Chapter 7

IN the history of an infancy so cloistered and uniform as mine, such a real adventure as my being publicly and successfully kidnapped cannot be overlooked. There were several 'innocents' in our village—harmless eccentrics who had more or less unquestionably crossed the barrier which divides the sane from the insane. They were not discouraged by public opinion; indeed, several of them were favoured beings, suspected by my Father of exaggerating their mental density in order to escape having to work, like dogs, who, as we all know, could speak as well as we do, were they not afraid of being made to fetch and carry. Miss Mary Flaw was not one of these imbeciles. She was what the French call a detraquee; she had enjoyed good intelligence and an active mind, but her wits had left the rails and were careening about the country. Miss Flaw was the daughter of a retired Baptist minister, and she lived, with I remember not what relations, in a little solitary house high up at Barton Cross, whither Mary Grace and I would sometimes struggle when our pastoral duties were over. In later years, when I met with those celebrated verses in which the philosopher expresses the hope

My infancy was so sheltered and uneventful that one real adventure cannot be overlooked: I was kidnapped, openly and successfully. There were several 'innocents' in our village. They were harmless eccentrics who had, more or less unquestionably, crossed the line between sanity and insanity. Public opinion did not discourage them. In fact, several were treated with favor. My Father suspected that they exaggerated their lack of intelligence to avoid having to work. They were like dogs, who, as we all know, could speak as well as we do if they were not afraid of being made to fetch and carry. Miss Mary Flaw was not one of these imbeciles. She was what the French call detraquee. She had once been intelligent and mentally active, but her mind had gone off the rails and was careening about the countryside. Miss Flaw was the daughter of a retired Baptist minister. She lived with some relatives, though I no longer remember which ones, in a small, isolated house high up at Barton Cross. Mary Grace and I would sometimes make the difficult journey there after our pastoral duties were over. In later years, I came across those celebrated verses in which the philosopher expresses the hope

my thoughts returned instinctively, and they still return, to the high abode of Miss Flaw. There was a porch at her door, both for shelter and shade, and it was covered with jasmine; but the charm of the place was a summer-house close by, containing a table, encrusted with cowry-shells, and seats from which one saw the distant waters of the bay. At the entrance to this grotto there was always set a 'snug elbow-chair', destined, I suppose, for the Rev. Mr. Flaw, or else left there in pious memory of him, since I cannot recollect whether he was alive or dead.

My thoughts returned instinctively, and still return, to Miss Flaw’s home on high. Her doorway had a jasmine-covered porch that offered shelter and shade. But the charm of the place was a nearby summerhouse. It contained a table covered with cowrie shells and seats overlooking the distant waters of the bay. A ‘snug elbow-chair’ always stood at the entrance to this grotto. I suppose it was meant for the Rev. Mr. Flaw, or else had been left there in reverent memory of him. I cannot remember whether he was alive or dead.

I delighted in these visits to Mary Flaw. She always received us with effusion, tripping forward to meet us, and leading us, each by a hand held high, with a dancing movement which I thought infinitely graceful, to the cowry-shell bower, where she would regale us with Devonshire cream and with small hard biscuits that were like pebbles. The conversation of Mary Flaw was a great treat to me. I enjoyed its irregularities, its waywardness; it was like a tune that wandered into several keys. As Mary Grace Burmington put it, one never knew what dear Mary Flaw would say next, and that she did not herself know added to the charm. She had become crazed, poor thing, in consequence of a disappointment in love, but of course I did not know that, nor that she was crazed at all. I thought her brilliant and original, and I liked her very much. In the light of coming events, it would be affectation were I to pretend that she did not feel a similar partiality for me.

I loved visiting Mary Flaw. She always welcomed us warmly, skipping forward to meet us. She would take each of us by the hand, holding our hands high, and lead us to the cowry-shell bower. Her dancing movement seemed infinitely graceful to me. There she would treat us to Devonshire cream and small, hard biscuits like pebbles. Mary Flaw’s conversation was a great treat to me. I enjoyed its unpredictable twists. It was like a tune that wandered through several keys. As Mary Grace Burmington put it, one never knew what dear Mary Flaw would say next. The fact that Mary Flaw herself did not know added to the charm. Poor Mary had lost her mind after a disappointment in love. But of course I knew nothing of that, or even that she had lost her mind. I thought her brilliant and original, and I liked her very much. In light of events to come, it would be false modesty to pretend that she was not equally fond of me.

Miss Flaw was, from the first, devoted to my Father's ministrations, and it was part of our odd village indulgence that no one ever dreamed of preventing her from coming to the Room. On Sunday evenings the bulk of the audience was arranged on forms, with backs to them, set in the middle of the floor, with a passage round them, while other forms were placed against the walls. My Father preached from a lectern, facing the audience. If darkness came on in the course of the service, Richard Moxhay, glimmering in his cream-white corduroys, used to go slowly around, lighting groups of tallow candles by the help of a box of lucifers. Mary Flaw always assumed the place of honour, on the left extremity of the front bench, immediately opposite my Father. Miss Marks and Mary Grace, with me ensconced and almost buried between them, occupied the right of the same bench. While the lighting proceeded, Miss Flaw used to direct it from her seat, silently, by pointing out to Moxhay, who took no notice, what groups of candles he should light next. She did this just as the clown in the circus directs the grooms how to move the furniture, and Moxhay paid no more attention to her than the grooms do to the clown. Miss Flaw had another peculiarity: she silently went through a service exactly similar to ours, but much briefer. The course of our evening service was this: My Father prayed, and we all knelt down; then he gave out a hymn and most of us stood up to sing; then he preached for about an hour, while we sat and listened; then a hymn again; then prayer and the valediction.

From the beginning, Miss Flaw was devoted to my Father's preaching and ministry. In our village's peculiar spirit of tolerance, no one ever dreamed of stopping her from coming to the Room. On Sunday evenings, most of the audience sat on benches with backs, arranged in the middle of the floor. A passage ran around them, and other benches stood against the walls. My Father preached from a lectern, facing the audience. If darkness fell during the service, Richard Moxhay would slowly go around lighting groups of tallow candles with matches. He glimmered in his cream-white corduroys. Mary Flaw always took the place of honor, at the far left of the front bench, directly opposite my Father. Miss Marks and Mary Grace sat at the right of the same bench, with me settled and almost buried between them. As Moxhay lit the candles, Miss Flaw silently directed him from her seat. She pointed out which groups of candles he should light next, but he took no notice. She did this just as a circus clown directs the grooms as they move the furniture. And Moxhay paid no more attention to her than the grooms pay to the clown. Miss Flaw had another peculiarity. She silently went through a service just like ours, but much shorter. Our evening service went like this: My Father prayed, and we all knelt down. Then he announced a hymn, and most of us stood up to sing. Then he preached for about an hour while we sat and listened. After that came another hymn, then a prayer and the closing blessing.

