Chapter 8

IN the previous chapter I have dwelt on some of the lighter conditions of our life at this time; I must now turn to it in a less frivolous aspect. As my tenth year advanced, the development of my character gave my Father, I will not say anxiety, but matter for serious reflection. My intelligence was now perceived to be taking a sudden start; visitors drew my Father's attention to the fact that I was 'coming out so much'. I grew rapidly in stature, having been a little shrimp of a thing up to that time, and I no longer appeared much younger than my years. Looking back, I do not think that there was any sudden mental development, but that the change was mainly a social one. I had been reserved, timid and taciturn; I had disliked the company of strangers. But with my tenth year, I certainly unfolded, so far as to become sociable and talkative, and perhaps I struck those around me as grown 'clever', because I said the things which I had previously only thought. There was a change, no doubt, yet I believe that it was mainly physical, rather than mental. My excessive fragility—or apparent fragility, for I must have been always wiry—decreased; I slept better, and therefore, grew less nervous; I ate better, and therefore put on flesh. If I preserved a delicate look—people still used to say in my presence, 'That dear child is not long for this world!'—it was in consequence of a sort of habit into which my body had grown; it was a transparency which did not speak of what was in store for me, but of what I had already passed through.

In the previous chapter, I described some of the lighter aspects of our life at this time. I must now turn to a less frivolous side of it. As my tenth year went on, my developing character gave my Father, not anxiety, I would say, but cause for serious reflection. People now noticed that my intelligence seemed to be developing suddenly. Visitors drew my Father's attention to how much I was 'coming out'. Until then, I had been a tiny little thing, but I grew rapidly and no longer looked much younger than my age. Looking back, I do not think there was any sudden mental development. I think the change was mainly social. I had been reserved, timid, and quiet, and I had disliked the company of strangers. But during my tenth year, I certainly opened up enough to become sociable and talkative. Perhaps the people around me thought I had grown 'clever' because I said things I had previously only thought. There was a change, no doubt, but I believe it was mainly physical rather than mental. I became less excessively fragile, or less apparently fragile, for I must always have been wiry. I slept better and so became less nervous. I ate better and so gained weight. If I still looked delicate, it was because my body had grown used to looking that way. People still used to say in my presence, 'That dear child is not long for this world!' But my translucent appearance did not speak of what lay ahead of me. It spoke of what I had already been through.

The increased activity of my intellectual system now showed itself in what I behove to be a very healthy form, direct imitation. The rage for what is called 'originality' is pushed to such a length in these days that even children are not considered promising, unless they attempt things preposterous and unparalleled. From his earliest hour, the ambitious person is told that to make a road where none has walked before, to do easily what it is impossible for others to do at all, to create new forms of thought and expression, are the only recipes for genius; and in trying to escape on all sides from every resemblance to his predecessors, he adopts at once an air of eccentricity and pretentiousness. This continues to be the accepted view of originality; but, in spite of this conventional opinion, I hold that the healthy sign of an activity of mind in early youth is not to be striving after unheard-of miracles, but to imitate closely and carefully what is being said and done in the vicinity. The child of a great sculptor will hang about the studio, and will try to hammer a head out of a waste piece of marble with a nail; it does not follow that he too will be a sculptor. The child of a politician will sit in committee with a row of empty chairs, and will harangue an imaginary senate from behind the curtains. I, the son of a man who looked through a microscope and painted what he saw there, would fair observe for myself, and paint my observations. It did not follow, alas! that I was built to be a miniature-painter or a savant, but the activity of a childish intelligence was shown by my desire to copy the results of such energy as I saw nearest at hand.

My mind had become more active, and this now showed itself in what I believe was a very healthy form: direct imitation. These days, the obsession with what is called 'originality' goes to extremes. Even children are not considered promising unless they attempt things that are absurd and have never been done before. From the earliest age, ambitious people are told that genius has only one recipe. They must make a path where no one has walked before, easily do what others cannot do at all, and create new forms of thought and expression. In trying to avoid all resemblance to their predecessors, they immediately take on an air of eccentricity and pretension. This remains the accepted view of originality. But despite that conventional opinion, I believe that a healthy, active young mind does not strive for unheard-of miracles. Instead, it closely and carefully imitates what is being said and done nearby. A great sculptor’s child will hang around the studio and try to hammer a head out of a scrap of marble with a nail. That does not mean the child will become a sculptor too. A politician’s child will sit in committee with a row of empty chairs and make speeches to an imaginary senate from behind the curtains. My father looked through a microscope and painted what he saw there, and I wanted to observe for myself and paint what I saw. Alas, that did not mean I was made to be a miniature painter or a scientist. But my desire to copy the results of the activity I saw closest to me showed that my childish mind was active.

In the secular direction, this now took the form of my preparing little monographs on seaside creatures, which were arranged, tabulated and divided as exactly as possible on the pattern of those which my Father was composing for his Actinologia Britannica. I wrote these out upon sheets of paper of the same size as his printed page, and I adorned them with water-colour plates, meant to emulate his precise and exquisite illustrations. One or two of these ludicrous pastiches are still preserved, and in glancing at them now I wonder, not at any skill that they possess, but at the perseverance and the patience, the evidence of close and persistent labour. I was not set to these tasks by my Father, who, in fact, did not much approve of them. He was touched, too, with the 'originality' heresy, and exhorted me not to copy him, but to go out into the garden or the shore and describe something new, in a new way. That was quite impossible; I possessed no initiative. But I can now well understand why my Father, very indulgently and good-temperedly, deprecated these exercises of mine. They took up, and, as he might well think, wasted, an enormous quantity of time; and they were, moreover, parodies, rather than imitations, of his writings, for I invented new species, with sapphire spots and crimson tentacles and amber bands, which were close enough to his real species to be disconcerting. He came from conscientiously shepherding the flocks of ocean, and I do not wonder that my ring-straked, speckled and spotted varieties put him out of countenance. If I had not been so innocent and solemn, he might have fancied I was mocking him.

