Chapter 12

LITTLE boys from quiet, pious households, commonly found, in those days, a chasm yawning at the feet of their inexperience when they arrived at Boarding-school. But the fact that I still slept at home on Saturday and Sunday nights preserved me, I fancy, from many surprises. There was a crisis, but it was broad and slow for me. On the other hand, for my Father I am inclined to think that it was definite and sharp. Permission for me to desert the parental hearth, even for five days in certain weeks, was tantamount, in his mind, to admitting that the great scheme, so long caressed, so passionately fostered, must in its primitive bigness be now dropped.

In those days, little boys from quiet, religious households often faced a great divide when they arrived at boarding school. Their inexperience left them unprepared. But I think sleeping at home on Saturday and Sunday nights spared me many surprises. There was a crisis, but for me it unfolded gradually. For my Father, on the other hand, I am inclined to think the crisis was clear and sharp. Letting me leave home, even for five days in certain weeks, was, in his mind, like admitting defeat. He had to abandon the great plan he had cherished for so long and nurtured so passionately, at least in its original, ambitious form.

The Great Scheme (I cannot resist giving it the mortuary of capital letters) had been, as my readers know, that I should be exclusively and consecutively dedicated through the whole of my life, 'to the manifest and uninterrupted and uncompromised service of the Lord'. That had been the aspiration of my Mother, and at her death she had bequeathed that desire to my Father, like a dream of the Promised Land. In their ecstasy, my parents had taken me, as Elkanah and Hannah had long ago taken Samuel, from their mountain-home of Ramathaim-Zophim down to sacrifice to the Lord of Hosts in Shiloh. They had girt me about with a linen ephod, and had hoped to leave me there; 'as long as he liveth,' they had said, 'he shall be lent unto the Lord.'

The Great Scheme (I cannot resist dressing it for burial in capital letters) was, as my readers know, a plan for my whole life. I was to be dedicated entirely and continuously ‘to the clear, uninterrupted, and uncompromised service of the Lord’. That had been my Mother’s hope. When she died, she left that hope to my Father, like a dream of the Promised Land. In their ecstasy, my parents had taken me to sacrifice to the Lord of Hosts in Shiloh. They were like Elkanah and Hannah, who had long ago taken Samuel there from their mountain home in Ramathaim-Zophim. My parents had dressed me in a linen ephod and had hoped to leave me there. ‘As long as he lives,’ they had said, ‘he shall be lent to the Lord.’

Doubtless in the course of these fourteen years it had occasionally flashed upon my Father, as he overheard some speech of mine, or detected some idiosyncrasy, that I was not one of those whose temperament points them out as ultimately fitted for an austere life of religion. What he hoped, however, was that when the little roughnesses of childhood were rubbed away, there would pass a deep mellowness over my soul. He had a touching way of condoning my faults of conduct, directly after reproving them, and he would softly deprecate my frailty, saying, in a tone of harrowing tenderness, 'Are you not the child of many prayers?' He continued to think that prayer, such passionate importunate prayer as his, must prevail. Faith could move mountains; should it not be able to mould the little ductile heart of a child, since he was sure that his own faith was unfaltering? He had yearned and waited for a son who should be totally without human audacities, who should be humble, pure, not troubled by worldly agitations, a son whose life should be cleansed and straightened from above, in custodiendo sermones Dei; in whom everything should be sacrificed except the one thing needful to salvation.

No doubt, during those fourteen years, my Father sometimes heard me say something or noticed some peculiarity of mine. Then it would flash upon him that my temperament did not point toward an austere religious life. But he hoped that, once the rough edges of childhood had worn away, my soul would grow deeply mellow. He had a touching way of forgiving my misbehavior immediately after scolding me. He would gently lament my weakness, saying with painful tenderness, 'Are you not the child of many prayers?' He continued to believe that prayer, as passionate and insistent as his, must prevail. Faith could move mountains. Should it not be able to shape a child's little, pliable heart, since he was sure his own faith never wavered? He had longed and waited for a son who would have none of the boldness of ordinary people. He wanted a son who would be humble and pure, and undisturbed by worldly concerns. His son's life would be cleansed and set straight from above, in custodiendo sermones Dei. In him, everything would be sacrificed except the one thing necessary for salvation.

How such a marvel of lowly piety was to earn a living had never, I think, occurred to him. My Father was singularly indifferent about money. Perhaps his notion was that, totally devoid of ambitions as I was to be, I should quietly become adult, and continue his ministrations among the poor of the Christian flock. He had some dim dream, I think, of there being just enough for us all without my having to take up any business or trade. I believe it was immediately after my first term at boarding-school, that I was a silent but indignant witness of a conversation between my Father and Mr. Thomas Brightwen, my stepmother's brother, who was a banker in one of the Eastern Counties.

I do not think it had ever occurred to him how such a marvel of humble piety would earn a living. My Father was unusually indifferent to money. Perhaps he imagined that I would have no ambitions, as he intended. I would simply grow up and continue his work among the poor of the Christian flock. I think he had some vague dream that there would be just enough for us all, without my having to enter a business or trade. I believe it was just after my first term at boarding school that I silently but indignantly witnessed a conversation. It was between my Father and Mr. Thomas Brightwen, my stepmother's brother, who was a banker in one of the Eastern Counties.

This question, 'What is he to be?' in a worldly sense, was being discussed, and I am sure that it was for the first time, at all events in my presence. Mr. Brightwen, I fancy, had been worked upon by my stepmother, whose affection for me was always on the increase, to suggest, or faintly to stir the air in the neighbourhood of suggesting, a query about my future. He was childless and so was she, and I think a kind impulse led them to 'feel the way', as it is called. I believe he said that the banking business, wisely and honourably conducted, sometimes led, as we know that it is apt to lead, to affluence. To my horror, my Father, with rising emphasis, replied that 'if there were offered to his beloved child what is called "an opening" that would lead to an income of L10,000 a year, and that would divert his thoughts and interest from the Lord's work he would reject it on his child's behalf.' Mr. Brightwen, a precise and polished gentleman who evidently never made an exaggerated statement in his life, was, I think, faintly scandalized; he soon left us, and I do not recollect his paying us a second visit.

The question, 'What is he to be?' was being discussed in the worldly sense. I am sure it was the first time, at least in my presence. I imagine my stepmother had encouraged Mr. Brightwen to raise the question of my future, or at least hint very faintly at it. Her affection for me was always growing. Neither she nor Mr. Brightwen had children, and I think a kind impulse led them to 'feel the way', as people say. I believe he said that banking, when conducted wisely and honourably, sometimes led to wealth, as we know it often does. To my horror, my Father replied with rising emphasis. He said that 'if his beloved child were offered what is called "an opening" that would lead to an income of £10,000 a year, but would divert his thoughts and interests from the Lord's work, he would reject it on his child's behalf.' Mr. Brightwen was a precise and polished gentleman who, it seemed, had never exaggerated in his life. I think he was slightly shocked. He soon left us, and I do not remember him visiting us again.

For my silent part, I felt very much like Gehazi, and I would fain have followed after the banker if I had dared to do so, into the night. I would have excused to him the ardour of my Elisha, and I would have reminded him of the sons of the prophets—'Give me, I pray thee,' I would have said, 'a talent of silver and two changes of garments.' It seemed to me very hard that my Father should dispose of my possibilities of wealth in so summary a fashion, but the fact that I did resent it, and regretted what I supposed to be my 'chance', shows how far apart we had already swung. My Father, I am convinced, thought that he gave words to my inward instincts when he repudiated the very mild and inconclusive benevolence of his brother-in-law. But he certainly did not do so. I was conscious of a sharp and instinctive disappointment at having had, as I fancied, wealth so near my grasp, and at seeing it all cast violently into the sea of my Father's scruples.

For my part, though I said nothing, I felt very much like Gehazi. If I had dared, I would have followed the banker out into the night. I would have apologized for my Elisha’s zeal and reminded him of the sons of the prophets. ‘Please give me,’ I would have said, ‘a talent of silver and two changes of clothes.’ It seemed very hard that my Father should dismiss my chances of wealth so quickly. But I did resent it, and I regretted what I thought was my ‘chance’. That shows how far apart we had already drifted. I am convinced that my Father thought he was speaking for my own deepest feelings. He thought so when he rejected his brother-in-law’s very mild and uncertain offer of help. But he certainly was not. I felt a sharp, instinctive disappointment. As I imagined it, wealth had been so close to my grasp. Now I saw it all thrown violently into the sea of my Father’s scruples.

Not one of my village friends attended the boarding-school to which I was now attached, and I arrived there without an acquaintance. I should soon, however, have found a corner of my own if my Father had not unluckily stipulated that I was not to sleep in the dormitory with the boys of my own age, but in the room occupied by the two elder sons of a prominent Plymouth Brother whom he knew. From a social point of view this was an unfortunate arrangement, since these youths were some years older and many years riper than I; the eldest, in fact, was soon to leave; they had enjoyed their independence, and they now greatly resented being saddled with the presence of an unknown urchin. The supposition had been that they would protect and foster my religious practices; would encourage me, indeed, as my Father put it, to approach the Throne of Grace with them at morning and evening prayer. They made no pretence, however, to be considered godly; they looked upon me as an intruder; and after a while the younger, and ruder, of them openly let me know that they believed I had been put into their room to 'spy upon' them; it had been a plot, they knew, between their father and mine: and he darkly warned me that I should suffer if 'anything got out'. I had, however, no wish to trouble them, nor any faint interest in their affairs. I soon discovered that they were absorbed in a silly kind of amorous correspondence with the girls of a neighbouring academy, but 'what were all such toys to me?'