Mary Flaw went through this ritual, but on a smaller scale. We all knelt down together, but when we rose from our knees, Miss Flaw was already standing up, and was pretending, without a sound, to sing a hymn; in the midst of our hymn, she sat down, opened her Bible, found a text, and then leaned back, her eyes fixed in space, listening to an imaginary sermon which our own real one soon caught up, and coincided with for about three- quarters of an hour. Then, while our sermon went peacefully on, Miss Flaw would rise, and sing in silence (if I am permitted to use such an expression) her own visionary hymn; then she would kneel down and pray, then rise, collect her belongings, and sweep, in fairy majesty, out of the chapel, my Father still rounding his periods from the pulpit. Nobody ever thought of preventing these movements, or of checking the poor creature in her innocent flightiness, until the evening of the great event.

Mary Flaw went through this ritual too, but on a smaller scale. We all knelt down together. But when we rose, Miss Flaw was already standing and pretending to sing a hymn without making a sound. In the middle of our hymn, she sat down, opened her Bible, and found a text. Then she leaned back, staring into space, and listened to an imaginary sermon. Our real sermon soon caught up with hers, and the two coincided for about three-quarters of an hour. Then, while our sermon continued peacefully, Miss Flaw would rise and sing her own imaginary hymn in silence, if I may call it singing. Then she would kneel and pray. After that, she would rise, gather her belongings, and sweep out of the chapel with fairy-like majesty. My Father was still delivering his well-rounded sentences from the pulpit. No one ever thought of stopping her movements or restraining the poor creature in her harmless flightiness, until the evening of the great event.

It was all my own fault. Mary Flaw had finished her imaginary service earlier than usual. She had stood up alone with her hymn- book before her; she had flung herself on her knees alone, in the attitude of devotion; she had risen; she had seated herself for a moment to put on her gloves, and to collect her Bible, her hymn- book and her pocket-handkerchief in her reticule. She was ready to start, and she looked around her with a pleasant air; my Father, all undisturbed, booming away meanwhile over our heads. I know not why the manoeuvres of Miss Flaw especially attracted me that evening, but I leaned out across Miss Marks and I caught Miss Flaw's eye. She nodded, I nodded; and the amazing deed was done, I hardly know how. Miss Flaw, with incredible swiftness, flew along the line, plucked me by the coat-collar from between my paralysed protectresses, darted with me down the chapel and out into the dark, before anyone had time to say 'Jack Robinson'.

It was all my own fault. Mary Flaw had finished her imaginary service earlier than usual. She had stood up alone with her hymn book before her. She had thrown herself on her knees alone, in an attitude of devotion. Then she had risen and sat down for a moment to put on her gloves. She had gathered her Bible, her hymn book, and her handkerchief into her handbag. She was ready to leave and looked around pleasantly. Meanwhile, my Father continued booming away above our heads, undisturbed. I don’t know why Miss Flaw’s movements especially caught my attention that evening, but I leaned across Miss Marks and caught Miss Flaw’s eye. She nodded, and I nodded. Then, in a way I hardly understand, the amazing deed was done. Miss Flaw moved with incredible speed. She flew along the row and pulled me by my coat collar from between the women protecting me, who were too stunned to move. She rushed me down the chapel and out into the dark before anyone had time to say 'Jack Robinson'.

My Father gazed from the pulpit and the stream of exhortation withered on his lips. No one in the body of the audience stirred; no one but himself had clearly seen what had happened. Vague rows of 'saints' with gaping countenances stared up at him, while he shouted, 'Will nobody stop them? as we whisked out through the doorway. Forth into the moist night we went, and up the lampless village, where, a few minutes later, the swiftest of the congregation, with my Father at their head, found us sitting on the doorstep of the butcher's shop. My captor was now quite quiet, and made no objection to my quitting her,—'without a single kiss or a goodbye', as the poet says.

My Father looked out from the pulpit, and his stream of preaching died on his lips. No one in the audience moved. Only he had clearly seen what had happened. Blurred rows of 'saints' stared up at him with open mouths. As we hurried out through the doorway, he shouted, 'Will nobody stop them?' We went out into the damp night and up the village street, where there were no lamps. A few minutes later, the quickest members of the congregation found us sitting on the doorstep of the butcher's shop. My Father was at their head. My captor was now quite calm and did not object when I left her, 'without a single kiss or a goodbye', as the poet says.

Although I had scarcely felt frightened at the time, doubtless my nerves were shaken by this escapade, and it may have had something to do with the recurrence of the distressing visions from which I had suffered as a very little child. These came back, with a force and expansion due to my increased maturity. I had hardly laid my head down on the pillow, than, as it seemed to me, I was taking part in a mad gallop through space. Some force, which had tight hold of me, so that I felt myself an atom in its grasp, was hurrying me on over an endless slender bridge, under which on either side a loud torrent rushed at a vertiginous depth below. At first our helpless flight,—for I was bound hand and foot like Mazeppa,—proceeded in a straight line, but presently it began to curve, and we raced and roared along, in what gradually became a monstrous vortex, reverberant with noises, loud with light, while, as we proceeded, enormous concentric circles engulfed us, and wheeled above and about us. It seemed as if we,—I, that is, and the undefined force which carried me,— were pushing feverishly on towards a goal which our whole concentrated energies were bent on reaching, but which a frenzied despair in my heart told me we never could reach, yet the attainment of which alone could save us from destruction. Far away, in the pulsation of the great luminous whorls, I could just see that goal, a ruby-coloured point waxing and waning, and it bore, or to be exact it consisted of the letters of the word CARMINE.

