Father and Son: A Study of Two Temperaments

THE result of my being admitted into the communion of the ‘Saints’ was that, as soon as the nine days’ wonder of the thing passed by, my position became, if anything, more harassing and pressed than ever.  It is true that freedom was permitted to me in certain directions; I was allowed to act a little more on my own responsibility, and was not so incessantly informed what ’the Lord’s will’ might be in this matter and in that, because it was now conceived that, in such dilemmas, I could command private intelligence of my own.  But there was no relaxation of our rigid manner of life, and I think I now began, by comparing it with the habits of others, to perceive how very strict it was.

The main difference in my lot as a communicant from that of a mere dweller in the tents of righteousness was that I was expected to respond with instant fervour to every appeal of conscience.  When I did not do this, my position was almost worse than it had been before, because of the livelier nature of the responsibility which weighed upon me.  My little faults of conduct, too, assumed shapes of terrible importance, since they proceeded from one so signally enlightened.  My Father was never tired of reminding me that, now that I was a professing Christian, I must remember, in everything I did, that I was an example to others.  He used to draw dreadful pictures of supposititious little boys who were secretly watching me from afar, and whose whole career, in time and in eternity, might be disastrously affected if I did not keep my lamp burning.

The year which followed upon my baptism did not open very happily at the Room.  Considerable changes had now taken place in the community.  My Father’s impressive services, a certain prestige in his preaching, the mere fact that so vigorous a person was at the head of affairs, had induced a large increase in the attendance.  By this time, if my memory does not fail me as to dates, we had left the dismal loft over the stables, and had built ourselves a perfectly plain, but commodious and well-arranged chapel in the centre of the village.  This greatly added to the prosperity of the meeting.  Everything had combined to make our services popular, and had attracted to us a new element of younger people.  Numbers of youthful masons and carpenters, shop-girls and domestic servants, found the Room a pleasant trysting-place, and were more or less superficially induced to accept salvation as it was offered to them in my Father’s searching addresses.  My Father was very shrewd in dealing with mere curiosity or idle motive, and sharply packed off any youths who simply came to make eyes at the girls, or any ‘maids’ whose only object was to display their new bonnet-strings.  But he was powerless against a temporary sincerity, the simulacrum of a true change of heart.  I have often heard him say,—­of some young fellow who had attended our services with fervour for a little while, and then had turned cold and left us,—­’and I thought that the Holy Ghost had wrought in him!’ Such disappointments grievously depress an evangelist.

Religious bodies are liable to strange and unaccountable fluctuations.  At the beginning of the third year since our arrival, the congregation seemed to be in a very prosperous state, as regards attendance, conversions and other outward signs of activity.  Yet it was quite soon after this that my Father began to be harassed by all sorts of troubles, and the spring of 1860 was a critical moment in the history of the community.  Although he loved to take a very high tone about the Saints, and involved them sometimes in a cloud of laudatory metaphysics, the truth was that they were nothing more than peasants of a somewhat primitive type, not well instructed in the rules of conduct and liable to exactly the same weaknesses as invade the rural character in every country and latitude.  That they were exhorted to behave as ‘children of light’, and that the majority of them sincerely desired to do credit to their high calling, could not prevent their being beset by the sins which had affected their forebears for generations past.

The addition of so many young persons of each sex to the communion led to an entirely new class of embarrassment.  Now there arose endless difficulties about ‘engagements’, about youthful brethren who ‘went out walking’ with even more youthful sisters.  Glancing over my Father’s notes, I observe the ceaseless repetition of cases in which So-and-So is ‘courting’ Such-an-one, followed by the melancholy record that he has ‘deserted’ her.  In my Father’s stern language, ‘desertion’ would very often mean no more than that the amatory pair had blamelessly changed their minds; but in some cases it meant more and worse than this.  It was a very great distress to him that sometimes the young men and women who showed the most lively interest in Scripture, and who had apparently accepted the way of salvation with the fullest intelligence, were precisely those who seemed to struggle with least success against a temptation to unchastity.  He put this down to the concentrated malignity of Satan, who directed his most poisoned darts against the fairest of the flock.