None of my village friends attended the boarding school I now joined, so I arrived without knowing anyone. Still, I would soon have found a place of my own if my Father had not made an unfortunate demand. He insisted that I sleep, not in the dormitory with boys my own age, but in another room. The room was occupied by the two elder sons of a prominent Plymouth Brother whom he knew. Socially, this was an unfortunate arrangement. The two youths were several years older and far more mature than I was. The eldest, in fact, was soon to leave. They had enjoyed their independence, and they greatly resented having an unknown urchin forced upon them. The idea was that they would protect and encourage my religious practices. Indeed, as my Father put it, they would encourage me to approach the Throne of Grace with them at morning and evening prayer. But they made no claim to be godly. They saw me as an intruder. After a while, the younger and ruder of the two openly told me they believed I had been put in their room to 'spy upon' them. They knew it was a plot between their father and mine. He darkly warned me that I would suffer if 'anything got out'. But I had no wish to trouble them, nor the slightest interest in their affairs. I soon discovered that they were absorbed in a silly exchange of love letters with girls at a neighbouring academy. But 'what did such trifles matter to me?'

These young fellows, who ought long before to have left the school, did nothing overtly unkind to me, but they condemned me to silence. They ceased to address me except with an occasional command. By reason of my youth, I was in bed and asleep before my companions arrived upstairs, and in the morning I was always routed up and packed about my business while they still were drowsing. But the fact that I had been cut off from my coevals by night, cut me off from them also by day—so that I was nothing to them, neither a boarder nor a day-scholar, neither flesh, fish nor fowl. The loneliness of my life was extreme, and that I always went home on Saturday afternoon and returned on Monday morning still further checked my companionships at school. For a long time, round the outskirts of that busy throng of opening lives, I 'wandered lonely as a cloud', and sometimes I was more unhappy than I had ever been before. No one, however, bullied me, and though I was dimly and indefinably witness to acts of uncleanness and cruelty, I was the victim of no such acts and the recipient of no dangerous confidences. I suppose that my queer reputation for sanctity, half dreadful, half ridiculous, surrounded me with a non-conducting atmosphere.

These young men should have left school long before. They did nothing openly unkind to me, but they condemned me to silence. They stopped speaking to me except to give me an occasional order. Because I was young, I was in bed and asleep before my companions came upstairs. In the morning, I was always roused and sent about my business while they were still dozing. But being separated from my peers at night also separated me from them during the day. I was nothing to them, neither a boarder nor a day student, neither one thing nor another. My life was extremely lonely. Going home every Saturday afternoon and returning on Monday morning made it even harder to form friendships at school. For a long time, I 'wandered lonely as a cloud' on the edges of that busy crowd of young people beginning their lives. Sometimes I was unhappier than I had ever been before. No one bullied me, however. Though I had a vague, indistinct awareness of acts of impurity and cruelty, I was not a victim of them. Nor did anyone share dangerous secrets with me. I suppose my strange reputation for holiness, half frightening and half ridiculous, surrounded me like an insulating layer.

We are the victims of hallowed proverbs, and one of the most classic of these tells us that 'the child is father of the man'. But in my case I cannot think that this was true. In mature years I have always been gregarious, a lover of my kind, dependent upon the company of friends for the very pulse of moral life. To be marooned, to be shut up in a solitary cell, to inhabit a lighthouse, or to camp alone in a forest, these have always seemed to me afflictions too heavy to be borne, even in imagination. A state in which conversation exists not, is for me an air too empty of oxygen for my lungs to breathe it.

We are all victims of sayings treated as sacred. One of the most famous tells us that 'the child is father of the man'. But I cannot think that this was true in my case. As an adult, I have always been sociable and fond of other people. I depend on the company of friends for the very pulse of my moral life. Being stranded alone, locked in a solitary cell, living in a lighthouse, or camping alone in a forest have always seemed unbearable to me, even in imagination. A life without conversation is like air too empty of oxygen for my lungs to breathe.

Yet when I look back upon my days at boarding-school, I see myself unattracted by any of the human beings around me. My grown-up years are made luminous to me in memory by the ardent faces of my friends, but I can scarce recall so much as the names of more than two or three of my schoolfellows. There is not one of them whose mind or whose character made any lasting impression upon me. In later life, I have been impatient of solitude, and afraid of it; at school, I asked for no more than to slip out of the hurly-burly and be alone with my reflections and my fancies. That magnetism of humanity which has been the agony of mature years, of this I had not a trace when I was a boy. Of those fragile loves to which most men look back with tenderness and passion, emotions to be explained only as Montaigne explained them, parceque c'etait lui, parceque c'etait moi, I knew nothing. I, to whom friendship has since been like sunlight and like sleep, left school unbrightened and unrefreshed by commerce with a single friend.

Yet when I look back on my boarding-school days, I see that I felt no attraction to anyone around me. My memories of adult life are lit up by the eager faces of my friends. But I can barely remember the names of more than two or three of my schoolmates. Not one of them made a lasting impression on me through their mind or character. Later in life, I have found solitude unbearable and frightening. At school, all I wanted was to slip away from the noise and commotion and be alone with my thoughts and fantasies. The attraction of other people, which has caused me such agony in adulthood, was entirely absent in my boyhood. I knew nothing of those fragile loves that most men remember with tenderness and passion. Those feelings can be explained only as Montaigne explained them: because it was him, because it was me. Friendship has since been like sunlight and sleep to me. Yet I left school without a single friend to brighten or refresh me.

If I had been clever, I should doubtless have attracted the jealousy of my fellows, but I was spared this by the mediocrity of my success in the classes. One little fact I may mention, because it exemplifies the advance in observation which has been made in forty years. I was extremely nearsighted, and in consequence was placed at a gross disadvantage, by being unable to see the slate or the black-board on which our tasks were explained. It seems almost incredible, when one reflects upon it, but during the whole of my school life, this fact was never commented upon or taken into account by a single person, until the Polish lady who taught us the elements of German and French drew someone's attention to it in my sixteenth year. I was not quick, but I passed for being denser than I was because of the myopic haze that enveloped me. But this is not an autobiography, and with the cold and shrouded details of my uninteresting school life I will not fatigue the reader.

If I had been clever, I would no doubt have made the other pupils jealous. But my mediocre performance in class spared me that. I may mention one small fact because it shows how much more observant people have become in forty years. I was extremely nearsighted and could not see the slate or blackboard where our tasks were explained. This put me at a great disadvantage. It seems almost unbelievable when I think about it. But throughout my school life, no one mentioned or took account of my nearsightedness until I was sixteen. Then the Polish lady who taught us elementary German and French drew someone’s attention to it. I was not quick, but people thought me duller than I was because of the nearsighted haze that surrounded me. But this is not an autobiography. I will not tire the reader with the cold, dim details of my uninteresting school life.

I was not content, however, to be the cipher that I found myself, and when I had been at school for about a year, I 'broke out', greatly, I think, to my own surprise, in a popular act. We had a young usher whom we disliked. I suppose, poor half-starved phthisic lad, that he was the most miserable of us all. He was, I think, unfitted for the task which had been forced upon him; he was fretful, unsympathetic, agitated. The school-house, an old rambling place, possessed a long cellar-like room that opened from our general corridor and was lighted by deep windows, carefully barred, which looked into an inner garden. This vault was devoted to us and to our play-boxes: by a tacit law, no master entered it. One evening, just at dusk, a great number of us were here when the bell for night-school rang, and many of us dawdled at the summons. Mr. B., tactless in his anger, bustled in among us, scolding in a shrill voice, and proceeded to drive us forth. I was the latest to emerge, and as he turned away to see if any other truant might not be hiding, I determined upon action. With a quick movement, I drew the door behind me and bolted it, just in time to hear the imprisoned usher scream with vexation. We boys all trooped upstairs and it is characteristic of my isolation that I had not one 'chum' to whom I could confide my feat.

I was not content, however, to be the nobody I found myself to be. After about a year at school, I 'broke out' with an act that won the other boys’ approval. I think it came as a great surprise to me. We had a young assistant teacher whom we disliked. Poor, half-starved boy with tuberculosis, I suppose he was the most miserable of us all. I think he was unsuited to the job that had been forced upon him. He was irritable, unsympathetic, and anxious. The schoolhouse was an old, sprawling place. A long, cellar-like room opened off our main corridor. Deep windows, carefully barred, let in light and looked out onto an inner garden. The room was set aside for us and our boxes of toys. By an unspoken rule, no teacher entered it. One evening, just at dusk, a great number of us were there when the bell for night-school rang. Many of us were slow to answer it. Angry and tactless, Mr. B. bustled in among us, scolding in a shrill voice, and began to drive us out. I was the last to emerge. He turned away to see if any other boy might be hiding, and I decided to act. I quickly pulled the door shut behind me and bolted it. Just as I did, I heard the trapped assistant teacher scream with frustration. We boys all trooped upstairs. It says much about how isolated I was that I had not one 'chum' to whom I could tell what I had done.