Although I had hardly felt frightened at the time, the escapade must have shaken my nerves. It may have helped bring back the distressing visions I had suffered as a very young child. They returned with greater force and scope, because I was older. I had hardly laid my head on the pillow when I seemed to be galloping wildly through space. Some force held me so tightly that I felt like an atom in its grasp. It rushed me along an endless narrow bridge. Far below, a loud torrent rushed on either side, at a dizzying depth. At first, our helpless flight went in a straight line. I was bound hand and foot like Mazeppa. But soon our course began to curve. We raced and roared along, gradually entering a monstrous vortex that echoed with noises and blazed with light. As we went on, enormous concentric circles engulfed us and spun above and around us. It seemed as if we were feverishly pushing towards a goal. By “we” I mean myself and the undefined force carrying me. All our energy was focused on reaching that goal. Yet a frantic despair in my heart told me we could never reach it. Only reaching it could save us from destruction. Far away, among the pulsing, great luminous whorls, I could just see the goal. It was a ruby-colored point that grew brighter and dimmer. It bore the letters of the word CARMINE, or rather, it consisted of them.

This agitating vision recurred night after night, and filled me with inexpressible distress. The details of it altered very little, and I knew what I had to expect when I crept into bed. I knew that for a few minutes I should be battling with the chill of the linen sheets, and trying to keep awake, but that then, without a pause, I should slip into that terrible realm of storm and stress in which I was bound hand and foot, and sent galloping through infinity. Often have I wakened, with unutterable joy, to find my Father and Miss Marks, whom my screams had disturbed, standing one on each side of my bed. They could release me from my nightmare, which seldom assailed me twice a night—but how to preserve me from its original attack passed their understanding. My Father, in his tenderness, thought to exorcize the demon by prayer. He would appear in the bedroom, just as I was first slipping into bed, and he would kneel at my side. The light from a candle on the mantel-shelf streamed down upon his dark head of hair while his face was buried in the coverlid, from which a loud voice came up, a little muffled, begging that I might be preserved against all the evil spirits that walk in darkness and that the deep might not swallow me up.

This disturbing vision came back night after night and filled me with indescribable distress. The details hardly changed, and I knew what to expect when I crept into bed. I knew I would spend a few minutes battling the chill of the linen sheets and trying to stay awake. But then, without a pause, I would slip into that terrible realm of storm and turmoil. There I was bound hand and foot and sent galloping through infinity. I often woke with unspeakable joy to find my Father and Miss Marks standing on either side of my bed. My screams had disturbed them. They could wake me from the nightmare, which seldom struck twice in one night. But they could not understand how to prevent it from attacking me in the first place. My Father, in his tenderness, tried to drive out the demon through prayer. He would come into the bedroom just as I was getting into bed and kneel beside me. Candlelight from the mantel streamed down onto his dark hair as he buried his face in the bedcover. His voice rose from it, loud but slightly muffled. He begged that I might be protected from all the evil spirits that walk in darkness and that the deep might not swallow me up.

This little ceremony gave a distraction to my thoughts, and may have been useful in that way. But it led to an unfortunate circumstance. My Father began to enjoy these orisons at my bedside, and to prolong them. Perhaps they lasted a little too long, but I contrived to keep awake through them, sometimes by a great effort. On one unhappy night, however, I gave even worse offense than slumber would have given. My Father was praying aloud, in the attitude I have described, and I was half sitting, half lying in bed, with the clothes sloping from my chin. Suddenly a rather large insect—dark and flat, with more legs than a self-respecting insect ought to need—appeared at the bottom of the counterpane, and slowly advanced. I think it was nothing worse than a beetle. It walked successfully past my Father's sleek black ball of a head, and climbed straight up at me, nearer, nearer, until it seemed all a twinkle of horns and joints. I bore it in silent fascination until it almost tickled my chin, and then I screamed 'Papa! Papa!' My Father rose in great dudgeon, removed the insect (what were insects to him!) and then gave me a tremendous lecture.

This little ceremony distracted me from my thoughts, and may have been useful in that way. But it led to an unfortunate incident. My Father began to enjoy these bedside prayers and to make them longer. Perhaps they lasted a little too long, but I managed to stay awake through them, sometimes with great effort. One unhappy night, however, I gave even worse offense than falling asleep would have done. My Father was praying aloud, in the position I have described. I was half sitting, half lying in bed, with the covers sloping down from my chin. Suddenly a rather large insect appeared at the foot of the bedspread and slowly moved forward. It was dark and flat, with more legs than a self-respecting insect ought to need. I think it was nothing worse than a beetle. It walked safely past my Father's sleek black ball of a head and climbed straight up toward me. It came nearer and nearer, until it seemed to be a mass of twitching antennae and joints. I watched in silent fascination until it almost tickled my chin. Then I screamed 'Papa! Papa!' My Father got up in great indignation and removed the insect. What were insects to him! Then he gave me a tremendous lecture.

The sense of desperation which this incident produced I shall not easily forget. Life seemed really to be very harassing when to visions within and beetles without there was joined the consciousness of having grievously offended God by an act of disrespect. It is difficult for me to justify to myself the violent jobation which my Father gave me in consequence of my scream, except by attributing to him something of the human weakness of vanity. I cannot help thinking that he liked to hear himself speak to God in the presence of an admiring listener. He prayed with fervour and animation, in pure Johnsonian English, and I hope I am not undutiful if I add my impression that he was not displeased with the sound of his own devotions. My cry for help had needlessly, as he thought, broken in upon this holy and seemly performance. 'You, the child of a naturalist,' he remarked in awesome tones, 'you to pretend to feel terror at the advance of an insect?' It could but be a pretext, he declared, for avoiding the testimony of faith in prayer. 'If your heart were fixed, if it panted after the Lord, it would take more than the movements of a beetle to make you disturb oral supplication at His footstool. Beware! for God is a jealous God and He consumes them in wrath who make a noise like a dog.'

I shall not easily forget the desperation this incident caused. Life seemed truly hard. I had visions within and beetles outside me. Now, on top of that, I knew I had deeply offended God by an act of disrespect. My Father gave me a severe scolding for screaming. I find it hard to explain his anger to myself, unless I put it down partly to human vanity. I cannot help thinking that he liked to hear himself speak to God before an admiring listener. He prayed with passion and energy, in pure Johnsonian English. I hope I am not being disrespectful when I add that he seemed pleased with the sound of his own prayers. My cry for help had interrupted this holy and proper performance, needlessly in his view. 'You, the child of a naturalist,' he said in an awe-inspiring tone, 'you claiming to be terrified by an approaching insect?' He declared that my fear could only be an excuse for avoiding the expression of faith in prayer. 'If your heart were fixed on the Lord, if it longed for him, it would take more than a moving beetle to make you interrupt spoken prayer at his footstool. Beware! God is a jealous God, and in his anger he consumes those who make a noise like a dog.'