In addition to these troubles, there came recriminations, mutual charges of drunkenness in private, all sorts of petty jealousy and scandal.  There were frequent definite acts of ‘back-sliding’ on the part of members, who had in consequence to be ‘put away’.  No one of these cases might be in itself extremely serious, but when many of them came together they seemed to indicate that the church was in an unhealthy condition.  The particulars of many of these scandals were concealed from me, but I was an adroit little pitcher, and had cultivated the art of seeming to be interested in something else, a book or a flower, while my elders were talking confidentially.  As a rule, while I would fain have acquired more details, I was fairly well-informed about the errors of the Saints, although I was often quaintly ignorant of the real nature of those errors.

Not infrequently, persons who had fallen into sin repented of it under my Father’s penetrating ministrations.  They were apt in their penitence to use strange symbolic expressions.  I remember Mrs. Pewings, our washerwoman, who had been accused of intemperance and had been suspended from communion, reappearing with a face that shone with soap and sanctification, and saying to me, ‘Oh! blessed Child, you’re wonderin’ to zee old Pewings here again, but He have rolled away my mountain!’ For once, I was absolutely at a loss, but she meant that the Lord had removed the load of her sins, and restored her to a state of grace.

It was in consequence of these backslidings, which had become alarmingly frequent, that early in 1860 my Father determined on proclaiming a solemn fast.  He delivered one Sunday what seemed to me an awe-inspiring address, calling upon us all closely to examine our consciences, and reminding us of the appalling fate of the church of Laodicea.  He said that it was not enough to have made a satisfactory confession of faith, nor even to have sealed that confession in baptism, if we did not live up to our protestations.  Salvation, he told us, must indeed precede holiness of life, yet both are essential.  It was a dark and rainy winter morning when he made this terrible address, which frightened the congregation extremely.  When the marrow was congealed within our bones, and when the bowed heads before him, and the faintly audible sobs of the women in the background, told him that his lesson had gone home, he pronounced the keeping of a day in the following week as a fast of contrition.  ’Those of you who have to pursue your daily occupations will pursue them, but sustained only by the bread of affliction and by the water of affliction.’

His influence over these gentle peasant people was certainly remarkable, for no effort was made to resist his exhortation.  It was his customary plan to stay a little while, after the morning meeting was over, and in a very affable fashion to shake hands with the Saints.  But on this occasion he stalked forth without a word, holding my hand tight until we had swept out into the street.

How the rest of the congregation kept this fast I do not know.  But it was a dreadful day for us.  I was awakened in the pitchy night to go off with my Father to the Room, where a scanty gathering held a penitential prayer-meeting.  We came home, as dawn was breaking, and in process of time sat down to breakfast, which consisted—­at that dismal hour—­of slices of dry bread and a tumbler of cold water each.  During the morning, I was not allowed to paint, or write, or withdraw to my study in the box-room.  We sat, in a state of depression not to be described, in the breakfast-room, reading books of a devotional character, with occasional wailing of some very doleful hymn.  Our midday dinner came at last; the meal was strictly confined, as before, to dry slices of the loaf and a tumbler of water.

The afternoon would have been spent as the morning was, and so my Father spent it.  But Miss Marks, seeing my white cheeks and the dark rings around my eyes, besought leave to take me out for a walk.  This was permitted, with a pledge that I should be given no species of refreshment.  Although I told Miss Marks, in the course of the walk, that I was feeling ‘so leer’ (our Devonshire phrase for hungry), she dared not break her word.  Our last meal was of the former character, and the day ended by our trapesing through the wet to another prayer-meeting, whence I returned in a state bordering on collapse and was put to bed without further nourishment.  There was no great hardship in all this, I daresay, but it was certainly rigorous.  My Father took pains to see that what he had said about the bread and water of affliction was carried out in the bosom of his own family, and by no one more unflinchingly than by himself.

My attitude to other people’s souls when I was out of my Father’s sight was now a constant anxiety to me.  In our tattling world of small things he had extraordinary opportunities of learning how I behaved when I was away from home; I did not realize this, and I used to think his acquaintance with my deeds and words savoured almost of wizardry.  He was accustomed to urge upon me the necessity of ‘speaking for Jesus in season and out of season’, and he so worked upon my feelings that I would start forth like St. Teresa, wild for the Moors and martyrdom.  But any actual impact with persons marvelously cooled my zeal, and I should hardly ever have ‘spoken’ at all if it had not been for that unfortunate phrase ‘out of season’.  It really seemed that one must talk of nothing else, since if an occasion was not in season it was out of season; there was no alternative, no close time for souls.