That Mr. B. had been shut in became, however, almost instantly known, and the night-class, usually so unruly, was awed by the event into exemplary decorum. There, with no master near us, in a silence rarely broken by a giggle or a catcall, we sat diligently working, or pretending to work. Through my brain, as I hung over my book a thousand new thoughts began to surge. I was the liberator, the tyrannicide; I had freed all my fellows from the odious oppressor. Surely, when they learned that it was I, they would cluster round me; surely, now, I should be somebody in the school-life, no longer a mere trotting shadow or invisible presence. The interval seemed long; at length Mr. B. was released by a servant, and he came up into the school-room to find us in that ominous condition of suspense.

But news that Mr. B. had been shut in spread almost instantly. The night class was usually unruly, but the event left us awed and exceptionally well behaved. With no teacher near us, we sat diligently working or pretending to work. The silence was rarely broken by a giggle or a catcall. As I bent over my book, a thousand new thoughts began to rush through my mind. I was the liberator, the slayer of a tyrant. I had freed all my classmates from the hateful oppressor. Surely, when they learned I had done it, they would gather around me. Surely, now I would be somebody at school, no longer just a shadow following along or an invisible presence. The wait seemed long. At last, a servant let Mr. B. out, and he came up to the schoolroom. He found us there, waiting in ominous suspense.

At first he said nothing. He sank upon a chair in a half-fainting attitude, while he pressed his hand to his side; his distress and silence redoubled the boys' surprise, and filled me with something like remorse. For the first time, I reflected that he was human, that perhaps he suffered. He rose presently and took a slate, upon which he wrote two questions: 'Did you do it?' 'Do you know who did?' and these he propounded to each boy in rotation. The prompt, redoubled 'No' in every case seemed to pile up his despair.

At first he said nothing. He sank into a chair as if half fainting, pressing his hand to his side. His distress and silence made the boys even more surprised and filled me with something like remorse. For the first time, I realized that he was human, that perhaps he suffered. Soon he stood up and took a slate. On it, he wrote two questions: 'Did you do it?' 'Do you know who did?' He put these questions to each boy in turn. Each boy promptly answered 'No' to both questions, and each answer seemed to deepen his despair.

One of the last to whom he held, in silence, the trembling slate was the perpetrator. As I saw the moment approach, an unspeakable timidity swept over me. I reflected that no one had seen me, that no one could accuse me. Nothing could be easier or safer than to deny, nothing more perplexing to the enemy, nothing less perilous for the culprit. A flood of plausible reasons invaded my brain; I seemed to see this to be a case in which to tell the truth would be not merely foolish, it would be wrong. Yet when the usher stood before me, holding the slate out in his white and shaking hand, I seized the pencil, and, ignoring the first question, I wrote 'Yes' firmly against the second. I suppose that the ambiguity of this action puzzled Mr. B. He pressed me to answer: 'Did you do it?' but to that I was obstinately dumb; and away I was hurried to an empty bed-room, where for the whole of that night and the next day I was held a prisoner, visited at intervals by the headmaster and other inquisitorial persons, until I was gradually persuaded to make a full confession and apology.

One of the last people he silently held the trembling slate out to was the person responsible: me. As the moment approached, I was overcome by a fear I cannot describe. I realized that no one had seen me and that no one could accuse me. Nothing could be easier or safer than denying it. Nothing would be more confusing to the enemy or less dangerous for me, the guilty one. A flood of convincing reasons filled my mind. It seemed to me that telling the truth in this case would not just be foolish, but wrong. Yet when the usher stood before me, holding out the slate in his white, shaking hand, I grabbed the pencil. I ignored the first question and wrote 'Yes' firmly beside the second. I suppose this unclear answer puzzled Mr. B. He pressed me to answer: 'Did you do it?' But I stubbornly refused to speak. I was hurried away to an empty bedroom, where I was held prisoner all that night and the next day. The headmaster and other questioning figures visited me from time to time. Gradually, they persuaded me to make a full confession and apology.

This absurd little incident had one effect, it revealed me to my schoolfellows as an existence. From that time forth I lay no longer under the stigma of invisibility; I had produced my material shape and had thrown my shadow for a moment into a legend. But, in other respects, things went on much as before.

This absurd little incident had one effect. It made my schoolmates aware that I existed. From then on, I was no longer marked by invisibility. I had made myself visible and briefly cast my shadow into a legend. But in other respects, things went on much as before.

Curiously uninfluenced by my surroundings, I in my turn failed to exercise influence, and my practical isolation was no less than it had been before. It was thus that it came about that my social memories of my boarding-school life are monotonous and vague. It was a period during which, as it appears to me now on looking back, the stream of my spiritual nature spread out into a shallow pool which was almost stagnant. I was labouring to gain those elements of conventional knowledge, which had, in many cases, up to that time been singularly lacking. But my brain was starved, and my intellectual perceptions were veiled. Elder persons who in later years would speak to me frankly of my school-days assured me that, while I had often struck them as a smart and quaint and even interesting child, all promise seemed to fade out of me as a schoolboy, and that those who were most inclined to be indulgent gave up the hope that I should prove a man in a way remarkable. This was particularly the case with the most indulgent of my protectors, my refined and gentle stepmother.

Curiously, my surroundings had little influence on me, and I, in turn, had little influence on them. I remained just as isolated in practice as I had been before. As a result, my social memories of boarding school are monotonous and vague. Looking back, it seems that the stream of my spiritual nature spread into a shallow, almost stagnant pool. I was working to learn the basics of conventional knowledge, which I had often been remarkably lacking until then. But my brain was starved, and my intellectual understanding was clouded. In later years, older people spoke frankly to me about my schooldays. They assured me that I had often struck them as a bright, unusual, and even interesting child. But as a schoolboy, I seemed to lose all promise. Even those most inclined to be generous gave up hope that I would become a remarkable man in any way. This was particularly true of the most generous of my protectors, my refined and gentle stepmother.

As this record can, however, have no value that is not based on its rigorous adhesion to the truth, I am bound to say that the dreariness and sterility of my school-life were more apparent than real. I was pursuing certain lines of moral and mental development all the time, and since my schoolmasters and my schoolfellows combined in thinking me so dull, I will display a tardy touch of 'proper spirit' and ask whether it may not partly have been because they were themselves so commonplace. I think that if some drops of sympathy, that magic dew of Paradise, had fallen upon my desert, it might have blossomed like the rose, or, at all events, like that chimerical flower, the Rose of Jericho. As it was, the conventionality around me, the intellectual drought, gave me no opportunity of outward growth. They did not destroy, but they cooped up, and rendered slow and inefficient, that internal life which continued, as I have said, to live on unseen. This took the form of dreams and speculations, in the course of which I went through many tortuous processes of the mind, the actual aims of which were futile, although the movements themselves were useful. If I may more minutely define my meaning, I would say that in my schooldays, without possessing thoughts, I yet prepared my mind for thinking, and learned how to think.

However, this account can have value only if it stays strictly true. So I must say that my school life seemed drearier and more barren than it really was. All the time, I was developing in certain moral and intellectual ways. My teachers and schoolmates agreed that I was very dull. So I will show a belated touch of 'proper spirit' and ask whether that may partly have been because they were so ordinary themselves. I think that a few drops of sympathy, that magic dew of Paradise, might have fallen on my desert. If they had, it might have blossomed like the rose, or at least like that fanciful flower, the Rose of Jericho. As it was, the conventional attitudes and intellectual drought around me gave me no chance to grow outwardly. They did not destroy my inner life, which, as I have said, continued unseen. But they confined it and made it slow and inefficient. My inner life took the form of dreams and speculations. In these, my mind followed many winding paths. Their actual aims were pointless, although the mental exercise itself was useful. To put it more precisely, during my schooldays, I had no thoughts of my own. Yet I prepared my mind for thinking and learned how to think.

The great subject of my curiosity at this time was words, as instruments of expression. I was incessant in adding to my vocabulary, and in finding accurate and individual terms for things. Here, too, the exercise preceded the employment, since I was busy providing myself with words before I had any ideas to express with them. When I read Shakespeare and came upon the passage in which Prospero tells Caliban that he had no thoughts until his master taught him words, I remember starting with amazement at the poet's intuition, for such a Caliban had I been:

At this time, I was most curious about words as tools of expression. I was constantly adding to my vocabulary and finding precise, distinctive words for things. Here, too, practice came before use. I was busy gathering words before I had any ideas to express with them. Then I read the passage in Shakespeare where Prospero tells Caliban that he had no thoughts until his master taught him words. I remember starting in amazement at the poet's insight, for I had been just like Caliban:

For my Prosperos I sought vaguely in such books as I had access to, and I was conscious that as the inevitable word seized hold of me, with it out of the darkness into strong light came the image and the idea.

I searched vaguely for my Prosperos in the books available to me. I was aware that, as the inevitable word seized me, the image and the idea came with it, out of darkness and into bright light.