My Father took at all times a singular pleasure in repeating that 'our God is a jealous God'. He liked the word, which I suppose he used in an antiquated sense. He was accustomed to tell the 'saints' at the Room,—in a very genial manner, and smiling at them as he said it,—'I am jealous over you, my beloved brothers and sisters, with a godly jealousy.' I know that this was interpreted by some of the saints,—for I heard Mary Grace say so to Miss Marks—as meaning that my Father was resentful because some of them attended the service at the Wesleyan chapel on Thursday evenings. But my Father was utterly incapable of such littleness as this, and when he talked of 'jealousy' he meant a lofty solicitude, a careful watchfulness. He meant that their spiritual honour was a matter of anxiety to him. No doubt when he used to tell me to remember that our God is a jealous God, he meant that my sins and shortcomings were not matters of indifference to the Divine Being. But I think, looking back, that it was very extraordinary for a man, so instructed and so intelligent as he, to dwell so much on the possible anger of the Lord, rather than on his pity and love. The theory of extreme Puritanism can surely offer no quainter example of its fallacy than this idea that the omnipotent Jehovah—could be seriously offended, and could stoop to revenge, because a little, nervous child of nine had disturbed a prayer by being frightened at a beetle.

My Father always took a particular pleasure in repeating that 'our God is a jealous God'. He liked the word, which I suppose he used in an old-fashioned sense. He often told the 'saints' at the Room, in a very friendly manner and with a smile, 'I am jealous over you, my beloved brothers and sisters, with a godly jealousy.' I know that some of the saints took this to mean that my Father resented their attending the Wesleyan chapel on Thursday evenings. I heard Mary Grace say so to Miss Marks. But my Father was utterly incapable of such pettiness. When he spoke of 'jealousy', he meant a noble concern, a careful watchfulness. He meant that he was anxious about their spiritual honour. No doubt, when he told me to remember that our God is a jealous God, he meant that my sins and failings mattered to God. But looking back, I think it extraordinary that such a learned and intelligent man dwelt so much on the Lord's possible anger rather than his pity and love. The beliefs of extreme Puritanism can surely offer no stranger example of their error than this idea. It held that the all-powerful Jehovah could be seriously offended and stoop to revenge because a nervous nine-year-old child had interrupted a prayer by being frightened at a beetle.

The fact that the word 'Carmine' appeared as the goal of my visionary pursuits is not so inexplicable as it may seem. My Father was at this time producing numerous water-colour drawings of minute and even of microscopic forms of life. These he executed in the manner of miniature, with an amazing fidelity of form and with a brilliancy of colour which remains unfaded after fifty years. By far the most costly of his pigments was the intense crimson which is manufactured out of the very spirit and, essence of cochineal. I had lately become a fervent imitator of his works of art, and I was allowed to use all of his colours, except one; I was strictly forbidden to let a hair of my paint- brush touch the little broken mass of carmine which was all that he possessed. We believed, but I do not know whether this could be the fact, that carmine of this superlative quality was sold at a guinea a cake. 'Carmine', therefore, became my shibboleth of self-indulgence; it was a symbol of all that taste and art and wealth could combine to produce. I imagined, for instance, that at Belshazzar's feast, the loftiest epergne of gold, surrounded by flowers and jewels, carried the monarch's proudest possession, a cake of carmine. I knew of no object in the world of luxury more desirable than this, and its obsession in my waking hours is quite enough, I think, to account for 'carmine' having been the torment of my dreams.

The fact that the word 'Carmine' was the goal of my visions is not as hard to explain as it may seem. At the time, my Father was making many watercolour drawings of tiny and even microscopic forms of life. He painted them as miniatures, with amazing accuracy of form and brilliant colours that remain unfaded after fifty years. By far his most expensive pigment was an intense crimson, made from the very spirit and essence of cochineal. I had recently become an enthusiastic imitator of his artwork, and I was allowed to use all his colours except one. I was strictly forbidden to let a single hair of my paintbrush touch his little broken piece of carmine. That was all he had. We believed that carmine of this exceptional quality sold for a guinea a cake. I do not know whether that could have been true. 'Carmine', therefore, became my watchword for self-indulgence. It was a symbol of all that taste, art and wealth could combine to produce. I imagined, for instance, Belshazzar's feast. There, the tallest golden table centrepiece, surrounded by flowers and jewels, held the monarch's proudest possession, a cake of carmine. I knew of no luxury in the world more desirable than that. My obsession with it while awake is quite enough, I think, to explain why 'carmine' tormented my dreams.

The little incident of the beetle displays my Father's mood at this period in its worst light. His severity was not very creditable, perhaps, to his good sense, but without a word of explanation it may seem even more unreasonable than it was. My Father might have been less stern to my lapses from high conduct, and my own mind at the same time less armoured against his arrows, if our relations had been those which exist in an ordinary religious family. He would have been more indulgent, and my own affections might nevertheless have been more easily alienated, if I had been treated by him as a commonplace child, standing as yet outside the pale of conscious Christianity. But he had formed the idea, and cultivated it assiduously, that I was an ame d'elite, a being to whom the mysteries of salvation had been divinely revealed and by whom they had been accepted. I was, to his partial fancy, one in whom the Holy Ghost had already performed a real and permanent work. Hence, I was inside the pale; I had attained that inner position which divided, as we used to say, the Sheep from the Goats. Another little boy might be very well-behaved, but if he had not consciously 'laid hold on Christ', his good deeds, so far, were absolutely useless. Whereas I might be a very naughty boy, and require much chastisement from God and man, but nothing—so my Father thought—could invalidate my election, and sooner or later, perhaps even after many stripes, I must inevitably be brought back to a state of grace.