My Father was very generous.  He used to magnify any little effort that I made, with stammering tongue, to sanctify a visit; and people, I now see, were accustomed to give me a friendly lead in this direction, so that they might please him by reporting that I had ‘testified’ in the Lord’s service.  The whole thing, however, was artificial, and was part of my Father’s restless inability to let well alone.  It was not in harshness or in ill-nature that he worried me so much; on the contrary, it was all part of his too-anxious love.  He was in a hurry to see me become a shining light, everything that he had himself desired to be, yet with none of his shortcomings.

It was about this time that he harrowed my whole soul into painful agitation by a phrase that he let fall, without, I believe, attaching any particular importance to it at the time.  He was occupied, as he so often was, in polishing and burnishing my faith, and he was led to speak of the day when I should ascend the pulpit to preach my first sermon.  ’Oh! if I may be there, out of sight, and hear the gospel message proclaimed from your lips, then I shall say, “My poor work is done.  Oh!  Lord Jesus, receive my spirit”.’  I cannot express the dismay which this aspiration gave me, the horror with which I anticipated such a nunc dimittis.  I felt like a small and solitary bird, caught and hung out hopelessly and endlessly in a great glittering cage.  The clearness of the personal image affected me as all the texts and prayers and predictions had failed to do.  I saw myself imprisoned for ever in the religious system which had caught me and would whirl my helpless spirit as in the concentric wheels of my nightly vision.  I did not struggle against it, because I believed that it was inevitable, and that there was no other way of making peace with the terrible and ever-watchful ’God who is a jealous God’.  But I looked forward to my fate without zeal and without exhilaration, and the fear of the Lord altogether swallowed up and cancelled any notion of the love of Him.

I should do myself an injustice, however, if I described my attitude to faith at this time as wanting in candour.  I did very earnestly desire to follow where my Father led.  That passion for imitation, which I have already discussed, was strongly developed at this time, and it induced me to repeat the language of pious books in godly ejaculations which greatly edified my grown-up companions, and were, so far as I can judge, perfectly sincere.  I wished extremely to be good and holy, and I had no doubt in my mind of the absolute infallibility of my Father as a guide in heavenly things.  But I am perfectly sure that there never was a moment in which my heart truly responded, with native ardour, to the words which flowed so readily, in such a stream of unction, from my anointed lips.  I cannot recall anything but an intellectual surrender; there was never joy in the act of resignation, never the mystic’s rapture at feeling his phantom self, his own threadbare soul, suffused, thrilled through, robed again in glory by a fire which burns up everything personal and individual about him.

Through thick and thin I clung to a hard nut of individuality, deep down in my childish nature.  To the pressure from without I resigned everything else, my thoughts, my words, my anticipations, my assurances, but there was something which I never resigned, my innate and persistent self.  Meek as I seemed, and gently respondent, I was always conscious of that innermost quality which I had learned to recognize in my earlier days in Islington, that existence of two in the depths who could speak to one another in inviolable secrecy.

’This a natural man may discourse of, and that very knowingly, and give a kind of natural credit to it, as to a history that may be true; but firmly to believe that there is divine truth in all these things, and to have a persuasion of it stronger than of the very thing we see with our eyes; such an assent as this is the peculiar work of the Spirit of God, and is certainly saving faith.’

This passage is not to be found in the writings of any extravagant Plymouth Brother, but in one of the most solid classics of the Church, in Archbishop Leighton’s Commentary on the First Epistle of Peter.  I quote it because it defines, more exactly than words of my own could hope to do, the difference which already existed, and in secrecy began forthwith to be more and more acutely accentuated between my Father and myself.  He did indeed possess this saving faith, which could move mountains of evidence, and suffer no diminution under the action of failure or disappointment.  I, on the other hand—­as I began to feel dimly then, and see luminously now—­had only acquired the habit of giving what the Archbishop means by ‘a kind of natural credit’ to the doctrine so persistently impressed upon my conscience.  From its very nature this could not but be molten in the dews and exhaled in the sunshine of life and thought and experience.