In my nonreligious pursuits, I now began writing short studies of seaside creatures. I arranged, tabulated and divided them as closely as possible on the model of those my Father was writing for his Actinologia Britannica. I wrote them on sheets of paper the same size as his printed pages. I decorated them with watercolours, meant to rival his precise and exquisite illustrations. One or two of these ridiculous imitations still survive. When I look at them now, I wonder not at their skill, but at the perseverance and patience they show. They are evidence of close and persistent work. My Father had not given me these tasks. In fact, he did not much approve of them. He, too, had caught the ‘originality’ heresy. He urged me not to copy him, but to go into the garden or down to the shore. There, I should describe something new, in a new way. That was quite impossible. I had no initiative. But I can now understand why my Father, very patiently and good-naturedly, discouraged these exercises. They took up an enormous amount of time, and he could well think they wasted it. Moreover, my exercises were parodies rather than imitations of his writings. I invented new species, with sapphire spots, crimson tentacles and amber bands. They were close enough to his real species to be unsettling. He had come from carefully tending the flocks of the ocean. I do not wonder that my striped, speckled and spotted varieties embarrassed him. If I had not been so innocent and solemn, he might have thought I was mocking him.

These extraordinary excursions into science, falsely so called, occupied a large part of my time. There was a little spare room at the back of our house, dedicated to lumber and to empty portmanteaux. There was a table in it already, and I added a stool; this cheerless apartment now became my study. I spent so many hours here, in solitude and without making a sound, that my Father's curiosity, if not his suspicion, was occasionally aroused, and he would make a sudden raid on me. I was always discovered, doubled up over the table, with my pen and ink, or else my box of colours and tumbler of turbid water by my hand, working away like a Chinese student shut up in his matriculating box.

These extraordinary excursions into what was falsely called science took up much of my time. A small spare room at the back of our house was used to store odds and ends and empty suitcases. There was already a table in the room, and I added a stool. This cheerless room now became my study. I spent so many hours there, alone and silent, that my Father sometimes grew curious, if not suspicious. He would make a sudden raid on me. He always found me hunched over the table, working away with pen and ink or with my paintbox and a glass of cloudy water beside me. I was like a Chinese student shut up in his examination booth.

It might have been done for a wager, if anything so simple had ever been dreamed of in our pious household. The apparatus was slow and laboured. In order to keep my uncouth handwriting in bounds, I was obliged to rule not lines only, but borders to my pages. The subject did not lend itself to any flow of language, and I was obliged incessantly to borrow sentences, word for word, from my Father's published books. Discouraged by everyone around me, daunted by the laborious effort needful to carry out the scheme, it seems odd to me now that I persisted in so strange and wearisome an employment, but it became an absorbing passion, and was indulged in to the neglect of other lessons and other pleasures.

It might have been done for a bet, if anything so simple had ever been imagined in our devout household. The process was slow and painstaking. To keep my clumsy handwriting under control, I had to rule not only lines but also borders on my pages. The subject did not lend itself to fluent writing. So I had to borrow sentences constantly, word for word, from my Father's published books. Everyone around me discouraged me, and I was daunted by the hard work needed to carry out my plan. It seems odd to me now that I persisted in such a strange and tiresome task. But it became an absorbing passion, and I devoted myself to it at the expense of other lessons and pleasures.

My Father, as the spring advanced, used to come up to the Boxroom, as my retreat was called, and hunt me out into the sunshine. But I soon crept back to my mania. It gave him much trouble, and Miss Marks, who thought it sheer idleness, was vociferous in objection. She would gladly have torn up all my writings and paintings, and have set me to a useful task. My Father, with his strong natural individualism, could not take this view. He was interested in this strange freak of mine, and he could not wholly condemn it. But he must have thought is a little crazy, and it is evident to me now that it led to the revolution in domestic policy by which he began to encourage any acquaintance with other young people as much as he had previously discouraged it. He saw that I could not be allowed to spend my whole time in a little stuffy room making solemn and ridiculous imitations of Papers read before the Linnaean Society. He was grieved, moreover, at the badness of my pictures, for I had no native skill; and he tried to teach me his own system of miniature-painting as applied to natural history. I was forced, in deep depression of spirits, to turn from my grotesque monographs, and paint under my Father's eye, and, from a finished drawing of his, a gorgeous tropic bird in flight. Aided by my habit of imitation, I did at length produce some thing which might have shown promise, if it had not been wrung from me, touch by touch, pigment by pigment, under the orders of a task-master.

As spring went on, my Father would come up to the Boxroom, as my retreat was called, and send me out into the sunshine. But I soon crept back to my obsession. It troubled him greatly, and Miss Marks loudly objected, thinking it sheer idleness. She would gladly have torn up all my writings and paintings and given me a useful task. My Father was strongly individualistic by nature and could not see it that way. He was interested in this strange obsession of mine and could not entirely condemn it. But he must have thought it a little crazy. I can now see that it led to a complete change in his approach at home. He began to encourage me to get to know other young people, just as strongly as he had discouraged it before. He saw that I could not be allowed to spend all my time in a small, stuffy room. There I made solemn and ridiculous imitations of papers read before the Linnaean Society. He was also distressed by how bad my pictures were, for I had no natural skill. He tried to teach me his own method of miniature painting for natural history subjects. Deeply depressed, I was forced to turn away from my grotesque monographs and paint under my Father's eye. I had to copy one of his finished drawings of a gorgeous tropical bird in flight. My habit of imitation helped me eventually produce something that might have shown promise. But every touch and every bit of pigment had been forced from me under the orders of a taskmaster.

All this had its absurd side, but I seem to perceive that it had also its value. It is, surely, a mistake to look too near at hand for the benefits of education. What is actually taught in early childhood is often that part of training which makes least impression on the character, and is of the least permanent importance. My labours failed to make me a zoologist, and the multitude of my designs and my descriptions have left me helplessly ignorant of the anatomy of a sea-anemone. Yet I cannot look upon the mental discipline as useless. It taught me to concentrate my attention, to define the nature of distinctions, to see accurately, and to name what I saw. Moreover, it gave me the habit of going on with any piece of work I had in hand, not flagging because the interest or picturesqueness of the theme had declined, but pushing forth towards a definite goal, well foreseen and limited beforehand. For almost any intellectual employment in later life, it seems to me that this discipline was valuable. I am, however, not the less conscious how ludicrous was the mode in which, in my tenth year, I obtained it.

All this had its absurd side, but I think it had value too. Surely, it is a mistake to expect the benefits of education to appear too soon. What children are actually taught often has the least effect on their character and the least lasting importance. My efforts did not make me a zoologist. Despite all my drawings and descriptions, I remain helplessly ignorant of the anatomy of a sea anemone. Yet I cannot regard the mental discipline as useless. It taught me to concentrate, to define distinctions, to see accurately, and to name what I saw. It also taught me to keep working on whatever I had started. I learned not to lose heart when the subject became less interesting or vivid. Instead, I kept moving toward a clear goal that I had defined in advance. It seems to me that this discipline was valuable for almost any intellectual work in later life. Even so, I am aware of how ridiculous the way I gained it was, when I was nine years old.