The little incident with the beetle shows my Father’s mood at this time in its worst light. His severity perhaps did not reflect well on his good sense. But without an explanation, it may seem even more unreasonable than it was. If our relationship had been like that in an ordinary religious family, he might have been less stern when I fell short of high standards. At the same time, I might have been less guarded against his attacks. If he had treated me as an ordinary child, not yet a conscious Christian, he would have been more indulgent. Yet my affection might have been more easily lost. But he had formed an idea about me and carefully nurtured it. He thought I was an ame d'elite, a person to whom the mysteries of salvation had been divinely revealed and who had accepted them. In his favorable view of me, the Holy Ghost had already done real and lasting work in me. So I was within the fold. I had reached the privileged position that separated, as we used to say, the Sheep from the Goats. Another little boy might be very well behaved. But if he had not consciously 'laid hold on Christ', his good deeds were, so far, absolutely useless. I, on the other hand, might be a very naughty boy who needed much punishment from God and people. But my Father believed that nothing could cancel my election. Sooner or later, perhaps even after many beatings, I was bound to return to a state of grace.

The paradox between this unquestionable sanctification by faith and my equally unquestionable naughtiness, occupied my Father greatly at this time. He made it a frequent subject of intercession at family prayers, not caring to hide from the servants misdemeanours of mine, which he spread out with a melancholy unction before the Lord. He cultivated the belief that all my little ailments, all my aches and pains, were sent to correct my faults. He carried this persuasion very far, even putting this exhortation before, instead of after, an instant relief of my sufferings. If I burned my finger with a sulphur match, or pinched the end of my nose in the door (to mention but two sorrows that recur to my memory), my Father would solemnly ejaculate: 'Oh may these afflictions be much sanctified to him!' before offering any remedy for my pain. So that I almost longed, under the pressure of these pangs, to be a godless child, who had never known the privileges of saving grace, since I argued that such a child would be subjected to none of the sufferings which seemed to assail my path.

The contradiction between my unquestionable holiness through faith and my equally unquestionable naughtiness greatly occupied my Father at this time. He often prayed about it during family prayers. He did not mind revealing my misdeeds to the servants as he laid them before the Lord with sorrowful devotion. He came to believe that all my little ailments, aches, and pains were sent to correct my faults. He took this belief so far that he would urge me to learn from my suffering before immediately relieving it. I remember two such sorrows: burning my finger with a sulfur match and pinching the end of my nose in a door. When either happened, my Father would solemnly exclaim, 'Oh, may these afflictions make him more holy!' before offering any relief for my pain. In the grip of such pain, I almost longed to be a godless child who had never known the privileges of saving grace. I reasoned that such a child would not be subjected to any of the suffering that seemed to beset me.

What the ideas or conduct of 'another child' might be I had, however, at this time no idea, for, strange as it may sound, I had not, until my tenth year was far advanced, made acquaintance with any such creature. The 'saints' had children, but I was not called upon to cultivate their company, and I had not the slightest wish to do so. But early in 1859 I was allowed, at last, to associate with a child of my own age. I do not recall that this permission gave me any rapture; I accepted it philosophically but without that delighted eagerness which I might have been expected to show. My earliest companion, then, was a little boy of almost exactly my own age. His name was Benny, which no doubt was short for Benjamin. His surname was Jeffries; his mother—I think he had no father—was a solemn and shadowy lady of means who lived in a villa, which was older and much larger than ours, on the opposite side of the road. Going to 'play with Benny' involved a small public excursion, and this I was now allowed to make by myself—an immense source of self- respect.

At the time, however, I had no idea what 'another child' might think or how one might behave. Strange as it may sound, I had not met any such creature until well into my tenth year. The 'saints' had children, but I was not asked to spend time with them. Nor did I have the slightest wish to do so. But early in 1859, I was finally allowed to spend time with a child my own age. I do not remember being overjoyed by this permission. I accepted it calmly, without the eager delight I might have been expected to show. My first companion, then, was a little boy almost exactly my own age. His name was Benny, which was no doubt short for Benjamin. His surname was Jeffries. I think he had no father. His mother was a solemn, shadowy, well-to-do lady who lived in a villa across the road. The villa was older and much larger than ours. Going to 'play with Benny' meant a short trip out in public. I was now allowed to make this trip by myself, which gave me an immense sense of self-respect.

Everything in my little memories seems to run askew; obviously I ought to have been extremely stirred and broadened by this earliest association with a boy of my own age! Yet I cannot truly say that it was so. Benny's mother possessed what seemed to me a vast domain, with lawns winding among broad shrubberies, and a kitchen-garden, with aged fruit-trees in it. The ripeness of this place, mossed and leafy, was gratifying to my senses, on which the rawness of our own bald garden jarred. There was an old brick wall between the two divisions, upon which it was possible for us to climb up, and from this we gained Pisgah-views which were a prodigious pleasure. But I had not the faintest idea how to 'play'; I had never learned, had never heard of any 'games'. I think Benny must have lacked initiative almost as much as I did. We walked about, and shook the bushes, and climbed along the wall; I think that was almost all we ever did do. And, sadly enough, I cannot recover a phrase from Benny's lips, nor an action, nor a gesture, although I remember quite clearly how some grown-up people of that time looked, and the very words they said.

Everything in my childhood memories seems to have gone awry. Surely this first friendship with a boy my own age should have moved me deeply and broadened my horizons! Yet I cannot honestly say that it did. Benny's mother owned what seemed to me a vast estate. Its lawns wound among broad beds of shrubs, and its kitchen garden had old fruit trees. The mature, mossy, leafy garden delighted my senses. By contrast, our own bare, unfinished garden jarred on them. An old brick wall stood between the two parts of Benny's garden. We could climb onto it, and the sweeping views from there gave us enormous pleasure. But I had no idea how to 'play'. I had never learned and had never heard of any 'games'. I think Benny must have had almost as little initiative as I did. We walked around, shook the bushes, and climbed along the wall. I think that was almost all we ever did. And, sadly, I cannot recall a single phrase Benny said, or an action or gesture of his. Yet I remember quite clearly how some adults of that time looked and the very words they said.