My Father, by an indulgent act for the caprice of which I cannot wholly account, presently let in a flood of imaginative light which was certainly hostile to my heavenly calling.  My instinctive interest in geography has already been mentioned.  This was the one branch of knowledge in which I needed no instruction, geographical information seeming to soak into the cells of my brain without an effort.  At the age of eleven, I knew a great deal more of maps, and of the mutual relation of localities all over the globe, than most grown-up people do.  It was almost a mechanical acquirement.  I was now greatly taken with the geography of the West Indies, of every part of which I had made MS. maps.  There was something powerfully attractive to my fancy in the great chain of the Antilles, lying on the sea like an open bracelet, with its big jewels and little jewels strung on an invisible thread.  I liked to shut my eyes and see it all, in a mental panorama, stretched from Cape Sant’ Antonio to the Serpent’s Mouth.  Several of these lovely islands, these emeralds and amethysts set on the Caribbean Sea, my Father had known well in his youth, and I was importunate in questioning him about them.  One day, as I multiplied inquiries, he rose in his impetuous way, and climbing to the top of a bookcase, brought down a thick volume and presented it to me.  ’You’ll find all about the Antilles there,’ he said, and left me with Tom Cringle’s Log in my possession.

The embargo laid upon every species of fiction by my Mother’s powerful scruple had never been raised, although she had been dead four years.  As I have said in an earlier chapter, this was a point on which I believe that my Father had never entirely agreed with her.  He had, however, yielded to her prejudice; and no work of romance, no fictitious story, had ever come in my way.  It is remarkable that among our books, which amounted to many hundreds, I had never discovered a single work of fiction until my Father himself revealed the existence of Michael Scott’s wild masterpiece.  So little did I understand what was allowable in the way of literary invention that I began the story without a doubt that it was true, and I think it was my Father himself who, in answer to an inquiry, explained to me that it was ‘all made up’.  He advised me to read the descriptions of the sea, and of the mountains of Jamaica, and ‘skip’ the pages which gave imaginary adventures and conversations.  But I did not take his counsel; these latter were the flower of the book to me.  I had never read, never dreamed of anything like them, and they filled my whole horizon with glory and with joy.

I suppose that when my Father was a younger man, and less pietistic, he had read Tom Cringle’s Log with pleasure, because it recalled familiar scenes to him.  Much was explained by the fact that the frontispiece of this edition was a delicate line-engraving of Blewfields, the great lonely house in a garden of Jamaican all-spice where for eighteen months he had worked as a naturalist.  He could not look at this print without recalling exquisite memories and airs that blew from a terrestrial paradise.  But Michael Scott’s noisy amorous novel of adventure was an extraordinary book to put in the hands of a child who had never been allowed to glance at the mildest and most febrifugal story-book.

It was like giving a glass of brandy neat to someone who had never been weaned from a milk diet.  I have not read Tom Cringle’s Log from that day to this, and I think that I should be unwilling now to break the charm of memory, which may be largely illusion.  But I remember a great deal of the plot and not a little of the language, and, while I am sure it is enchantingly spirited, I am quite as sure that the persons it describes were far from being unspotted by the world.  The scenes at night in the streets of Spanish Town surpassed not merely my experience, but, thank goodness, my imagination.  The nautical personages used, in their conversations, what is called ‘a class of language’, and there ran, if I am not mistaken, a glow and gust of life through the romance from beginning to end which was nothing if it was not resolutely pagan.

There were certain scenes and images in Tom Cringle’s Log which made not merely a lasting impression upon my mind, but tinged my outlook upon life.  The long adventures, fightings and escapes, sudden storms without, and mutinies within, drawn forth as they were, surely with great skill, upon the fiery blue of the boundless tropical ocean, produced on my inner mind a sort of glimmering hope, very vaguely felt at first, slowly developing, long stationary and faint, but always tending towards a belief that I should escape at last from the narrowness of the life we led at home, from this bondage to the Law and the Prophets.

I must not define too clearly, nor endeavour too formally to insist on the blind movements of a childish mind.  But of this I am quite sure, that the reading and re-reading of Tom Cringle’s Log did more than anything else, in this critical eleventh year of my life, to give fortitude to my individuality, which was in great danger—­as I now see—­of succumbing to the pressure my Father brought to bear upon it from all sides.  My soul was shut up, like Fatima, in a tower to which no external influences could come, and it might really have been starved to death, or have lost the power of recovery and rebound, if my captor, by some freak not yet perfectly accounted for, had not gratuitously opened a little window in it and added a powerful telescope.  The daring chapters of Michael Scott’s picaresque romance of the tropics were that telescope and that window.