My spiritual condition occupied my Father's thoughts very insistently at this time. Closing, as he did, most of the doors of worldly pleasure and energy upon his conscience, he had continued to pursue his scientific investigations without any sense of sin. Most fortunate it was, that the collecting of marine animals in the tidal pools, and the description of them in pages which were addressed to the wide scientific public, at no time occurred to him as in any way inconsistent with his holy calling. His conscience was so delicate, and often so morbid in its delicacy, that if that had occurred to him, he would certainly have abandoned his investigations, and have been left without an employment. But happily he justified his investigation by regarding it as a glorification of God's created works. In the introduction of his Actinologia Britannica, written at the time which I have now reached in this narrative, he sent forth his labours with a phrase which I should think unparalleled in connection with a learned and technical biological treatise. He stated, concerning that book, that he published it 'as one more tribute humbly offered to the glory of the Triune God, who is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working'. Scientific investigation sincerely carried out in that spirit became a kind of weekday interpretation of the current creed of Sundays.

My spiritual condition weighed heavily on my Father's mind at this time. His conscience led him to shut out most worldly pleasures and activities. Yet he continued his scientific investigations without feeling that he was sinning. It was most fortunate that he never saw collecting marine animals from tidal pools as inconsistent with his holy calling. Nor did he see any conflict in describing them in publications addressed to the wider scientific public. His conscience was so sensitive, often to an unhealthy degree, that he would certainly have abandoned his investigations if he had seen a conflict. He would then have been left with no occupation. But happily, he justified his investigations by seeing them as a way to glorify God's created works. At this point in my story, he wrote the introduction to his Actinologia Britannica. In it, he presented his work with a phrase that I think must be unique in a scholarly, technical biological treatise. He said he published the book 'as one more tribute humbly offered to the glory of the Triune God, who is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working'. Scientific investigation carried out sincerely in that spirit became a kind of weekday expression of the faith preached on Sundays.

The development of my faculties, of which I have spoken, extended to the religious sphere no less than to the secular, Here, also, as I look back, I see that I was extremely imitative. I expanded in the warmth of my Father's fervour, and, on the whole, in a manner that was satisfactory to him. He observed the richer hold that I was now taking on life; he saw my faculties branching in many directions, and he became very anxious to secure my maintenance in grace. In earlier years, certain sides of my character had offered a sort of passive resistance to his ideas. I had let what I did not care to welcome pass over my mind in the curious density that children adopt in order to avoid receiving impressions—blankly, dumbly, achieving by stupidity what they cannot achieve by argument. I think that I had frequently done this; that he had been brought up against a dead wall; although on other sides of my nature I had been responsive and docile. But now, in my tenth year, the imitative faculty got the upper hand, and nothing seemed so attractive as to be what I was expected to be. If there was a doubt now, it lay in the other direction; it seemed hardly normal that so young a child should appear so receptive and so apt.

The development of my abilities, which I have described, extended to religion as much as to everyday life. Here, too, looking back, I see that I was extremely imitative. I flourished in the warmth of my Father's religious fervor, and generally in a way that pleased him. He noticed how much more fully I was engaging with life. He saw my abilities branching out in many directions, and he became very anxious to make sure I remained in a state of grace. In earlier years, some sides of my character had offered a kind of passive resistance to his ideas. When I did not care to welcome an idea, I let it pass over my mind. I used the curious blankness that children adopt to avoid taking things in. Silently and blankly, they use apparent stupidity to achieve what they cannot achieve by argument. I think I had often done this, so that he had found himself up against a dead wall. Yet other sides of my nature had been responsive and obedient. But now, in my tenth year, my tendency to imitate took over. Nothing seemed so attractive as being what I was expected to be. If there was any doubt now, it was of the opposite kind. It seemed hardly normal that a child so young should appear so receptive and quick to learn.

My Father believed himself justified, at this juncture, in making a tremendous effort. He wished to secure me finally, exhaustively, before the age of puberty could dawn, before my soul was fettered with the love of carnal things. He thought that if I could now be identified with the 'saints', and could stand on exactly their footing, a habit of conformity would be secured. I should meet the paganizing tendencies of advancing years with security if I could be forearmed with all the weapons of a sanctified life. He wished me, in short, to be received into the community of the Brethren on the terms of an adult. There were difficulties in the way of carrying out this scheme, and they were urged upon him, more or less courageously, by the elders of the church. But he overbore them. What the difficulties were, and what were the arguments which he used to sweep those difficulties away, I must now explain, for in this lay the centre of our future relations as father and son.

My Father believed he was justified in making a tremendous effort at this point. He wanted to secure me completely and finally before puberty began, before my soul was bound by a love of worldly things. He thought that if I could now be identified with the 'saints' and stand on exactly the same footing as them, I would develop a habit of conformity. If I could be armed in advance with all the weapons of a holy life, I would be safe from the pagan influences that came with growing older. In short, he wanted me to be accepted into the community of the Brethren on the same terms as an adult. There were obstacles to this plan, and the church elders raised them with him, some more courageously than others. But he overruled them. I must now explain what the obstacles were and what arguments he used to sweep them away. For here lay the heart of our future relationship as father and son.

In dealing with the peasants around him, among whom he was engaged in an active propaganda, my Father always insisted on the necessity of conversion. There must be a new birth and being, a fresh creation in God. This crisis he was accustomed to regard as manifesting itself in a sudden and definite upheaval. There might have been prolonged practical piety, deep and true contrition for sin, but these, although the natural and suitable prologue to conversion, were not conversion itself. People hung on at the confines of regeneration, often for a very long time; my Father dealt earnestly with them, the elders ministered to them, with explanation, exhortation and prayer. Such persons were in a gracious state, but they were not in a state of grace. If they should suddenly die, they would pass away in an unconverted condition, and all that could be said in their favour was a vague expression of hope that they would benefit from God's uncovenanted mercies.