For example, I recollect Miss Wilkes very distinctly, since I studied her with great deliberation, and with a suspicious watchfulness that was above my years. In Miss Wilkes a type that had hitherto been absolutely unfamiliar to us obtruded upon our experience. In our Eveless Eden, Woman, if not exactly hirsuta et horrida, had always been 'of a certain age'. But Miss Wilkes was a comparatively young thing, and she advanced not by any means unconscious of her charms. All was feminine, all was impulsive, about Miss Wilkes; every gesture seemed eloquent with girlish innocence and the playful dawn of life. In actual years I fancy she was not so extremely youthful, since she was the responsible and trusted headmistress of a large boarding-school for girls, but in her heart the joy of life ran high. Miss Wilkes had a small, round face, with melting eyes, and when she lifted her head, her ringlets seemed to vibrate and shiver like the bells of a pagoda. She had a charming way of clasping her hands, and holding them against her bodice, while she said, 'Oh, but—really now?' in a manner inexpressibly engaging. She was very earnest, and she had a pleading way of calling out: 'O, but aren't you teasing me?' which would have brought a tiger fawning to her crinoline.

For example, I remember Miss Wilkes very clearly. I studied her carefully and with a suspicious watchfulness beyond my years. Miss Wilkes was a type of woman we had never encountered before. In our Eve-free Eden, Woman had always been 'of a certain age', if not exactly hairy and frightening. But Miss Wilkes was comparatively young, and she was by no means unaware of her charms. Everything about Miss Wilkes was feminine and impulsive. Every gesture seemed to express girlish innocence and the playful dawn of life. I imagine she was not really so very young. After all, she was the responsible and trusted headmistress of a large boarding school for girls. But her heart was full of the joy of life. Miss Wilkes had a small, round face and soft, expressive eyes. When she lifted her head, her ringlets seemed to tremble and shiver like the bells of a pagoda. She had a charming way of clasping her hands and holding them against her bodice. Then she would say, 'Oh, but, really now?' in a way that was impossible to resist. She was very earnest. She had a pleading way of calling out, 'Oh, but aren't you teasing me?' that would have brought a tiger fawning at her crinoline.

After we had spent a full year without any social distractions, it seems that our circle of acquaintances had now begun to extend, in spite of my Father's unwillingness to visit his neighbours. He was a fortress that required to be stormed, but there was considerable local curiosity about him, so that by-and- by escalading parties were formed, some of which were partly successful. In the first place, Charles Kingsley had never hesitated to come, from the beginning, ever since our arrival. He had reason to visit our neighbouring town rather frequently, and on such occasions he always marched up and attacked us. It was extraordinary how persistent he was, for my Father must have been a very trying friend. I vividly recollect that a sort of cross- examination of would-be communicants was going on in our half- furnished drawing-room one weekday morning, when Mr. Kingsley was announced; my Father, in stentorian tones, replied: 'Tell Mr. Kingsley that I am engaged in examining Scripture with certain of the Lord's children.' And I, a little later, kneeling at the window, while the candidates were being dismissed with prayer, watched the author of Hypatia nervously careening about the garden, very restless and impatient, yet preferring this ignominy to the chance of losing my Father's company altogether. Kingsley, a daring spirit, used sometimes to drag us out trawling with him in Torbay, and although his hawk's beak and rattling voice frightened me a little, his was always a jolly presence that brought some refreshment to our seriousness.

After we had spent a full year without any social distractions, our circle of acquaintances seemed to be growing. This happened despite my Father's unwillingness to visit his neighbours. He was a fortress that had to be stormed, but there was considerable local curiosity about him. Eventually, parties set out to scale the walls, and some were partly successful. Charles Kingsley, for one, had never hesitated to visit, right from the time we arrived. He had reason to visit our neighbouring town quite often, and he always marched up and attacked us when he did. His persistence was extraordinary, for my Father must have been a very trying friend. I vividly remember one weekday morning when my Father was questioning people who wished to take Communion. This was taking place in our half-furnished drawing-room when Mr. Kingsley was announced. My Father replied in a booming voice: 'Tell Mr. Kingsley that I am engaged in examining Scripture with certain of the Lord's children.' A little later, I knelt at the window while the candidates were dismissed with a prayer. I watched the author of Hypatia rushing nervously around the garden, restless and impatient. Yet he preferred this humiliation to the risk of losing my Father's company altogether. Kingsley was a daring spirit and sometimes took us out trawling with him in Torbay. His hawk-like nose and rattling voice frightened me a little. Even so, he was always a cheerful presence, bringing some welcome relief to our seriousness.

But the other visitors who came in Kingsley's wake and without his excuse—how they disturbed us! We used to be seated, my Father at his microscope, I with my map or book, in the down- stairs room we called the study. There would be a hush around us in which you could hear a sea-anemone sigh. Then, abruptly, would come a ring at the front door; my Father would bend at me a corrugated brow, and murmur, under his breath, 'What's that?' and then, at the sound of footsteps, would bolt into the verandah, and around the garden into the potting-shed. If it was no visitor more serious than the postman or the tax-gatherer, I used to go forth and coax the timid wanderer home. If it was a caller, above all a female caller, it was my privilege to prevaricate, remarking innocently that 'Papa is out!'

But the other visitors who followed Kingsley, without his excuse, disturbed us so much! We would be sitting in the downstairs room we called the study. My Father would be at his microscope, and I would have my map or book. It was so quiet around us that you could hear a sea anemone sigh. Then, suddenly, the front doorbell would ring. My Father would turn a furrowed brow toward me and murmur under his breath, 'What's that?' Then, at the sound of footsteps, he would bolt onto the verandah and around the garden to the potting shed. If the visitor was no one more serious than the postman or the tax collector, I would go out and coax the timid wanderer home. If it was a caller, especially a woman, I had the privilege of telling a lie. I would say innocently, 'Papa is out!'

Into a paradise so carefully guarded, I know not how that serpent Miss Wilkes could penetrate, but there she was. She 'broke bread' with the Brethren at the adjacent town, from which she carried on strategical movements, which were, up to a certain point, highly successful. She professed herself deeply interested in microscopy, and desired that some of her young ladies should study it also. She came attended by an unimportant man, and by pupils to whom I had sometimes, very unwillingly, to show our 'natural objects'. They would invade us, and all our quietness with chattering noise; I could bear none of them, and I was singularly drawn to Miss Marks by finding that she disliked them too.

