming faintly on the water, like huge red banners in an upside-down atmosphere.

All this is long over and done with. The ring of living beauty drawn about our shores was a very thin and fragile one. It had existed all those centuries solely in consequence of the indifference, the blissful ignorance of man. These rockbasins, fringed by corallines, filled with still water almost as pellucid as the upper air itself, thronged with beautiful sensitive forms of life, they exist no longer, they are all profaned, and emptied, and vulgarized. An army of 'collectors' has passed over them, and ravaged every corner of them. The fairy paradise has been violated, the exquisite product of centuries of natural selection has been crushed under the rough paw of well-meaning, idle-minded curiosity. That my Father, himself so reverent, so conservative, had by the popularity of his books acquired the direct responsibility for a calamity that he had never anticipated became clear enough to himself before many years had passed, and cost him great chagrin. No one will see again on the shore of England what I saw in my early childhood, the submarine vision of dark rocks, speckled and starred with an infinite variety of colour, and streamed over by silken flags of royal crimson and purple.

All this is long over. The ring of living beauty around our shores was very thin and fragile. It had survived for centuries only because people were indifferent and blissfully ignorant. The rock pools, edged with coralline algae, were filled with still water almost as clear as the air above. They teemed with beautiful, sensitive forms of life. Those pools no longer exist. They have all been desecrated, emptied, and made ordinary. An army of 'collectors' has passed over them, ravaging every corner. The fairy paradise has been violated. The exquisite product of centuries of natural selection has been crushed under the rough paw of well-meaning, thoughtless curiosity. My Father was himself so respectful and protective of nature. Yet the popularity of his books had made him directly responsible for a disaster he had never anticipated. Within a few years, this became clear to him and caused him great distress. No one will ever again see on the shore of England what I saw in early childhood: an underwater vision of dark rocks, dotted and starred with an endless variety of colors, with silky banners of royal crimson and purple streaming over them.

In reviving these impressions, I am unable to give any exact chronological sequence to them. These particular adventures began early in 1858, they reached their greatest intensity in the summer of 1859, and they did not altogether cease, so far as my Father was concerned, until nearly twenty years later. But it was while he was composing what, as I am told by scientific men of today, continues to be his most valuable contribution to knowledge, his History of the British Sea-Anemones and Corals, that we worked together on the shore for a definite purpose, and the last instalment of that still-classic volume was ready for press by the close of 1859.

As I recall these impressions, I cannot put them in exact chronological order. These particular adventures began early in 1858 and were most intense in the summer of 1859. As far as my Father was concerned, they did not end altogether until nearly twenty years later. But we worked together on the shore for a specific purpose while he was writing History of the British Sea-Anemones and Corals. Scientists today tell me that it remains his most valuable contribution to knowledge. The final installment of that still classic volume was ready for the press by the end of 1859.

The way in which my Father worked, in his most desperate escapades, was to wade breast-high into one of the huge pools, and examine the worm-eaten surface of the rock above and below the brim. In such remote places—spots where I could never venture being left, a slightly timorous Andromeda, chained to a safer level of the cliff—in these extreme basins, there used often to lurk a marvellous profusion of animal and vegetable forms. My Father would search for the roughest and most corroded points of rock, those offering the best refuge for a variety of creatures, and would then chisel off fragments as low down in the water as he could. These pieces of rock were instantly plunged in the saltwater of jars which we had brought with us for the purpose. When as much had been collected as we could carry away— my Father always dragged about an immense square basket, the creak of whose handles I can still fancy that I hear—we turned to trudge up the long climb home. Then all our prizes were spread out, face upward, in shallow pans of clean sea-water.

On his most daring expeditions, my Father would wade chest-deep into one of the huge pools. He would examine the worm-eaten rock above and below the waterline. I could never risk being left in such remote places. Like a slightly timid Andromeda, I was chained to a safer part of the cliff. In those farthest pools, a marvelous abundance of plants and animals often lay hidden. My Father would look for the roughest, most worn-away parts of the rock, which offered the best shelter for many creatures. Then he would chisel off pieces as far below the water as he could reach. He immediately plunged the pieces into jars of saltwater we had brought for that purpose. When we had collected as much as we could carry, we began the long trudge uphill toward home. My Father always dragged along an enormous square basket. I can still imagine hearing its handles creak. Once home, we spread all our prizes face up in shallow pans of clean seawater.