My Father was actively spreading his religious beliefs among the peasants around him. In dealing with them, he always insisted that conversion was necessary. There had to be a new birth and a new existence, a fresh creation in God. He believed that this turning point showed itself in a sudden and definite upheaval. A person might have lived devoutly for a long time and felt deep, genuine sorrow for sin. But although these were a natural and fitting prelude to conversion, they were not conversion itself. People often lingered at the edge of spiritual rebirth for a very long time. My Father worked earnestly with them, and the elders ministered to them through explanation, exhortation, and prayer. Such people were in a gracious state, but they were not in a state of grace. If they died suddenly, they would die unconverted. All that could be said in their favor was a vague hope that they would benefit from God's mercies beyond those he had promised.

But on some day, at some hour and minute, if life was spared to them, the way of salvation would be revealed to these persons in such an aspect that they would be enabled instantaneously to accept it. They would take it consciously, as one takes a gift from the hand that offers it. This act of taking was the process of conversion, and the person who so accepted was a child of God now, although a single minute ago he had been a child of wrath. The very root of human nature had to be changed, and, in the majority of cases, this change was sudden, patent, and palpable.

But if these people lived long enough, the way of salvation would be revealed to them at some particular moment. It would appear in a form that allowed them to accept it instantly. They would accept it consciously, as one accepts a gift from the hand offering it. This act of acceptance was conversion. The person who accepted salvation was now a child of God, although only a minute earlier he had been a child of wrath. Human nature had to change at its very root. In most cases, this change was sudden, obvious, and unmistakable.

I have just said, 'in the majority of cases', because my Father admitted the possibility of exceptions. The formula was, 'If any man hath not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his.' As a rule, no one could possess the Spirit of Christ, without a conscious and full abandonment of the soul, and this, however carefully led up to, and prepared for with tears and renunciations, was not, could not, be made, except at a set moment of time. Faith, in an esoteric and almost symbolic sense, was necessary, and could not be a result of argument, but was a state of heart. In these opinions my Father departed in no ways from the strict evangelical doctrine of the Protestant churches, but he held it in a mode and with a severity peculiar to himself. Now, it is plain that this state of heart, this voluntary deed of acceptance, presupposed a full and rational consciousness of the relations of things. It might be clearly achieved by a person of humble cultivation, but only by one who was fully capable of independent thought, in other words by a more or less adult person, The man or woman claiming the privileges of conversion must be able to understand and to grasp what his religious education was aiming at.

I have just said, 'in most cases', because my Father admitted that there could be exceptions. The formula was, 'If anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he does not belong to him.' As a rule, no one could possess the Spirit of Christ without knowingly and completely surrendering their soul. Such surrender could be carefully prepared for with tears and renunciations. Even so, it was not, and could not be, made except at a particular moment in time. Faith, in a mysterious and almost symbolic sense, was necessary. It could not result from argument, but was a state of heart. In these beliefs, my Father did not depart at all from the strict evangelical doctrine of the Protestant churches. But he held to that doctrine in a way, and with a severity, peculiar to himself. Now, plainly, this state of heart, this voluntary act of acceptance, assumed a full and rational awareness of how things related to one another. A person with little education could clearly achieve it, but only if capable of independent thought. In other words, the person had to be more or less an adult. A man or woman claiming the privileges of conversion had to be able to understand and grasp what their religious education was aiming at.

It is extraordinary what trouble it often gave my Father to know whether he was justified in admitting to the communion people of very limited powers of expression. A harmless, humble labouring man would come with a request—to be allowed to 'break bread'. It was only by the use of strong leading questions that he could be induced to mention Christ as the ground of his trust at all. I recollect an elderly agricultural labourer being closeted for a long time with my Father, who came out at last, in a sort of dazed condition, and replied to our inquiries,—with a shrug of his shoulders as he said it,—'I was obliged to put the Name and Blood and Work of Jesus into his very mouth. It is true that he assented cordially at last, but I confess I was grievously daunted by the poor intelligence!'

It is extraordinary how much trouble my Father often had deciding whether to admit people with very limited powers of expression to communion. A harmless, humble labourer would come and ask to be allowed to 'break bread'. Only strong leading questions could persuade him to mention Christ at all as the basis of his trust. I remember an elderly farm labourer spending a long time alone with my Father. My Father finally came out looking somewhat dazed. When we asked him about it, he shrugged his shoulders and said, 'I had to put the Name and Blood and Work of Jesus into his very mouth. It is true that he agreed wholeheartedly in the end, but I confess I was deeply discouraged by the poor man's limited understanding!'

But there was, or there might be, another class of persona, whom early training, separation from the world, and the care of godly parents had so early familiarized with the acceptable calling of Christ that their conversion had occurred, unperceived and therefore unrecorded, at an extraordinarily earl age. It would be in vain to look for a repetition of the phenomenon in those cases. The heavenly fire must not be expected to descend a second time; the lips are touched with the burning coal once, and once only. If, accordingly, these precociously selected spirits are to be excluded because no new birth is observed in them at a mature age, they must continue outside in the cold, since the phenomenon cannot be repeated. When, therefore, there is not possible any further doubt of their being in possession of salvation, longer delay is useless, and worse than useless. The fact of conversion, though not recorded nor even recollected, must be accepted on the evidence of confession of faith, and as soon as the intelligence is evidently developed, the person not merely may, but should be accepted into communion, although still immature in body, although in years still even a child. This my Father believed to be my case, and in this rare class did he fondly persuade himself to station me.

But there was, or might be, another class of people. Their early upbringing, separation from the world, and the care of godly parents had made them familiar with Christ's welcome call. They had become so familiar with it that they were converted extraordinarily early in life. Their conversion had gone unnoticed and therefore unrecorded. It would be pointless to look for the experience to happen again in such cases. The heavenly fire must not be expected to descend a second time. The lips are touched with the burning coal once, and only once. If these spirits chosen so early are excluded because no new birth is observed in them as adults, they must remain outside in the cold. The experience cannot be repeated. When there can no longer be any doubt that they have attained salvation, further delay is useless, and worse than useless. Their conversion may not have been recorded or even remembered. Still, it must be accepted on the evidence of their confession of faith. As soon as their understanding is clearly developed, they may be accepted into communion. Indeed, they should be accepted, though their bodies are still immature and they are still children in years. My Father believed this was true of me, and he fondly persuaded himself that I belonged to this rare class.