My Father possessed a copy of Bailey's 'Etymological Dictionary', a book published early in the eighteenth century. Over this I would pore for hours, playing with the words in a fashion which I can no longer reconstruct, and delighting in the savour of the rich, old-fashioned country phrases. My Father finding me thus employed, fell to wondering at the nature of my pursuit, and I could offer him, indeed, no very intelligible explanation of it. He urged me to give up such idleness, and to make practical use of language. For this purpose he conceived an exercise which he obliged me to adopt, although it was hateful to me. He sent me forth, it might be, up the lane to Warbury Hill and round home by the copses; or else down one chine to the sea and along the shingle to the next cutting in the cliff, and so back by way of the village; and he desired me to put down, in language as full as I could, all that I had seen in each excursion. As I have said, this practice was detestable and irksome to me, but, as I look back, I am inclined to believe it to have been the most salutary, the most practical piece of training which my Father ever gave me. It forced me to observe sharply and clearly, to form visual impressions, to retain them in the brain, and to clothe them in punctilious and accurate language.

My Father owned a copy of Bailey's 'Etymological Dictionary', a book published early in the eighteenth century. I would pore over it for hours, playing with the words in ways I can no longer recall. I delighted in the rich flavor of its old-fashioned country phrases. When my Father found me doing this, he wondered what I was trying to do. I could not give him a very clear explanation. He urged me to stop wasting time and make practical use of language. To help me do this, he devised an exercise and made me do it, although I hated it. He would send me up the lane to Warbury Hill and home again past the copses. Or he might send me down one chine, a steep ravine, to the sea, then along the shingle to the next cut in the cliff. From there I would return by way of the village. He wanted me to write down everything I had seen on each walk, using as much detail as I could. As I have said, I found this exercise hateful and tiresome. But looking back, I am inclined to believe it was the most beneficial and practical training my Father ever gave me. It forced me to observe things sharply and clearly, form visual impressions, remember them, and put them into precise and accurate language.

It was in my fifteenth year that I became again, this time intelligently, acquainted with Shakespeare. I got hold of a single play, The Tempest, in a school edition, prepared, I suppose, for one of the university examinations which were then being instituted in the provinces. This I read through and through, not disdaining the help of the notes, and revelling in the glossary. I studied The Tempest as I had hitherto studied no classic work, and it filled my whole being with music and romance. This book was my own hoarded possession; the rest of Shakespeare's works were beyond my hopes. But gradually I contrived to borrow a volume here and a volume there. I completed The Merchant of Venice, read Cymbeline, Julius Caesar and Much Ado; most of the others, I think, remained closed to me for a long time. But these were enough to steep my horizon with all the colours of sunrise. It was due, no doubt, to my bringing up, that the plays never appealed to me as bounded by the exigencies of a stage or played by actors. The images they raised in my mind were of real people moving in the open air, and uttering, in the natural play of life, sentiments that were clothed in the most lovely, and yet, as it seemed to me, the most obvious and the most inevitable language.

In my fifteenth year, I became acquainted with Shakespeare again, this time with understanding. I got hold of one play, The Tempest, in a school edition. I suppose it had been prepared for one of the university examinations then being introduced outside London. I read it over and over, gladly using the notes and delighting in the glossary. I studied The Tempest as I had never studied a classic work before. It filled my whole being with music and romance. This book was my own treasured possession. I had no hope of owning the rest of Shakespeare's works. But gradually I managed to borrow a volume here and there. I finished The Merchant of Venice and read Cymbeline, Julius Caesar and Much Ado. I think most of the others remained closed to me for a long time. But these plays were enough to fill my horizon with all the colours of sunrise. No doubt because of my upbringing, I never thought of the plays as limited by the demands of a stage or performed by actors. I pictured real people moving in the open air. In the natural course of life, they expressed their feelings in the loveliest language. Yet that language also seemed to me the most obvious and inevitable.

It was while I was thus under the full spell of the Shakespearean necromancy that a significant event occurred. My Father took me up to London for the first time since my infancy. Our visit was one of a few days only, and its purpose was that we might take part in some enormous Evangelical conference. We stayed in a dark hotel off the Strand, where I found the noise by day and night very afflicting. When we were not at the conference, I spent long hours, among crumbs and bluebottle flies, in the coffee-room of this hotel, my Father being busy at the British Museum and the Royal Society. The conference was held in an immense hall, somewhere in the north of London. I remember my short-sighted sense of the terrible vastness of the crowd, with rings on rings of dim white faces fading in the fog. My Father, as a privileged visitor, was obliged with seats on the platform, and we were in the heart of the first really large assemblage of persons that I had ever seen.

While I was still completely under the spell of Shakespeare's magic, something important happened. My Father took me to London for the first time since I was an infant. We stayed only a few days, so that we could attend a huge Evangelical conference. We stayed in a dark hotel off the Strand, where the noise troubled me day and night. When we were not at the conference, my Father was busy at the British Museum and the Royal Society. I spent long hours in the hotel's coffee-room, among crumbs and bluebottle flies. The conference was held in an enormous hall somewhere in north London. Being short-sighted, I remember the crowd seeming terribly vast. Ring upon ring of dim white faces faded into the fog. As a privileged visitor, my Father was given seats on the platform. So we were in the heart of the first really large gathering I had ever seen.

The interminable ritual of prayers, hymns and addresses left no impression on my memory, but my attention was suddenly stung into life by a remark. An elderly man, fat and greasy, with a voice like a bassoon, and an imperturbable assurance, was denouncing the spread of infidelity, and the lukewarmness of professing Christians, who refrained from battling with the wickedness at their doors. They were like the Laodiceans, whom the angel of the Apocalypse spewed out of his mouth. For instance, who, the orator asked, is now rising to check the outburst of idolatry in our midst? 'At this very moment,' he went on, 'there is proceeding, unreproved, a blasphemous celebration of the birth of Shakespeare, a lost soul now suffering for his sins in hell!' My sensation was that of one who has suddenly been struck on the head; stars and sparks beat around me. If some person I loved had been grossly insulted in my presence, I could not have felt more powerless in anguish. No one in that vast audience raised a word of protest, and my spirits fell to their nadir. This, be it remarked, was the earliest intimation that had reached me of the tercentenary of the Birth at Stratford, and I had not the least idea what could have provoked the outburst of outraged godliness.

The endless round of prayers, hymns, and speeches left no impression on my memory. But one remark suddenly caught my attention. An elderly man, fat and greasy, with a voice like a bassoon and unshakable confidence, was condemning the spread of unbelief. He also condemned the indifference of professed Christians who did not fight the wickedness on their doorstep. They were like the Laodiceans, whom the angel of the Apocalypse spat out of his mouth. For example, the speaker asked, who is now standing up to stop the outbreak of idolatry among us? 'At this very moment,' he went on, 'a blasphemous celebration of Shakespeare's birth is taking place without protest. He is a lost soul now suffering for his sins in hell!' I felt as if I had been struck on the head. Stars and sparks flashed around me. If someone I loved had been grossly insulted in my presence, I could not have felt more helpless in my anguish. No one in that vast audience said a word in protest, and my spirits sank to their lowest point. I should note that this was the first I had heard of the three hundredth anniversary of Shakespeare's birth at Stratford. I had no idea what could have provoked such an outburst of outraged piety.

But Shakespeare was certainly in the air. When we returned to the hotel that noon, my Father of his own accord reverted to the subject. I held my breath, prepared to endure fresh torment. What he said, however, surprised and relieved me. 'Brother So and So,' he remarked, 'was not, in my judgement, justified in saying what he did. The uncovenanted mercies of God are not revealed to us. Before so rashly speaking of Shakespeare as "a lost soul in hell", he should have remembered how little we know of the poet's history. The light of salvation was widely disseminated in the land during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and we cannot know that Shakespeare did not accept the atonement of Christ in simple faith before he came to die.' The concession will today seem meagre to gay and worldly spirits, but words cannot express how comfortable it was to me. I gazed at my Father with loving eyes across the cheese and celery, and if the waiter had not been present I believe I might have hugged him in my arms.

But Shakespeare was certainly on our minds. When we returned to the hotel that noon, my Father brought up the subject on his own. I held my breath, ready for more torment. But what he said surprised and relieved me. 'Brother So and So,' he remarked, 'was not, in my judgment, justified in saying what he did. God has not revealed to us what mercy he may show beyond his covenant. Before speaking so rashly of Shakespeare as "a lost soul in hell", he should have remembered how little we know of the poet's life. The light of salvation was widely spread throughout the land during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. We cannot know that Shakespeare did not accept the atonement of Christ in simple faith before he died.' Today, that concession will seem small to cheerful, worldly people, but words cannot express how much comfort it gave me. I gazed at my Father with loving eyes across the cheese and celery. If the waiter had not been there, I believe I might have hugged him.

This anecdote may serve to illustrate the attitude of my conscience, at this time, with regard to theology. I was not consciously in any revolt against the strict faith in which I had been brought up, but I could not fail to be aware of the fact that literature tempted me to stray up innumerable paths which meandered in directions at right angles to that direct strait way which leadeth to salvation. I fancied, if I may pursue the image, that I was still safe up these pleasant lanes if I did not stray far enough to lose sight of the main road. If, for instance, it had been quite certain that Shakespeare had been irrecoverably damnable and damned, it would scarcely have been possible for me to have justified myself in going on reading Cymbeline. One who broke bread with the Saints every Sunday morning, who 'took a class' at Sunday school, who made, as my Father loved to remind me, a public weekly confession of his willingness to bear the Cross of Christ, such an one could hardly, however bewildering and torturing the thought, continue to admire a lost soul. But that happy possibility of an ultimate repentance, how it eased me! I could always console myself with the belief that when Shakespeare wrote any passage of intoxicating beauty, it was just then that he was beginning to breathe the rapture that faith in Christ brings to the anointed soul. And it was with a like casuistry that I condoned my other intellectual and personal pleasures.