I do not know how that serpent Miss Wilkes managed to enter such a carefully guarded paradise, but there she was. She 'broke bread' with the Brethren in the nearby town. From there, she carried out strategic maneuvers that were, up to a point, highly successful. She claimed to be deeply interested in microscopy and wanted some of her young ladies to study it too. She came with an unimportant man and her pupils. I sometimes had to show the pupils our 'natural objects', though I was very unwilling to do so. They would invade our home and disturb all our peace with their chatter. I could not bear any of them, and I felt especially drawn to Miss Marks when I found that she disliked them too.

By whatever arts she worked, Miss Wilkes certainly achieved a certain ascendancy. When the knocks came at the front door, I was now instructed to see whether the visitor were not she, before my Father bolted to the potting-shed. She was an untiring listener, and my Father had a genius for instruction. Miss Wilkes was never weary of expressing what a revelation of the wonderful works of God in creation her acquaintance with us had been. She would gaze through the microscope at awful forms, and would persevere until the silver rim which marked the confines of the drop of water under inspection would ripple inwards with a flash of light and vanish, because the drop itself had evaporated. 'Well, I can only say, how marvellous are Thy doings!' was a frequent ejaculation of Miss Wilkes, and one that was very well received. She learned the Latin names of many of the species, and it seems quite pathetic to me, looking back, to realize how much trouble the poor woman took. She 'hung', as the expression is, upon my Father's every word, and one instance of this led to a certain revelation.

Whatever methods she used, Miss Wilkes certainly gained some influence. Now, when someone knocked at the front door, I was told to see if it was Miss Wilkes before my Father hurried off to the potting-shed. She never tired of listening, and my Father had a gift for teaching. Miss Wilkes never tired of saying what a revelation our acquaintance had been to her of God's wonderful works in creation. She would gaze through the microscope at awe-inspiring forms. She would keep looking until the silver rim marking the edge of the drop of water rippled inward with a flash of light and vanished, because the drop had evaporated. 'Well, I can only say, how marvellous are your works!' Miss Wilkes often exclaimed, and this was very well received. She learned the Latin names of many of the species. Looking back, it seems quite touching to me to realize how much trouble the poor woman took. She 'hung', as the saying goes, on my Father's every word, and one example of this led to a revelation.

My Father, who had an extraordinary way of saying anything what Came into his mind, stated one day,—the fashions, I must suppose, being under discussion,—that he thought white the only becoming colour for a lady's stockings. The stockings of Miss Wilkes had up to that hour been of a deep violet, but she wore white ones in future whenever she came to our house. This delicacy would have been beyond my unaided infant observation, but I heard Miss Marks mention the matter, in terms which they supposed to be secret, to her confidante, and I verified it at the ankles of the lady. Miss Marks continued by saying, in confidence, and 'quite as between you and me, dear Mary Grace', that Miss Wilkes was a 'minx'. I had the greatest curiosity about words, and as this was a new one, I looked it up in our large 'English Dictionary'. But there the definition of the term was this:—'Minx: the female of minnock; a pert wanton.' I was as much in the dark as ever.

My Father had an extraordinary habit of saying whatever came into his mind. One day, when fashions must have been under discussion, he said that white was the only flattering colour for a lady's stockings. Until then, Miss Wilkes had worn deep violet stockings. After that, she wore white ones whenever she came to our house. I was too young to have noticed this delicate gesture on my own. But I heard Miss Marks mention it to her confidante, in words they thought I would not understand, and I checked the lady's ankles to make sure. Miss Marks went on to say, in confidence, and 'quite as between you and me, dear Mary Grace', that Miss Wilkes was a 'minx'. I was intensely curious about words, and this one was new to me. So I looked it up in our large 'English Dictionary'. But the definition was: 'Minx: the female of minnock, a pert wanton.' I was as much in the dark as ever.

Whether she was the female of a minnock (whatever that may be) or whether she was only a very well-meaning schoolmistress desirous of enlivening a monotonous existence, Miss Wilkes certainly took us out of ourselves a good deal. Did my Father know what danger he ran? It was the opinion of Miss Marks and of Mary Grace that he did not, and in the back-kitchen, a room which served those ladies as a private oratory in the summer-time, much prayer was offered up that his eyes might be opened ere it was too late. But I am inclined to think that they were open all the time, that, at all events, they were what the French call 'entr'ouvert', that enough light for practical purposes came sifted in through his eyelashes. At a later time, being reminded of Miss Wilkes, he said with a certain complaisance, 'Ah, yes! she proffered much entertainment during my widowed years!' He used to go down to her boarding-school, the garden of which had been the scene of a murder, and was romantically situated on the edge of a quarried cliff; he always took me with him, and kept me at his side all through these visits, notwithstanding Miss Wilkes' solicitude that the fatigue and excitement would be too much for the dear child's strength, unless I rested a little on the parlour sofa.

Whether she was the female of a minnock (whatever that may be) or just a well-meaning schoolmistress hoping to enliven a monotonous life, Miss Wilkes certainly took us out of ourselves a good deal. Did my Father know what danger he was in? Miss Marks and Mary Grace thought he did not. In summer, they used the back kitchen as a private place of prayer. There they prayed a great deal that his eyes would be opened before it was too late. But I am inclined to think his eyes were open all along. At any rate, they were what the French call 'entr'ouvert', or half-open. Enough light for practical purposes filtered in through his eyelashes. Later, when someone reminded him of Miss Wilkes, he said with some pleasure, 'Ah, yes! She offered much entertainment during my widowed years!' He used to visit her boarding school, whose garden had been the scene of a murder. The school was romantically situated on the edge of a quarried cliff. He always took me with him and kept me at his side throughout these visits. Miss Wilkes worried that the fatigue and excitement would be too much for the dear child's strength unless I rested a little on the parlour sofa. Even so, my Father kept me beside him.