As I have said, the congregation,—although docile and timid, and little able, as units, to hold their own against their minister— behind his back were faintly hostile to this plan. None of their own children had ever been so much as suggested for membership, and each of themselves, in ripe years, had been subjected to severe cross-examination. I think it was rather a bitter pill for some of them to swallow that a pert little boy of ten should be admitted, as a grown-up person, to all the hard-won privileges of their order. Mary Grace Burmington came back from her visits to the cottagers, reporting disaffection here and there, grumblings in the rank and file. But quite as many, especially of the women, enthusiastically supported my Father's wish, gloried aloud in the manifestations of my early piety, and professed to see in it something of miraculous promise. The expression 'another Infant Samuel' was widely used. I became quite a subject of contention. A war of the sexes threatened to break out over me; I was a disturbing element at cottage breakfasts. I was mentioned at public prayer-meetings, not indeed by name but, in the extraordinary allusive way customary in our devotions, as 'one amongst us of tender years' or as 'a sapling in the Lord's vineyard'.

As I have said, the congregation was quietly hostile to the plan behind their minister's back. Yet its members were obedient and timid, and few could stand up to him as individuals. None of their own children had ever even been suggested for membership. Each of them had faced severe questioning before being admitted as an adult. I think some found it rather bitter to accept that a cheeky ten-year-old boy should be admitted as an adult. He would have all the privileges of their group, which they had struggled so hard to earn. Mary Grace Burmington returned from visiting the cottagers and reported discontent here and there, with grumbling among the ordinary members. But just as many, especially the women, enthusiastically supported my Father's wish. They openly celebrated the signs of my early piety and claimed to see something miraculously promising in it. The expression 'another Infant Samuel' was widely used. I became quite a subject of dispute. A war between the sexes threatened to break out over me. I caused arguments at cottage breakfast tables. I was mentioned at public prayer meetings, though not by name. Instead, in the strange, indirect way customary in our prayers, I was called 'one amongst us of tender years' or 'a sapling in the Lord's vineyard'.

To all this my Father put a stop in his own high-handed fashion. After the morning meeting, one Sunday in the autumn of 1859, he desired the attention of the Saints to a personal matter which was, perhaps, not unfamiliar to them by rumour. That was, he explained, the question of the admission of his, beloved little son to the communion of saints in the breaking of bread. He allowed—and I sat there in evidence, palely smiling at the audience, my feet scarcely touching the ground—that I was not what is styled adult; I was not, he frankly admitted, a grown-up person. But I was adult in a knowledge of the Lord; I possessed an insight into the plan of salvation which many a hoary head might envy for its fullness, its clearness, its conformity with Scripture doctrine. This was a palpable hit at more than one stumbler and fumbler after the truth, and several hoary heads were bowed.

My Father put a stop to all this in his usual high-handed way. One Sunday in the autumn of 1859, he addressed the Saints after the morning meeting. He asked their attention for a personal matter, which perhaps they had already heard about through rumors. It concerned the admission of his beloved little son to the communion of saints in the breaking of bread. He acknowledged that I was not what one would call an adult. I sat there as proof, smiling pale-faced at the audience, my feet scarcely touching the ground. He frankly admitted that I was not a grown-up. But I was an adult in my knowledge of the Lord. My understanding of the plan of salvation was so full, clear, and faithful to Scripture that many a gray-haired person might envy it. This was an unmistakable jab at more than one person who stumbled and fumbled in the search for truth. Several gray heads bowed.

My Father then went on to explain very fully the position which I have already attempted to define. He admitted the absence in my case of a sudden, apparent act of conversion resulting upon conviction of sin. But he stated the grounds of his belief that I had, in still earlier infancy, been converted, and he declared that if so, I ought no longer to be excluded from the privileges of communion. He said, moreover, that he was willing on this occasion to waive his own privilege as a minister, and that he would rather call on Brother Fawkes and Brother Bere, the leading elders, to examine the candidate in his stead. This was a master- stroke, for Brothers Fawkes and Bere had been suspected of leading the disaffection, and this threw all the burden of responsibility on them. The meeting broke up in great amiability, and my Father and I went home together in the very highest of spirits. I, indeed, in my pride, crossed the verge of indiscretion by saying: 'When I have been admitted to fellowship, Papa, shall I be allowed to call you "beloved Brother"?' My Father was too well pleased with the morning's work to be critical. He laughed, and answered: 'That, my Love, though strictly correct, would hardly, I fear, be thought judicious!'

My Father then explained in full the position I have already tried to describe. He admitted that I had experienced no sudden, visible act of conversion following a conviction of sin. But he gave his reasons for believing that I had been converted in even earlier infancy. If so, he said, I should no longer be denied the privileges of communion. He also said he was willing to give up his own privilege as a minister on this occasion. Instead, he would ask Brother Fawkes and Brother Bere, the leading elders, to examine the candidate. This was a masterstroke. Brothers Fawkes and Bere were suspected of leading the discontent, and my Father had placed all the responsibility on them. The meeting ended on very friendly terms, and my Father and I went home together in the highest spirits. In fact, I was so proud that I went a little too far. I said: 'When I have been admitted to fellowship, Papa, will I be allowed to call you "beloved Brother"?' My Father was too pleased with the morning's work to criticize me. He laughed and answered: 'That, my Love, though strictly correct, would hardly, I fear, be thought wise!'

It was suggested that my tenth birthday, which followed this public announcement by a few days, would be a capital occasion for me to go through the ordeal. Accordingly, after dark (for our new lamp was lighted for the first time in honour of the event), I withdrew alone into our drawing-room, which had just, at length, been furnished, and which looked, I thought, very smart. Hither came to me, first Brother Fawkes, by himself; then Brother Bere, by himself; and then both together, so that you may say, if you are pedanticaly inclined, that I underwent three successive interviews. My Father, out of sight somewhere, was, of course, playing the part of stage manager.

Someone suggested that my tenth birthday would be an excellent occasion for me to go through the ordeal. The birthday came a few days after the public announcement. So, after dark, I went alone into our drawing room. Our new lamp was lit for the first time in honor of the occasion. The room had finally been furnished, and I thought it looked very smart. First Brother Fawkes came to see me alone, then Brother Bere came alone, and then both came together. So, if you are inclined to be pedantic, you could say I had three interviews in succession. My Father was somewhere out of sight, of course, playing the part of stage manager.

I felt not at all shy, but so highly strung that my whole nature seemed to throb with excitement. My first examiner, on the other hand, was extremely confused. Fawkes, who was a builder in a small business of his own, was short and fat; his complexion, which wore a deeper and more uniform rose-colour than usual, I observed to be starred with dew-drops of nervous emotion, which he wiped away at intervals with a large bandana handkerchief. He was so long in coming to the point, that I was obliged to lead him to it myself, and I sat up on the sofa in the full lamplight, and testified my faith in the atonement with a fluency that surprised myself. Before I had done, Fawkes, a middle-aged man with the reputation of being a very stiff employer of labour, was weeping like a child.