This anecdote may illustrate how my conscience approached theology at the time. I was not consciously rebelling against the strict faith in which I had been raised. But I could not help noticing that literature tempted me down countless winding paths. They led at right angles away from the straight, narrow road to salvation. To continue the image, I imagined I was safe on these pleasant lanes. I believed I was safe as long as I did not go so far that I lost sight of the main road. If, for example, it had been certain that Shakespeare deserved damnation and was damned beyond hope, I could hardly have justified continuing to read Cymbeline. I broke bread with the Saints every Sunday morning and 'took a class' at Sunday school. As my Father loved to remind me, I also made a public confession each week. I declared that I was willing to bear the Cross of Christ. Someone who did all this could hardly continue to admire a lost soul, however bewildering and painful the thought. But the happy possibility that Shakespeare had repented at the end brought me such relief! I could always comfort myself with a belief about any passage of intoxicating beauty Shakespeare wrote. I believed that, at that very moment, he was beginning to breathe the rapture that faith in Christ brings to the anointed soul. I used similar reasoning to excuse my other intellectual and personal pleasures.

My Father continued to be under the impression that my boarding- school, which he never again visited after originally leaving me there, was conducted upon the same principles as his own household. I was frequently tempted to enlighten him, but I never found the courage to do so. As a matter of fact the piety of the establishment, which collected to it the sons of a large number of evangelically minded parents throughout that part of the country, resided mainly in the prospectus. It proceeded no further than the practice of reading the Bible aloud, each boy in successive order one verse, in the early morning before breakfast. There was no selection and no exposition; where the last boy sat, there the day's reading ended, even if it were in the middle of a sentence, and there it began next morning.

My father continued to believe that my boarding school was run on the same principles as his own household. After leaving me there, he never visited it again. I was often tempted to tell him otherwise, but I never found the courage. In fact, the school's religious devotion existed mainly in its prospectus. Yet it attracted the sons of many evangelical parents from across that part of the country. Its devotion went no further than reading the Bible aloud early each morning before breakfast. Each boy read one verse in turn. No passages were selected, and none were explained. The day's reading ended with the last boy's verse, even if it was in the middle of a sentence. The next morning, the reading began again at that point.

Such reading of 'the chapter' was followed by a long dry prayer. I do not know that this morning service would appear more perfunctory than usual to other boys, but it astounded and disgusted me, accustomed as I was to the ministrations at home, where my Father read 'the word of God' in a loud passionate voice, with dramatic emphasis, pausing for commentary and paraphrase, and treating every phrase as if it were part of a personal message or of thrilling family history. At school, 'morning prayer' was a dreary, unintelligible exercise, and with this piece of mumbo-jumbo, religion for the day began and ended. The discretion of little boys is extraordinary. I am quite certain no one of us ever revealed this fact to our godly parents at home.

The reading of 'the chapter' was followed by a long, dull prayer. I do not know whether other boys would have found the morning service more mechanical than usual. But it astonished and disgusted me because I was used to the services at home. There, my Father read 'the word of God' in a loud, passionate voice, with dramatic emphasis. He paused to explain and rephrase the words. He treated every phrase as if it were part of a personal message or a thrilling family story. At school, 'morning prayer' was a dreary exercise that I could not understand. Religion for the day began and ended with this piece of mumbo-jumbo. Little boys are remarkably discreet. I am quite sure none of us ever told our devout parents at home about this.

If any one was to do this, it was of course I who should first of all have 'testified'. But I had grown cautious about making confidences. One never knew how awkwardly they might develop or to what disturbing excesses of zeal they might precipitously lead. I was on my guard against my Father, who was, all the time, only too openly yearning that I should approach him for help, for comfort, for ghostly counsel. Still 'delicate', though steadily gaining in solidity of constitution, I was liable to severe chills and to fugitive neuralgic pangs. My Father was, almost maddeningly, desirous that these afflictions should be sanctified to me, and it was in my bed, often when I was much bowed in spirit by indisposition, that he used to triumph over me most pitilessly. He retained the singular superstition, amazing in a man of scientific knowledge and long human experience, that all pains and ailments were directly sent by the Lord in chastisement for some definite fault, and not in relation to any physical cause. The result was sometimes quite startling, and in particular I recollect that my stepmother and I exchanged impressions of astonishment at my Father's action when Mrs. Goodyer, who was one of the 'Saints' and the wife of a young journeyman cobbler, broke her leg. My Father, puzzled for an instant as to the meaning of this accident, since Mrs. Goodyer was the gentlest and most inoffensive of our church members, decided that it must be because she had made an idol of her husband, and he reduced the poor thing to tears by standing at her bed-side and imploring the Holy Spirit to bring this sin home to her conscience.

If anyone was to do this, of course I should have been the first to 'testify'. But I had grown cautious about confiding in people. You never knew how awkwardly such confidences might develop or what disturbing excesses of zeal they might suddenly provoke. I was on my guard against my Father. All the while, he made it only too clear that he longed for me to seek his help, comfort, and spiritual counsel. I was still 'delicate', though my health was steadily growing stronger. I was prone to severe chills and sudden, fleeting pains in my nerves. My Father was almost maddeningly eager for these afflictions to bring me closer to God. He used to triumph over me most mercilessly at my bedside, often when illness had left me feeling very low. My Father still held a strange superstition. It was astonishing in a man with scientific knowledge and long experience of human life. He believed that the Lord sent all pain and illness directly as punishment for some specific fault, not for any physical reason. The results were sometimes quite startling. I particularly remember how my stepmother and I expressed our astonishment at my Father's actions when Mrs. Goodyer broke her leg. She was one of the 'Saints' and the wife of a young journeyman cobbler. My Father was puzzled for a moment about the meaning of this accident. Mrs. Goodyer was the gentlest and most inoffensive member of our church. He decided that she must have made an idol of her husband. He stood at her bedside and begged the Holy Spirit to make her conscious of this sin, reducing the poor woman to tears.

When, therefore, I was ill at home with one of my trifling disorders, the problem of my spiritual state always pressed violently upon my Father, and this caused me no little mental uneasiness. He would appear at my bedside, with solemn solicitude, and sinking on his knees would earnestly pray aloud that the purpose of the Lord in sending me this affliction might graciously be made plain to me; and then, rising, and standing by my pillow, he would put me through a searching spiritual inquiry as to the fault which was thus divinely indicated to me as observed and reprobated on high.

So whenever I was ill at home with one of my minor ailments, my Father was deeply troubled about my spiritual state. This caused me considerable anxiety. He would come to my bedside, solemnly concerned, and kneel down. He would pray earnestly aloud that the Lord would graciously make clear to me why he had sent me this illness. Then he would rise and stand beside my pillow. He would question me closely about what fault God had noticed and condemned, and had shown me through my illness.

It was not on points of moral behaviour that he thus cross- examined me; I think he disdained such ignoble game as that. But uncertainties of doctrine, relinquishment of faith in the purity of this dogma or of that, lukewarm zeal in 'taking up the cross of Christ', growth of intellectual pride,—such were the insidious offences in consequence of which, as he supposed, the cold in the head or the toothache had been sent as heavenly messengers to recall my straggling conscience to its plain path of duty.

He did not question me like this about my moral behavior. I think he looked down on such lowly game. Instead, he suspected more insidious offenses: doubts about doctrine, loss of faith in the purity of one dogma or another, or a lack of zeal in 'taking up the cross of Christ'. He also suspected growing intellectual pride. He supposed that, because of such offenses, my cold or toothache had been sent as a heavenly messenger. It was meant to call my wandering conscience back to its clear path of duty.

What made me very uncomfortable on these occasions was my consciousness that confinement to bed was hardly an affliction at all. It kept me from the boredom of school, in a fire-lit bedroom at home, with my pretty, smiling stepmother lavishing luxurious attendance upon me, and it gave me long, unbroken days for reading. I was awkwardly aware that I simply had not the effrontery to 'approach the Throne of Grace' with a request to know for what sin I was condemned to such a very pleasant disposition of my hours.

What made me very uncomfortable on these occasions was knowing that being confined to bed was hardly a hardship at all. It kept me away from the boredom of school. Instead, I was at home in a bedroom lit by the fire, with my pretty, smiling stepmother lavishly attending to me. It also gave me long, uninterrupted days for reading. I felt awkwardly aware that I simply did not have the nerve to 'approach the Throne of Grace' and ask what sin had earned me such a pleasant way to spend my time.

The current of my life ran, during my schooldays, most merrily and fully in the holidays, when I resumed my outdoor exercises with those friends in the village of whom I have spoken earlier. I think they were more refined and better bred than any of my schoolfellows, at all events it was among these homely companions alone that I continued to form congenial and sympathetic relations. In one of these boys,—one of whom I have heard or seen nothing now for nearly a generation,—I found tastes singularly parallel to my own, and we scoured the horizon in search of books in prose and verse, but particularly in verse.