About this time, the question of my education came up for discussion in the household, as indeed it well might. Miss Marks had long proved practically inadequate in this respect, her slender acquirements evaporating, I suppose, like the drops of water under the microscope, while the field of her general duties became wider. The subjects in which I took pleasure, and upon which I possessed books, I sedulously taught myself; the other subjects, which formed the vast majority, I did not learn at all. Like Aurora Leigh,

Around this time, my education became a topic of discussion in the household, and rightly so. Miss Marks had long been unable to teach me adequately. I suppose her limited knowledge had evaporated like drops of water under a microscope, as her other duties grew. I diligently taught myself the subjects I enjoyed and had books about. I learned nothing at all about the other subjects, which made up the vast majority. Like Aurora Leigh,

especially zoology, botany and astronomy, but with the explicit exception of geology, which my Father regarded as tending directly to the encouragement of infidelity. I copied a great quantity of maps, and read all the books of travels that I could find. But I acquired no mathematics, no languages, no history, so that I was in danger of gross illiteracy in these important departments.

especially zoology, botany and astronomy, but explicitly excluding geology. My Father believed that geology directly encouraged disbelief in God. I copied a great many maps and read all the travel books I could find. But I learned no mathematics, languages or history. As a result, I was in danger of being grossly uneducated in these important subjects.

My Father grudged the time, but he felt it a duty to do something to fill up these deficiencies, and we now started Latin, in a little eighteenth-century reading-book, out of which my Grandfather had been taught. It consisted of strings of words, and of grim arrangements of conjunction and declension, presented in a manner appallingly unattractive. I used to be set down in the study, under my Father's eye, to learn a solid page of this compilation, while he wrote or painted. The window would be open in summer, and my seat was close to it. Outside, a bee was shaking the clematis-blossom, or a red-admiral butterfly was opening and shutting his wings on the hot concrete of the verandah, or a blackbird was racing across the lawn. It was almost more than human nature could bear to have to sit holding up to my face the dreary little Latin book, with its sheepskin cover that smelt of mildewed paste.

My Father resented the time it took, but he felt it was his duty to fill these gaps in my education. So we began Latin, using a little eighteenth-century reader that my Grandfather had learned from. It contained strings of words and grim lists of conjunctions and declensions, presented in an appallingly unattractive way. I would be made to sit in the study and learn a full page from the book. My Father kept an eye on me while he wrote or painted. In summer, the window would be open, and my seat was close to it. Outside, a bee might be shaking the clematis blossoms. Or a red admiral butterfly might be opening and closing its wings on the hot concrete of the verandah. Or a blackbird might be racing across the lawn. It was almost more than human nature could bear. I had to sit holding that dreary little Latin book up to my face, its sheepskin cover smelling of mildewed paste.

But out of this strength there came an unexpected sudden sweetness. The exercise of hearing me repeat my strings of nouns and verbs had revived in my Father his memories of the classics. In the old solitary years, a long time ago, by the shores of Canadian rapids, on the edge of West Indian swamps, his Virgil had been an inestimable solace to him. To extremely devout persons, there is something objectionable in most of the great writers of antiquity. Horace, Lucretius, Terence, Catullus, Juvenal,—in each there is one quality or another definitely repulsive to a reader who is determined to know nothing but Christ and him crucified. From time immemorial, however, it has been recognized in the Christian church that this objection does not apply to Virgil. He is the most evangelical of the classics; he is the one who can be enjoyed with least to explain away and least to excuse. One evening my Father took down his Virgil from an upper shelf, and his thoughts wandered away from surrounding things; he travelled in the past again. The book was a Delphin edition of 1798, which had followed him in all his wanderings; there was a great scratch on the sheep-skin cover that a thorn had made in a forest of Alabama. And then, in the twilight, as he shut the volume at last, oblivious of my presence, he began to murmur and to chant the adorable verses by memory.

But out of this strength came an unexpected, sudden sweetness. Hearing me repeat my lists of nouns and verbs had brought back my Father’s memories of the classics. Long ago, during his solitary years, Virgil had been a priceless comfort to him. He had read Virgil by the Canadian rapids and at the edge of West Indian swamps. For extremely devout people, there is something objectionable in most of the great writers of antiquity. Horace, Lucretius, Terence, Catullus, Juvenal: each has some quality that is plainly repulsive to a reader determined to know nothing but Christ and him crucified. Since time immemorial, however, the Christian church has recognized that this objection does not apply to Virgil. He is the most evangelical of the classical writers. He is the one who can be enjoyed with the least to explain away and the least to excuse. One evening my Father took his Virgil down from an upper shelf. His thoughts drifted away from his surroundings, and he travelled into the past again. The book was a Delphin edition of 1798, which had followed him in all his wanderings. A thorn in an Alabama forest had left a deep scratch on its sheepskin cover. At last, in the twilight, he closed the book. Unaware of my presence, he began to murmur and chant the beloved verses from memory.

Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi,

Tityrus, you lie beneath the shelter of a spreading beech tree,

he warbled; and I stopped my play, and listened as if to a nightingale, until he reached

he sang, and I stopped playing and listened as if he were a nightingale, until he reached

'Oh Papa, what is that?' I could not prevent myself from asking. He translated the verses, he explained their meaning, but his exposition gave me little interest. What to me was beautiful Amaryllis? She and her love-sick Tityrus awakened no image whatever in my mind.

'Oh Papa, what is that?' I could not help asking. He translated the verses and explained their meaning, but his explanation did not interest me much. What did beautiful Amaryllis mean to me? Neither she nor her lovesick Tityrus brought any image to mind.

But a miracle had been revealed to me, the incalculable, the amazing beauty which could exist in the sound of verses. My prosodical instinct was awakened quite suddenly that dim evening, as my Father and I sat alone in the breakfast-room after tea, serenely accepting the hour, for once, with no idea of exhortation or profit. Verse, 'a breeze mid blossoms playing', as Coleridge says, descended from the roses as a moth might have done, and the magic of it took hold of my heart forever. I persuaded my Father, who was a little astonished at my insistence, to repeat the lines over and over again. At last my brain caught them, and as I walked in Benny's garden, or as I hung over the tidal pools at the edge of the sea, all my inner being used to ring out with the sound of

But a miracle had been revealed to me: the boundless, astonishing beauty that could exist in the sound of verse. My instinct for the rhythms of verse awakened quite suddenly that dim evening. My Father and I sat alone in the breakfast-room after tea, peacefully passing the hour. For once, we had no thought of preaching or self-improvement. Verse, 'a breeze mid blossoms playing', as Coleridge says, came down from the roses as a moth might have done. Its magic took hold of my heart forever. I persuaded my Father to repeat the lines over and over again. He was a little surprised by my insistence. At last I learned the lines. As I walked in Benny's garden or leaned over the tidal pools at the edge of the sea, my whole being would ring with the sound of

Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvan.

You teach the woods to echo the name of beautiful Amaryllis.