I did not feel shy at all. But I was so keyed up that my whole being seemed to pulse with excitement. My first examiner, on the other hand, was extremely flustered. Fawkes was a short, fat builder who ran a small business of his own. I noticed that his face was a deeper, more even pink than usual, and dotted with beads of nervous sweat. From time to time, he wiped them away with a large bandana handkerchief. He took so long to come to the point that I had to lead him there myself. I sat up on the sofa in the full lamplight and spoke about my faith in the atonement. I surprised myself with how fluently I spoke. Before I had finished, Fawkes was weeping like a child. He was a middle-aged man with a reputation for being a very strict employer.

Bere, the carpenter, a long, thin and dry man, with a curiously immobile eye, did not fall so easily a prey to my fascinations. He put me through my paces very sharply, for he had something of the temper of an attorney mingled with his religiousness. However, I was equal to him, and he, too, though he held his own head higher, was not less impressed than Fawkes had been, by the surroundings of the occasion. Neither of them had ever been in our drawing-room since it was furnished, and I thought that each of them noticed how smart the wallpaper was. Indeed, I believe I drew their attention to it. After the two solitary examinations were over, the elders came in again, as I have said, and they prayed for a long time. We all three knelt at the sofa, I between them. But by this time, to my great exaltation of spirits there had succeeded an equally dismal depression. It was my turn now to weep, and I dimly remember any Father coming into the room, and my being carried up to bed, in a state of collapse and fatigue, by the silent and kindly Miss Marks.

Bere, the carpenter, was a tall, thin, dry man with a strangely motionless eye. He was not so easily won over by my charm. He questioned me very sharply, for his religious nature was mixed with something of a lawyer’s temperament. However, I was equal to him. Though he carried himself more proudly than Fawkes, he was just as impressed by the setting. Neither of them had been in our drawing room since it was furnished. I thought each of them noticed how smart the wallpaper was. In fact, I believe I drew their attention to it. After the two separate examinations were over, the elders came in again, as I have said. They prayed for a long time. We all three knelt at the sofa, with me between them. But by this time, my great excitement had given way to an equally miserable depression. It was my turn to weep. I dimly remember my Father coming into the room. Then the silent, kind Miss Marks carried me up to bed, exhausted and on the verge of collapse.

On the following Sunday morning, I was the principal subject which occupied an unusually crowded meeting. My Father, looking whiter and yet darker than usual, called upon Brother Fawkes and Brother Bere to state to the assembled saints what their experiences had been in connexion with their visits to 'one' who desired to be admitted to the breaking of bread. It was tremendously exciting to me to hear myself spoken of with this impersonal publicity, and I had no fear of the result.

The following Sunday morning, I was the main subject of an unusually crowded meeting. My Father looked paler and yet darker than usual. He asked Brother Fawkes and Brother Bere to tell the assembled saints about their visits to 'one' who wanted to be admitted to the breaking of bread. It was tremendously exciting to hear myself spoken of so impersonally in public, and I had no fear of the result.

Events showed that I had no need of fear. Fawkes and Bere were sometimes accused of a rivalry, which indeed broke out a few years later, and gave my Father much anxiety and pain. But on this occasion their unanimity was wonderful. Each strove to exceed the other in the tributes which they paid to any piety. My answers had been so full and clear, my humility (save the mark!) had been so sweet, my acquaintance with Scripture so amazing, my testimony to all the leading principles of salvation so distinct and exhaustive, that they could only say that they had felt confounded, and yet deeply cheered and led far along their own heavenly path, by hearing such accents fall from the lips of a babe and a suckling. I did not like being described as a suckling, but every lot has its crumpled rose-leaf, and in all other respects the report of the elders was a triumph. My Father then clenched the whole matter by rising and announcing that I had expressed an independent desire to confess the Lord by the act of public baptism, immediately after which I should be admitted to communion 'as an adult'. Emotion ran so high at this, that a large portion of the congregation insisted on walking with us back to our garden-gate, to the stupefaction of the rest of the villagers.

Events showed that I had nothing to fear. Fawkes and Bere were sometimes said to be rivals. Their rivalry did indeed break out a few years later, causing my Father much anxiety and pain. But on this occasion, their agreement was wonderful. Each tried to outdo the other in praising my piety. My answers had been so full and clear, and my humility so sweet (if you can call it humility!). My knowledge of Scripture had been so amazing. My testimony to all the leading principles of salvation had been so clear and complete. The elders could only say that they had been overwhelmed. Yet they had also been deeply cheered and guided far along their own heavenly path. All this came from hearing such words from the lips of a babe and a suckling. I did not like being called a suckling, but every lot has its small disappointment. In every other respect, the elders' report was a triumph. My Father then settled the whole matter by standing up and making an announcement. He said that I had expressed an independent desire to confess the Lord through public baptism. Immediately afterward, I would be admitted to communion 'as an adult'. Emotions ran so high that a large part of the congregation insisted on walking with us back to our garden gate. The rest of the villagers were astonished.

My public baptism was the central event of my whole childhood. Everything, since the earliest dawn of consciousness, seemed to have been leading up to it. Everything, afterwards, seemed to be leading down and away from it. The practice of immersing communicants on the sea-beach at Oddicombe had now been completely abandoned, but we possessed as yet no tank for a baptismal purpose in our own Room. The Room in the adjoining town, however, was really quite a large chapel, and it was amply provided with the needful conveniences. It was our practice, therefore, at this time, to claim the hospitality of our neighbours. Baptisms were made an occasion for friendly relations between the two congregations, and led to pleasant social intercourse. I believe that the ministers and elders of the two meetings arranged to combine their forces at these times, and to baptize communicants from both congregations.

My public baptism was the central event of my whole childhood. From my earliest awareness, everything seemed to have been leading up to it. Afterward, everything seemed to lead down and away from it. By then, the practice of immersing communicants at Oddicombe beach had been completely abandoned. But we still had no baptismal tank in our own Room. The Room in the neighboring town, however, was a fairly large chapel, with all the necessary facilities. So, at that time, we relied on our neighbors’ hospitality. Baptisms gave the two congregations a chance to build friendly relations and enjoy one another’s company. I believe the ministers and elders of the two meetings arranged to join forces on these occasions. They baptized communicants from both congregations.