During my schooldays, life was happiest and fullest during the holidays. Then I returned to outdoor activities with the village friends I mentioned earlier. I think they were more refined and better bred than any of my schoolmates. In any case, only among these simple companions did I continue to form warm friendships with people who shared my interests. One of these boys had tastes remarkably like my own. I have neither heard from him nor seen him for nearly a generation now. Together, we searched far and wide for books of prose and poetry, but especially poetry.

As I grew stronger in muscle, I was capable of adding considerably to my income by an exercise of my legs. I was allowed money for the railway ticket between the town where the school lay and the station nearest to my home. But, if I chose to walk six or seven miles along the coast, thus more than halving the distance by rail from school house to home, I might spend as pocket money the railway fare I thus saved. Such considerable sums I fostered in order to buy with them editions of the poets. These were not in those days, as they are now, at the beck and call of every purse, and the attainment of each little masterpiece was a separate triumph. In particular I shall never forget the excitement of reaching at length the exorbitant price the bookseller asked for the only, although imperfect, edition of the poems of S. T. Coleridge. At last I could meet his demand, and my friend and I went down to consummate the solemn purchase. Coming away with our treasure, we read aloud from the orange coloured volume, in turns, as we strolled along, until at last we sat down on the bulging root of an elm tree in a secluded lane. Here we stayed, in a sort of poetical nirvana, reading, reading, forgetting the passage of time, until the hour of our neglected mid-day meal was a long while past, and we had to hurry home to bread and cheese and a scolding.

As my muscles grew stronger, I could earn considerably more money by walking. I was given money for the train ticket from the town where my school was to the station nearest home. But I could choose to walk six or seven miles along the coast, cutting the train journey by more than half. Then I could use the fare I saved as pocket money. I saved these considerable sums to buy editions of the poets. In those days, such books were not, as they are now, within reach of every budget. Getting each little masterpiece was a triumph in itself. I will never forget my excitement when I finally saved enough for the only edition of S. T. Coleridge’s poems. It was incomplete, and the bookseller was asking an exorbitant price for it. At last I could pay what he demanded, and my friend and I went down to make the solemn purchase. As we walked away with our treasure, we took turns reading aloud from the orange volume. At last we sat down on the bulging root of an elm tree in a secluded lane. There we stayed in a kind of poetic nirvana, reading and reading and forgetting the time. Our neglected midday meal was long past when we finally hurried home to bread and cheese and a scolding.

There was occasionally some trouble about my reading, but now not much nor often. I was rather adroit, and careful not to bring prominently into sight anything of a literary kind which could become a stone of stumbling. But, when I was nearly sixteen, I made a purchase which brought me into sad trouble, and was the cause of a permanent wound to my self-respect. I had long coveted in the bookshop window a volume in which the poetical works of Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe were said to be combined. This I bought at length, and I carried it with me to devour as I trod the desolate road that brought me along the edge of the cliff on Saturday afternoons. Of Ben Jonson I could make nothing, but when I turned to 'Hero and Leander', I was lifted to a heaven of passion and music. It was a marvellous revelation of romantic beauty to me, and as I paced along that lonely and exquisite highway, with its immense command of the sea, and its peeps every now and then, through slanting thickets, far down to the snow- white shingle, I lifted up my voice, singing the verses, as I strolled along:

There was still occasional trouble over my reading, but not much or often. I was fairly clever and careful not to display any books that might cause trouble. But when I was nearly sixteen, I bought a book that caused me great distress and permanently wounded my self-respect. I had long wanted a volume in the bookshop window that claimed to combine the poetry of Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe. At last I bought it. On Saturday afternoons, I carried it with me and read it eagerly as I walked along the lonely road beside the cliff. I could make nothing of Ben Jonson, but when I turned to 'Hero and Leander', I was lifted into a heaven of passion and music. The poem was a marvelous revelation of romantic beauty to me. As I walked along that lonely, beautiful road, I sang the verses aloud. The road commanded a vast view of the sea. Now and then, through thickets growing at an angle, I could glimpse the snow-white shingle far below:

so it went on, and I thought I had never read anything so lovely,—

So it went on, and I thought I had never read anything so lovely.

it all seemed to my fancy intoxicating beyond anything I had ever even dreamed of, since I had not yet become acquainted with any of the modern romanticists.

It all seemed more intoxicating to me than anything I had ever dreamed of. I had not yet encountered any of the modern Romantic writers.

When I reached home, tired out with enthusiasm and exercise, I must needs, so soon as I had eaten, search out my stepmother that she might be a partner in my joys. It is remarkable to me now, and a disconcerting proof of my still almost infantile innocence, that, having induced her to settle to her knitting, I began, without hesitation, to read Marlowe's voluptuous poem aloud to that blameless Christian gentlewoman. We got on very well in the opening, but at the episode of Cupid's pining, my stepmother's needles began nervously to clash, and when we launched on the description of Leander's person, she interrupted me by saying, rather sharply, 'Give me that book, please, I should like to read the rest to myself.' I resigned the reading in amazement, and was stupefied to see her take the volume, shut it with a snap and hide it under her needlework. Nor could I extract from her another word on the subject.

When I got home, exhausted by enthusiasm and exercise, I ate and then went looking for my stepmother to share my joy. I persuaded her to settle down with her knitting. Then, without hesitation, I began reading Marlowe's sensual poem aloud to that blameless Christian gentlewoman. Looking back, I find this remarkable and a disconcerting sign of how almost childishly innocent I still was. We got along very well at first, but when we came to Cupid's longing, my stepmother's needles began to clash nervously. Then, as I began the description of Leander's body, she interrupted me rather sharply. 'Give me that book, please, I should like to read the rest to myself.' Amazed, I stopped reading and gave her the book. I was stunned to see her snap it shut and hide it under her needlework. I could not get another word out of her on the subject.

The matter passed from my mind, and I was therefore extremely alarmed when, soon after my going to bed that night, my Father came into my room with a pale face and burning eyes, the prey of violent perturbation. He set down the candle and stood by the bed, and it was some time before he could resolve on a form of speech. Then he denounced me, in unmeasured terms, for bringing into the house, for possessing at all or reading, so abominable a book. He explained that my stepmother had shown it to him, and that he had looked through it, and had burned it.

I had forgotten about the matter, so I was extremely alarmed when my Father came into my room soon after I went to bed that night. His face was pale, his eyes were burning, and he was violently agitated. He put down the candle and stood by the bed. It took him some time to decide what to say. Then he condemned me in the strongest terms for bringing such a horrible book into the house, for owning it at all, and for reading it. He explained that my stepmother had shown him the book, and that he had looked through it and burned it.

The sentence in his tirade which principally affected me was this. He said, 'You will soon be leaving us, and going up to lodgings in London, and if your landlady should come into your room, and find such a book lying about, she would immediately set you down as a profligate.' I did not understand this at all, and it seems to me now that the fact that I had so very simply and childishly volunteered to read the verses to my stepmother should have proved to my Father that I connected it with no ideas of an immoral nature.

The part of his angry speech that affected me most was this. He said, 'You will soon leave us and move into rented rooms in London. If your landlady comes into your room and finds a book like that lying around, she will immediately think you are immoral.' I did not understand this at all. Looking back, it seems to me that my offer to read the verses to my stepmother should have proved something to my Father. I had offered so simply and innocently that he should have seen I had no immoral thoughts about the book.

I was greatly wounded and offended, but my indignation was smothered up in the alarm and excitement which followed the news that I was to go up to live in lodgings, and, as it was evident, alone, in London. Of this no hint or whisper had previously reached me. On reflection, I can but admit that my Father, who was little accustomed to seventeenth-century literature, must have come across some startling exposures in Ben Jonson, and probably never reached 'Hero and Leander' at all. The artistic effect of such poetry on an innocently pagan mind did not come within the circle of his experience. He judged the outspoken Elizabethan poets, no doubt, very much in the spirit of the problematical landlady.

I was deeply hurt and offended. But my anger was overwhelmed by the alarm and excitement that followed the news. I was to go and live in rented rooms in London, apparently alone. I had heard nothing of this plan before. Looking back, I can only admit that my Father was not very familiar with seventeenth-century literature. He must have come across some shocking passages in Ben Jonson, and probably never got as far as 'Hero and Leander'. He had no experience of the artistic effect such poetry could have on an innocently pagan mind. He no doubt judged the outspoken Elizabethan poets much as the hypothetical landlady did.

Of the world outside, of the dim wild whirlpool of London, I was much afraid, but I was now ready to be willing to leave the narrow Devonshire circle, to see the last of the red mud, of the dreary village street, of the plethoric elders, to hear the last of the drawling voices of the 'Saints'. Yet I had a great difficulty in persuading myself that I could ever be happy away from home, and again I compared my lot with that of one of the speckled soldier-crabs that roamed about in my Father's aquarium, dragging after them great whorl-shells. They, if by chance they were turned out of their whelk-habitations, trailed about a pale soft body in search of another house, visibly broken-hearted and the victims of every ignominious accident.