In a few hours, when all dirt had subsided, and what living creatures we had brought seemed to have recovered their composure, my work began. My eyes were extremely keen and powerful, though they were vexatiously near-sighted. Of no use in examining objects at any distance, in investigating a minute surface, my vision was trained to be invaluable. The shallow pan, with our spoils, would rest on a table near the window, and I, kneeling on a chair opposite the light, would lean over the surface until everything was within an inch or two of my eyes. Often I bent, in my zeal, so far forward that the water touched the tip of my nose and gave me a little icy shock. In this attitude, an idle spectator might have formed the impression that I was trying to wash my head and could not quite summon up resolution enough to plunge. In this odd pose I would remain for a long time, holding my breath and examining with extreme care every atom of rock, every swirl of detritus. This was a task which my Father could only perform by the help of a lens, with which, of course, he took care to supplement my examination. But that my survey was of use, he has himself most handsomely testified in his Actinologia Britannica, where he expresses his debt to the 'keen and well-practised eye of my little son'. Nor, if boasting is not to be excluded, is it every eminent biologist, every proud and masterful F.R.S., who can lay his hand on his heart and swear that, before reaching the age of ten years, he had added, not merely a new species, but a new genus to the British fauna. That however, the author of these pages can do, who, on 29 June 1859, discovered a tiny atom,—and ran in the greatest agitation to announce the discovery of that object 'as a form with which he was unacquainted',—which figures since then on all lists of sea-anemones as phellia murocincta, or the walled corklet. Alas! that so fair a swallow should have made no biological summer in after-life.

After a few hours, all the dirt had settled, and the living creatures we had brought seemed calm again. Then my work began. My eyes were exceptionally sharp and strong, though annoyingly near-sighted. They were no use for examining distant objects, but my sight was trained to be invaluable when examining a tiny surface. The shallow pan holding our finds would sit on a table near the window. I would kneel on a chair facing the light and lean over the water until everything was an inch or two from my eyes. Often, in my enthusiasm, I leaned so far forward that the water touched my nose and gave me a little icy shock. A casual spectator might have thought I was trying to wash my head but could not quite bring myself to plunge it in. I would stay in this odd position for a long time, holding my breath and examining every speck of rock and every swirl of debris with extreme care. My Father could only do this work with a lens, which he of course used to check my examination. But he himself generously acknowledged its value in his Actinologia Britannica. There he expresses his debt to the 'keen and well-practised eye of my little son'. And, if I may boast, not every eminent biologist or proud and commanding F.R.S. can put his hand on his heart and swear that he added not merely a new species, but a new genus to the British fauna before he turned ten. The author of these pages can do just that. On 29 June 1859, I discovered a tiny creature and ran off in great excitement to announce my discovery of 'a form with which he was unacquainted'. Since then, it has appeared on all lists of sea-anemones as phellia murocincta, or the walled corklet. Alas, such a fine swallow did not make a biological summer in my later life.

These delicious agitations by the edge of the salt-sea wave must have greatly improved my health, which however was still looked upon as fragile. I was loaded with coats and comforters, and strolled out between Miss Marks and Mary Grace Burmington, a muffled ball of flannel. This alone was enough to give me a look of delicacy which the 'saints', in their blunt way, made no scruple of commenting upon to my face. I was greatly impressed by a conversation held over my bed one evening by the servants. Our cook, Susan, a person of enormous size, and Kate, the tattling, tiresome parlour-maid who waited upon us, on the summer evening I speak of were standing—I cannot tell why—on each side of my bed. I shut my eyes, and lay quite still, in order to escape conversing with them, and they spoke to one another. 'Ah, poor lamb,' Kate said trivially, 'he's not long for this world; going home to Jesus, he is,—in a jiffy, I should say by the look of 'un.' But Susan answered: 'Not so. I dreamed about 'un, and I know for sure that he is to be spared for missionary service.' 'Missionary service?' repeated Kate, impressed. 'Yes,' Susan went on, with solemn emphasis, 'he'll bleed for his Lord in heathen parts, that's what the future have in store for 'im.' When they were gone, I beat upon the coverlid with my fists, and I determined that whatever happened, I would not, not, not, go out to preach the Gospel among horrid, tropical niggers.

These delightful thrills by the edge of the sea must have greatly improved my health. Even so, people still considered me fragile. I was bundled in coats and scarves and went for walks between Miss Marks and Mary Grace Burmington, a little ball wrapped in flannel. That alone was enough to make me look delicate. The 'saints', in their blunt way, had no hesitation about commenting on it to my face. A conversation the servants had over my bed one evening made a great impression on me. Our cook, Susan, was enormous. Kate, the parlour-maid who waited on us, was a tiresome gossip. On the summer evening I remember, they were standing on either side of my bed. I cannot say why. I closed my eyes and lay very still to avoid talking to them, and they spoke to each other. 'Ah, poor lamb,' Kate said casually, 'he's not long for this world. He's going home to Jesus in no time, I'd say, by the look of him.' But Susan answered: 'No. I dreamed about him, and I know for sure he'll be spared for missionary service.' 'Missionary service?' Kate repeated, impressed. 'Yes,' Susan went on, with solemn emphasis, 'he'll bleed for his Lord in heathen lands. That's what the future has in store for him.' When they had gone, I beat the bedspread with my fists. I resolved that whatever happened, I would not, not, not, go out to preach the Gospel among horrid, tropical niggers.