The minister of the town meeting was Mr. S., a very handsome old gentleman, of venerable and powerful appearance. He had snowy hair and a long white beard, but from under shaggy eyebrows there blazed out great black eyes which warned the beholder that the snow was an ornament and not a sign of decrepitude. The eve of my baptism at length drew near; it was fixed for October 12, almost exactly three weeks after my tenth birthday. I was dressed in old clothes, and a suit of smarter things was packed up in a carpet- bag. After nightfall, this carpet-bag, accompanied by my Father, myself, Miss Marks and Mary Grace, was put in a four-wheeled cab, and driven, a long way in the dark, to the chapel of our friends. There we were received, in a blaze of lights, with a pressure of hands, with a murmur of voices, with ejaculations and even with tears, and were conducted, amid unspeakable emotion, to places of honour in the front row of the congregation.

The minister of the town meeting was Mr. S., a very handsome old gentleman with a dignified and powerful appearance. He had snow-white hair and a long white beard. But his great black eyes blazed from beneath shaggy eyebrows, warning anyone who saw him that the snow was an ornament, not a sign of weakness. At last, the eve of my baptism drew near. The baptism was set for October 12, almost exactly three weeks after my tenth birthday. I was dressed in old clothes, and a smarter outfit was packed in a carpetbag. After dark, my Father, Miss Marks, Mary Grace and I took the carpetbag into a four-wheeled cab. We drove a long way through the darkness to our friends’ chapel. There, amid a blaze of lights, we were greeted with handshakes, murmuring voices, exclamations and even tears. Amid unspeakable emotion, we were led to places of honour in the front row of the congregation.

The scene was one which would have been impressive, not merely to such hermits as we were, but even to worldly persons accustomed to life and to its curious and variegated experiences. To me it was dazzling beyond words, inexpressibly exciting, an initiation to every kind of publicity and glory. There were many candidates, but the rest of them,—mere grownup men and women,—gave thanks aloud that it was their privilege to follow where I led. I was the acknowledged hero of the hour. Those were days when newspaper enterprise was scarcely in its infancy, and the event owed nothing to journalistic effort; in spite of that, the news of this remarkable ceremony, the immersion of a little boy of ten years old 'as an adult', had spread far and wide through the county in the course of three weeks. The chapel of our hosts was, as I have said, very large; it was commonly too large for their needs, but on this night it was crowded to the ceiling, and the crowd had come—as every soft murmur assured me—to see me.

The scene would have impressed not only hermits like us, but even worldly people familiar with life and its strange and varied experiences. To me, it was dazzling beyond words, thrilling beyond description. It was my introduction to every kind of public attention and glory. There were many candidates, but the others, mere grown men and women, gave thanks aloud for the privilege of following my lead. I was the acknowledged hero of the hour. Newspapers were barely beginning to cover such events in those days, and they played no part in spreading the news. Even so, within three weeks, word of this remarkable ceremony had spread far and wide across the county. A little boy of ten was to be immersed 'as an adult'. As I have said, our hosts' chapel was very large. It was usually too large for their needs, but that night it was packed to the ceiling. As every soft murmur assured me, the crowd had come to see me.

There were people there who had travelled from Exeter, from Dartmouth, from Totnes, to witness so extraordinary a ceremony. There was one old woman of eighty-five who had come, my neighbours whispered to me, all the way from Moreton-Hampstead, on purpose to see me baptized. I looked at her crumpled countenance with amazement, for there was no curiosity, no interest visible in it. She sat there perfectly listless, looking at nothing, but chewing between her toothless gums what appeared to be a jujube.

People had travelled from Exeter, Dartmouth, and Totnes to witness such an extraordinary ceremony. My neighbours whispered that an eighty-five-year-old woman had come all the way from Moreton-Hampstead just to see me baptized. I looked at her wrinkled face in amazement, because she showed no curiosity or interest. She sat there, completely listless, looking at nothing, but chewing what seemed to be a jujube between her toothless gums.

In the centre of the chapel-floor a number of planks had been taken up and revealed a pool which might have been supposed to be a small swimming-bath. We gazed down into this dark square of mysterious waters, from the tepid surface of which faint swirls of vapour rose. The whole congregation was arranged, tier above tier, about the four straight sides of this pool; every person was able to see what happened in it without any unseemly struggling or standing on forms. Mr. S. now rose, an impressive hieratic figure, commanding attention and imploring perfect silence. He held a small book in his hand, and he was preparing to give out the number of a hymn, when an astounding incident took place.

Several planks had been removed from the centre of the chapel floor, revealing a pool that might have been a small swimming pool. We gazed down into the dark square of mysterious water. Faint wisps of vapour rose from its lukewarm surface. The whole congregation sat in rows rising around the pool’s four straight sides. Everyone could see what happened in the pool without any undignified pushing or standing on benches. Mr. S. now rose, an impressive, priestly figure. He called for attention and begged for complete silence. He held a small book and was about to announce the number of a hymn when something astounding happened.

There was a great splash, and a tall young woman was perceived to be in the baptismal pool, her arms waving above her head, and her figure held upright in the water by the inflation of the air underneath her crinoline which was blown out like a bladder, as in some extravagant old fashion-plate. Whether her feet touched the bottom of the font I cannot say, but I suppose they did so. An indescribable turmoil of shrieks and cries followed on this extraordinary apparition. A great many people excitedly called upon other people to be calm, and an instance was given of the remark of James Smith that

There was a great splash, and a tall young woman appeared in the baptismal pool. Her arms were waving above her head. Air trapped under her crinoline held her upright in the water, puffing it out like a bladder in some extravagant old fashion illustration. I cannot say whether her feet touched the bottom of the font, but I suppose they did. This extraordinary sight was followed by an indescribable uproar of shrieks and cries. Many people excitedly called on others to be calm, and this gave an example of James Smith’s remark that

The young woman, in a more or less fainting condition, was presently removed from the water, and taken into the sort of tent which was prepared for candidates. It was found that she herself had wished to be a candidate and had earnestly desired to be baptized, but that this had been forbidden by her parents. On the supposition that she fell in by accident, a pious coincidence was detected in this affair; the Lord had pre-ordained that she should be baptized in spite of all opposition. But my Father, in his shrewd way, doubted. He pointed out to us, next morning, that, in the first place, she had not, in any sense, been baptized, as her head had not been immersed; and that, in the second place, she must have deliberately jumped in, since, had she stumbled and fallen forward, her hands and face would have struck the water, whereas they remained quite dry. She belonged, however, to the neighbour congregation, and we had no responsibility to pursue the inquiry any further.