I was very afraid of the outside world, of the shadowy, wild whirlpool of London. But I was now willing to leave the narrow circle of Devonshire behind. I was ready to see the last of the red mud, the dreary village street, and the overfed elders. I was ready to hear the last of the drawling voices of the 'Saints'. Yet I found it very hard to believe that I could ever be happy away from home. Again, I compared my lot to that of the speckled soldier crabs roaming about in my Father's aquarium. They dragged large spiral shells behind them. If they happened to be forced out of their whelk-shell homes, they dragged their pale, soft bodies about, looking for another home. They were visibly heartbroken and suffered every kind of humiliating mishap.

My spirits were divided pathetically between the wish to stay on, a guarded child, and to proceed into the world, a budding man, and, in my utter ignorance, I sought in vain to conjure up what my immediate future would be. My Father threw no light upon the subject, for he had not formed any definite idea of what I could possibly do to earn an honest living. As a matter of fact I was to stay another year at school and home.

I was painfully torn between wanting to remain a sheltered child and wanting to enter the world as a young man. I knew so little that I tried in vain to imagine what my immediate future would be. My Father offered no guidance, because he had no definite idea how I could possibly earn an honest living. As it turned out, I was to spend another year at school and at home.

This last year of my boyish life passed rapidly and pleasantly. My sluggish brain waked up at last and I was able to study with application. In the public examinations I did pretty well, and may even have been thought something of a credit to the school. Yet I formed no close associations, and I even contrived to avoid, as I had afterwards occasion to regret, such lessons as were distasteful to me, and therefore particularly valuable. But I read with unchecked voracity, and in several curious directions. Shakespeare now passed into my possession entire, in the shape of a reprint more hideous and more offensive to the eyesight than would in these days appear conceivable. I made acquaintance with Keats, who entirely captivated me; with Shelley, whose 'Queen Mab' at first repelled me from the threshold of his edifice; and with Wordsworth, for the exercise of whose magic I was still far too young. My Father presented me with the entire bulk of Southey's stony verse, which I found it impossible to penetrate, but my stepmother lent me The Golden Treasury, in which almost everything seemed exquisite.

The last year of my boyhood passed quickly and pleasantly. My slow brain finally woke up, and I was able to study diligently. I did fairly well in the public examinations. I may even have been considered something of a credit to the school. Yet I formed no close friendships. I also managed to avoid lessons I disliked, though they were especially valuable. I later had reason to regret avoiding them. But I read voraciously and without restraint, exploring several unusual subjects. I now owned the complete works of Shakespeare. The reprint was uglier and harder on the eyes than would seem possible today. I discovered Keats, who completely captivated me. I also discovered Shelley, whose 'Queen Mab' initially put me off exploring his work. I discovered Wordsworth too, though I was still far too young to feel his magic. My Father gave me the complete mass of Southey's stony verse, which I found impossible to get through. But my stepmother lent me The Golden Treasury, in which almost everything seemed exquisite.

Upon this extension of my intellectual powers, however, there did not follow any spirit of doubt or hostility to the faith. On the contrary, at first there came a considerable quickening of fervour. My prayers became less frigid and mechanical; I no longer avoided as far as possible the contemplation of religious ideas; I began to search the Scriptures for myself with interest and sympathy, if scarcely with ardour. I began to perceive, without animosity, the strange narrowness of my Father's system, which seemed to take into consideration only a selected circle of persons, a group of disciples peculiarly illuminated, and to have no message whatever for the wider Christian community.

However, this growth in my intellectual powers did not lead me to doubt or oppose the faith. On the contrary, my devotion grew considerably stronger at first. My prayers became less cold and mechanical. I no longer avoided thinking about religious ideas whenever I could. I began to read the Scriptures for myself with interest and sympathy, though hardly with passion. I began to see, without resentment, how strangely narrow my Father's system was. It seemed to take account only of a select circle of people, a group of disciples with special spiritual insight. It seemed to have no message at all for the wider Christian community.

On this subject I had some instructive conversations with my Father, whom I found not reluctant to have his convictions pushed to their logical extremity. He did not wish to judge, he protested; but he could not admit that a single Unitarian (or 'Socinian', as he preferred to say) could possibly be redeemed; and he had no hope of eternal salvation for the inhabitants of Catholic countries. I recollect his speaking of Austria. He questioned whether a single Austrian subject, except, as he said, here and there a pious and extremely ignorant individual, who had not comprehended the errors of the Papacy, but had humbly studied his Bible, could hope to find eternal life. He thought that the ordinary Chinaman or savage native of Fiji had a better chance of salvation than any cardinal in the Vatican. And even in the priesthood of the Church of England he believed that while many were called, few indeed would be found to have been chosen.

I had some instructive conversations with my Father about this. I found that he was willing to follow his beliefs to their logical conclusion. He protested that he did not want to judge. But he could not accept that a single Unitarian (or 'Socinian', as he preferred to say) could possibly be saved. He also had no hope of eternal salvation for the inhabitants of Catholic countries. I remember him speaking about Austria. He doubted whether a single Austrian subject could hope for eternal life. He made an exception for the occasional devout and extremely ignorant person who had not understood the errors of the Papacy, but had humbly studied the Bible. He thought that an ordinary Chinese person or a savage native of Fiji had a better chance of salvation than any cardinal in the Vatican. And even among the priests of the Church of England, he believed that many were called, but very few would be found to have been chosen.

I could not sympathize, even in my then state of ignorance, with so rigid a conception of the Divine mercy. Little inclined as I was to be sceptical, I still thought it impossible, that a secret of such stupendous importance should have been entrusted to a little group of Plymouth Brethren, and have been hidden from millions of disinterested and pious theologians. That the leaders of European Christianity were sincere, my Father did not attempt to question. But they were all of them wrong, incorrect; and no matter how holy their lives, how self-sacrificing their actions, they would have to suffer for their inexactitude through aeons of undefined torment. He would speak with a solemn complacency of the aged nun, who, after a long life of renunciation and devotion, died at last, 'only to discover her mistake'.

Even in my ignorance at the time, I could not accept such a rigid view of divine mercy. I was not inclined to be skeptical. Still, I thought it impossible that a secret of such enormous importance had been entrusted to a small group of Plymouth Brethren. It seemed impossible that the secret had been hidden from millions of impartial and devout theologians. My Father did not question the sincerity of the leaders of European Christianity. But every one of them was wrong, incorrect. No matter how holy their lives or how self-sacrificing their actions, they would suffer for their errors through ages of undefined torment. He would speak with solemn satisfaction of the elderly nun who, after a long life of sacrifice and devotion, died at last, 'only to discover her mistake'.

He who was so tender-hearted that he could not bear to witness the pain or distress of any person, however disagreeable or undeserving, was quite acquiescent in believing that God would punish human beings, in millions, for ever, for a purely intellectual error of comprehension. My Father's inconsistencies of perception seem to me to have been the result of a curious irregularity of equipment. Taking for granted, as he did, the absolute integrity of the Scriptures, and applying to them his trained scientific spirit, he contrived to stifle, with a deplorable success, alike the function of the imagination, the sense of moral justice, and his own deep and instinctive tenderness of heart.

He was so tender-hearted that he could not bear to see anyone suffer or feel distress, however unpleasant or undeserving they were. Yet he readily believed that God would punish millions of people forever for a purely intellectual mistake in understanding. My Father's inconsistent perceptions seem to me to have resulted from a curious unevenness in his mental and emotional makeup. He took the absolute truth of the Scriptures for granted and applied his trained scientific mind to them. In doing so, he managed, with regrettable success, to suppress his imagination, his sense of moral justice, and his own deep and instinctive tenderness.

There presently came over me a strong desire to know what doctrine indeed it was that the other Churches taught. I expressed a wish to be made aware of the practices of Rome, or at least of Canterbury, and I longed to attend the Anglican and the Roman services. But to do so was impossible. My Father did not, indeed, forbid me to enter the fine parish church of our village, or the stately Puginesque cathedral which Rome had just erected at its side, but I knew that I could not be seen at either service without his immediately knowing it, or without his being deeply wounded. Although I was sixteen years of age, and although I was treated with indulgence and affection, I was still but a bird fluttering in the net-work of my Father's will, and incapable of the smallest independent action. I resigned all thought of attending any other services than those at our 'Room', but I did no longer regard this exclusion as a final one. I bowed, but it was in the house of Rimmon, from which I now knew that I must inevitably escape. All the liberation, however, which I desired or dreamed of was only just so much as would bring me into communion with the outer world of Christianity without divesting me of the pure and simple principles of faith.

Soon I felt a strong desire to know what the other Churches actually taught. I wanted to learn about the practices of Rome, or at least of Canterbury. I longed to attend Anglican and Roman services. But attending them was impossible. My Father did not forbid me to enter our village’s fine parish church or the grand Puginesque cathedral Rome had just built beside it. But I knew that if I were seen at either service, he would immediately hear of it and be deeply hurt. Although I was sixteen and was treated with kindness and affection, I was still like a bird fluttering in the net of my Father’s will. I was incapable of the smallest independent action. I gave up all thought of attending any services except those at our 'Room'. But I no longer saw my exclusion as final. I bowed, but it was in the house of Rimmon, from which I now knew I must inevitably escape. Still, the only freedom I wanted or dreamed of was enough to bring me into communion with the wider Christian world without giving up the pure and simple principles of faith.