The young woman, who was more or less faint, was soon pulled from the water. She was taken into a kind of tent prepared for baptism candidates. It turned out that she had wanted to be a candidate and had been eager to be baptized. But her parents had forbidden it. Assuming she had fallen in by accident, people saw a pious coincidence in the incident. The Lord had ordained in advance that she should be baptized despite all opposition. But my Father, shrewd as ever, had doubts. The next morning, he pointed out to us that, first of all, she had not been baptized at all. Her head had not been immersed. Second, she must have jumped in deliberately. If she had stumbled and fallen forward, her hands and face would have hit the water, yet they had remained quite dry. She belonged, however, to the neighboring congregation, and we had no responsibility to investigate further.

Decorum being again secured, Mr. S., with unimpaired dignity, proposed to the congregation a hymn, which was long enough to occupy them during the preparations for the actual baptism. He then retired to the vestry, and I (for I was to be the first to testify) was led by Miss Marks and Mary Grace into the species of tent of which I have just spoken. Its pale sides seemed to shake with the jubilant singing of the saints outside, while part of my clothing was removed and I was prepared for immersion. A sudden cessation of the hymn warned us that to Minister was now ready, and we emerged into the glare of lights and faces to find Mr. S. already standing in the water up to his knees. Feeling as small as one of our microscopical specimens, almost infinitesimally tiny as I descended into his Titanic arms, I was handed down the steps to him. He was dressed in a kind of long surplice, underneath which—as I could not, even in that moment, help observing—the air gathered in long bubbles which he strove to flatten out. The end of his noble beard he had tucked away; his shirt-sleeves were turned up at the wrist.

Once order was restored, Mr. S., his dignity undiminished, suggested a hymn to the congregation. It was long enough to occupy them while preparations were made for the actual baptism. He then went to the vestry. Since I was to be the first to testify, Miss Marks and Mary Grace led me into the tent-like shelter I have just described. Its pale sides seemed to shake with the joyful singing of the saints outside. There, some of my clothing was removed and I was prepared for immersion. The hymn suddenly stopped, warning us that the Minister was now ready. We emerged into the glare of lights and faces to find Mr. S. already standing knee-deep in the water. I was handed down the steps into his Titanic arms. I felt as small as one of our microscopic specimens, almost infinitely tiny. He wore a kind of long surplice. Even in that moment, I could not help noticing the long bubbles of air gathering underneath it. He tried to flatten them out. He had tucked away the end of his noble beard, and his shirt sleeves were turned up at the wrists.

The entire congregation was now silent, so silent that the uncertain splashing of my feet as I descended seemed to deafen one. Mr. S., a little embarrassed by my short stature, succeeded at length in securing me with one palm on my chest and the other between my shoulders. He said, slowly, in a loud, sonorous voice that seemed to enter my brain and empty it, 'I baptize thee, my Brother, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost!' Having intoned this formula, he then gently flung me backwards until I was wholly under the water, and then—as he brought me up again, and tenderly steadied my feet on the steps of the font, and delivered me, dripping and spluttering, into the anxious hands of the women, who hurried me to the tent—the whole assembly broke forth in a thunder of song, a paean of praise to God for this manifestation of his marvellous goodness and mercy. So great was the enthusiasm, that it could hardly be restrained so as to allow the other candidates, the humdrum adults who followed in my wet and glorious footsteps, to undergo a ritual about which, in their case, no one in the congregation pretended to be able to take even the most languid interest.

The entire congregation was now silent. It was so quiet that the hesitant splashing of my feet as I stepped down seemed deafening. Mr. S. was a little embarrassed by how short I was. At last, he managed to hold me securely, with one hand on my chest and the other between my shoulders. He spoke slowly, in a loud, deep voice that seemed to enter my brain and empty it. 'I baptize you, my Brother, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost!' After chanting these words, he gently flung me backwards until I was completely under the water. Then he brought me up again and tenderly steadied my feet on the steps of the font. He handed me over, dripping and spluttering, to the anxious women, who hurried me to the tent. As he did so, the whole congregation burst into thunderous song. They sang in praise of God for this display of his wonderful goodness and mercy. Their enthusiasm was so great that it could hardly be restrained long enough for the other candidates to undergo the ritual. These ordinary adults followed in my wet and glorious footsteps. In their case, no one in the congregation pretended to take even the slightest interest in the ritual.

My Father's happiness during the next few weeks it is not pathetic to me to look back upon. His sternness melted into a universal complaisance. He laughed and smiled, he paid to my opinions the tribute of the gravest considerations, he indulged— utterly unlike his wont—in shy and furtive caresses. I could express no wish that he did not attempt to fulfill, and the only warning which he cared to give me was one, very gently expressed, against spiritual pride.

Looking back, I do not feel pity for my Father’s happiness during the next few weeks. His sternness melted into a willingness to please everyone. He laughed and smiled. He took my opinions very seriously. Quite unlike his usual self, he gave me shy, furtive caresses. He tried to fulfill every wish I expressed. His only warning to me was against spiritual pride, and he gave it very gently.

This was certainly required, for I was puffed out with a sense of my own holiness. I was religiously confidential with my Father, condescending with Miss Marks (who I think had given up trying to make it all out), haughty with the servants, and insufferably patronizing with those young companions of my own age with whom I was now beginning to associate.

This was certainly necessary, because I was full of a sense of my own holiness. I confided in my Father about religious matters and was condescending toward Miss Marks. I think she had given up trying to make sense of it all. I was haughty with the servants. I was insufferably patronizing toward the young people my own age whom I was now beginning to spend time with.

I would fain close this remarkable episode on a key of solemnity, but alas! If I am to be loyal to the truth, I must record that some of the other little boys presently complained to Mary Grace that I put out my tongue at them in mockery, during the service in the Room, to remind them that I now broke bread as one of the Saints and that they did not.

I would like to end this remarkable episode on a solemn note, but alas! If I am to tell the truth, I must report what happened next. Some of the other little boys complained to Mary Grace that I had stuck out my tongue at them during the service in the Room. I had mocked them to remind them that I now broke bread as one of the Saints and they did not.