Of so much emancipation, indeed, I now became ardently desirous, and in the contemplation of it I rose to a more considerable degree of religious fervour than I had ever reached before or was ever to experience later. Our thoughts were at this time abundantly exercised with the expectation of the immediate coming of the Lord, who, as my Father and those who thought with him believed, would suddenly appear, without the least warning, and would catch up to be with Him in everlasting glory all whom acceptance of the Atonement had sealed for immortality. These were, on the whole, not numerous, and our belief was that the world, after a few days' amazement at the total disappearance of these persons, would revert to its customary habits of life, merely sinking more rapidly into a moral corruption due to the removal of these souls of salt. This event an examination of prophecy had led my Father to regard as absolutely imminent, and sometimes, when we parted for the night, he would say with a sparkling rapture in his eyes, 'Who knows? We may meet next in the air, with all the cohorts of God's saints!'

Indeed, I had now come to long passionately for that much freedom. As I contemplated it, I reached a degree of religious fervor greater than any I had felt before or would ever feel again. At this time, our thoughts were much occupied by the expected immediate coming of the Lord. My Father and those who shared his beliefs thought that the Lord would appear suddenly, without the slightest warning. He would take up to be with him in everlasting glory all those whose acceptance of the Atonement had sealed them for immortality. On the whole, these people were not numerous. We believed that, after a few days of amazement at their complete disappearance, the world would return to its usual habits. It would simply sink more rapidly into moral corruption, because these souls, the salt of the earth, had been removed. My Father's study of prophecy had led him to believe that this event was absolutely imminent. Sometimes, when we parted for the night, he would say with a sparkle of rapture in his eyes, 'Who knows? We may meet next in the air, with all the cohorts of God's saints!'

This conviction I shared, without a doubt; and, indeed,—in perfect innocency, I hope, but perhaps with a touch of slyness too,—I proposed at the end of the summer holidays that I should stay at home. 'What is the use of my going to school? Let me be with you when we rise to meet the Lord in the air!' To this my Father sharply and firmly replied that it was our duty to carry on our usual avocations to the last, for we knew not the moment of His coming, and we should be together in an instant on that day, how far soever we might be parted upon earth. I was ashamed, but his argument was logical, and, as it proved, judicious. My Father lived for nearly a quarter of a century more, never losing the hope of 'not tasting death', and as the last moments of mortality approached, he was bitterly disappointed at what he held to be a scanty reward of his long faith and patience. But if my own life's work had been, as I proposed, shelved in expectation of the Lord's imminent advent, I should have cumbered the ground until this day.

I shared this belief without a doubt. Indeed, at the end of the summer holidays, I suggested that I stay home. I hope I was perfectly innocent in suggesting it, but perhaps I was a little sly too. 'What is the use of going to school? Let me be with you when we rise to meet the Lord in the air!' My Father replied sharply and firmly that we must continue our usual activities to the end. We did not know when the Lord would come. And on that day we would be together in an instant, however far apart we might be on earth. I was ashamed, but his argument was logical and, as things turned out, wise. My Father lived for nearly another quarter of a century, never losing the hope of 'not tasting death'. As his final moments approached, he was bitterly disappointed. He felt that death was a meager reward for his long faith and patience. But suppose I had put aside my own life's work, as I had proposed, expecting the Lord to come soon. I would have been a burden on the earth to this day.

To school, therefore, I returned with a brain full of strange discords, in a huddled mixture of 'Endymion' and the Book of Revelation, John Wesley's hymns and 'Midsummer Night's Dream'. Few boys of my age, I suppose, carried about with them such a confused throng of immature impressions and contradictory hopes. I was at one moment devoutly pious, at the next haunted by visions of material beauty and longing for sensuous impressions. In my hot and silly brain, Jesus and Pan held sway together, as in a wayside chapel discordantly and impishly consecrated to Pagan and to Christian rites. But for the present, as in the great chorus which so marvellously portrays our double nature, 'the folding-star of Bethlehem' was still dominant. I became more and more pietistic. Beginning now to versify, I wrote a tragedy in pale imitation of Shakespeare, but on a Biblical and evangelistic subject; and odes that were parodies of those in 'Prometheus Unbound', but dealt with the approaching advent of our Lord and the rapture of His saints. My unwholesome excitement, bubbling up in this violent way, reached at last a climax and foamed over.

So I returned to school with my mind full of strange conflicts. 'Endymion' and the Book of Revelation were jumbled together with John Wesley's hymns and 'Midsummer Night's Dream'. I suppose few boys my age carried around such a confused mass of immature impressions and conflicting hopes. One moment I was devoutly religious. The next, I was haunted by visions of physical beauty and longing for sensory pleasures. In my feverish, foolish mind, Jesus and Pan ruled together. It was like a roadside chapel oddly and mischievously dedicated to both Pagan and Christian rites. But for the time being, 'the folding-star of Bethlehem' still held sway. It was as in the great chorus that so wonderfully portrays our double nature. I became more and more intensely religious. I was just beginning to write verse. I wrote a tragedy in weak imitation of Shakespeare, but on a Biblical and evangelistic subject. I also wrote odes that parodied those in 'Prometheus Unbound'. But they dealt with the approaching coming of our Lord and the rapture of his saints. My unhealthy excitement bubbled up so violently that it finally reached a climax and foamed over.

It was a summer afternoon, and, being now left very free in my movements, I had escaped from going out with the rest of my schoolfellows in their formal walk in charge of an usher. I had been reading a good deal of poetry, but my heart had translated Apollo and Bacchus into terms of exalted Christian faith. I was alone, and I lay on a sofa, drawn across a large open window at the top of the school-house, in a room which was used as a study by the boys who were 'going up for examination'. I gazed down on a labyrinth of garden sloping to the sea, which twinkled faintly beyond the towers of the town. Each of these gardens held a villa in it, but all the near landscape below me was drowned in foliage. A wonderful warm light of approaching sunset modelled the shadows and set the broad summits of the trees in a rich glow. There was an absolute silence below and around me; a magic of suspense seemed to keep every topmost twig from waving.

It was a summer afternoon, and I now had a great deal of freedom to move around. So I had avoided going on the formal walk with the other boys, supervised by a teacher. I had been reading a lot of poetry, but my heart had turned Apollo and Bacchus into expressions of exalted Christian faith. I was alone, lying on a sofa placed across a large open window at the top of the schoolhouse. The room was used as a study by boys who were 'going up for examination'. I looked down on a maze of gardens sloping toward the sea, which twinkled faintly beyond the town’s towers. Each garden contained a villa, but all the nearby landscape below me was buried in foliage. The wonderful warm light of the approaching sunset shaped the shadows and gave the broad treetops a rich glow. Everything below and around me was absolutely silent. A magical sense of suspense seemed to keep even the highest twigs from moving.

Over my soul there swept an immense wave of emotion. Now, surely, now the great final change must be approaching. I gazed up into the tenderly-coloured sky, and I broke irresistibly into speech. 'Come now, Lord Jesus,' I cried, 'come now and take me to be for ever with Thee in Thy Paradise. I am ready to come. My heart is purged from sin, there is nothing that keeps me rooted to this wicked world. Oh, come now, now, and take me before I have known the temptations of life, before I have to go to London and all the dreadful things that happen there!' And I raised myself on the sofa, and leaned upon the window-sill, and waited for the glorious apparition.

An immense wave of emotion swept over me. Surely the great final change must be near now. I gazed up at the softly colored sky and could not help speaking. 'Come now, Lord Jesus,' I cried, 'come now and take me to be with you forever in your Paradise. I am ready to come. My heart is cleansed of sin. Nothing keeps me tied to this wicked world. Oh, come now, now, and take me before I have known the temptations of life. Take me before I have to go to London and all the dreadful things that happen there!' I raised myself on the sofa, leaned on the windowsill, and waited for the glorious figure to appear.

This was the highest moment of my religious life, the apex of my striving after holiness. I waited awhile, watching; and then I felt a faint shame at the theatrical attitude I had adopted, although I was alone. Still I gazed and still I hoped. Then a little breeze sprang up and the branches danced. Sounds began to rise from the road beneath me. Presently the colour deepened, the evening came on. From far below there rose to me the chatter of the boys returning home. The tea-bell rang,—last word of prose to shatter my mystical poetry. 'The Lord has not come, the Lord will never come,' I muttered, and in my heart the artificial edifice of extravagant faith began to totter and crumble. From that moment forth my Father and I, though the fact was long successfully concealed from him and even from myself, walked in opposite hemispheres of the soul, with 'the thick o' the world between us'.

This was the high point of my religious life, the peak of my struggle to become holy. I waited for a while, watching. Then I felt a little ashamed of the dramatic pose I had taken, although I was alone. Still, I gazed and hoped. Then a light breeze sprang up, and the branches danced. Sounds began to rise from the road below me. Soon the colours deepened, and evening came. From far below, I heard the chatter of the boys returning home. The tea bell rang, one last bit of ordinary life to shatter my mystical poetry. 'The Lord has not come, the Lord will never come,' I muttered. In my heart, the artificial structure of my extravagant faith began to sway and crumble. From that moment on, my Father and I walked in opposite hemispheres of the soul, with 'the thick o' the world between us'. Yet for a long time, I managed to hide this from him and even from myself.