In the spring of this year, I began to walk about the village and even proceed for considerable distances into the country by myself, and after reading Tom Cringle’s Log those expeditions were accompanied by a constant hope of meeting with some adventures.  I did not court events, however, except in fancy, for I was very shy of real people, and would break off some gallant dream of prowess on the high seas to bolt into a field and hide behind the hedge, while a couple of labouring men went by.  Sometimes, however, the wave of a great purpose would bear me on, as when once, but certainly at an earlier date than I have now reached, hearing the dangers of a persistent drought much dwelt upon, I carried my small red watering pot, full of water, up to the top of the village, and then all the way down Petittor Lane, and discharged its contents in a cornfield, hoping by this act to improve the prospects of the harvest.  A more eventful excursion must be described, because of the moral impression it left indelibly upon me.

I have described the sequestered and beautiful hamlet of Barton, to which I was so often taken visiting by Mary Grace Burmington.  At Barton there lived a couple who were objects of peculiar interest to me, because of the rather odd fact that having come, out of pure curiosity, to see me baptized, they had been then and there deeply convinced of their spiritual danger.  These were John Brooks, an Irish quarryman, and his wife, Ann Brooks.  These people had not merely been hitherto unconverted, but they had openly treated the Brethren with anger and contempt.  They came, indeed, to my baptism to mock, but they went away impressed.

Next morning, when Mrs. Brooks was at the wash tub, as she told us, Hell opened at her feet, and the Devil came out holding a long scroll on which the list of her sins was written.  She was so much excited, that the motion brought about a miscarriage and she was seriously ill.  Meanwhile, her husband, who had been equally moved at the baptism, was also converted, and as soon as she was well enough, they were baptized together, and then ‘broke bread’ with us.  The case of the Brookses was much talked about, and was attributed, in a distant sense, to me; that is to say, if I had not been an object of public curiosity, the Brookses might have remained in the bond of iniquity.  I, therefore, took a very particular interest in them, and as I presently heard that they were extremely poor, I was filled with a fervent longing to minister to their necessities.

Somebody had lately given me a present of money, and I begged little sums here and there until I reached the very considerable figure of seven shillings and sixpence.  With these coins safe in a little linen bag, I started one Sunday afternoon, without saying anything to anyone, and I arrived at the Brookses’ cottage in Barton.  John Brooks was a heavy dirty man, with a pock-marked face and two left legs; his broad and red face carried small side-whiskers in the manner of that day, but was otherwise shaved.  When I reached the cottage, husband and wife were at home, doing nothing at all in the approved Sunday style.  I was received by them with some surprise, but I quickly explained my mission, and produced my linen bag.  To my disgust, all John Brooks said was, ‘I know’d the Lord would provide,’ and after emptying my little bag into the palm of an enormous hand, he swept the contents into his trousers pocket, and slapped his leg.  He said not one single word of thanks or appreciation, and I was absolutely cut to the heart.

I think that in the course of a long life I have never experienced a bitterer disappointment.  The woman, who was quicker, and more sensitive, doubtless saw my embarrassment, but the form of comfort which she chose was even more wounding to my pride.  ‘Never mind, little master,’ she said, ’you shall come and see me feed the pigs.’  But there is a limit to endurance, and with a sense of having been cruelly torn by the tooth of ingratitude, I fled from the threshold of the Brookses, never to return.

At tea that afternoon, I was very much downcast, and under cross-examination from Miss Marks, all my little story came out.  My Father, who had been floating away in a meditation, as he very often did, caught a word that interested him and descended to consciousness.  I had to tell my tale over again, this time very sadly, and with a fear that I should be reprimanded.  But on the contrary, both my Father and Miss Marks were attentive and most sympathetic, and I was much comforted.  ’We must remember they are the Lord’s children,’ said my Father.  ’Even the Lord can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ said Miss Marks, who was considerably ruffled.  ‘Alas! alas!’ replied my Father, waving his hand with a deprecating gesture.  ‘The dear child!’ said Miss Marks, bristling with indignation, and patting my hand across the tea-table.  ’The Lord will reward your zealous loving care of his poor, even if they have neither the grace nor the knowledge to thank you,’ said my Father, and rested his brown eyes meltingly upon me.  ‘Brutes!’ said Miss Marks, thinking of John and Ann Brooks.  ‘Oh no! no!’ replied my Father, ’but hewers of wood and drawers of water!  We must bear with the limited intelligence.’  All this was an emollient to my wounds, and I became consoled.  But the springs of benevolence were dried up within me, and to this day I have never entirely recovered from the shock of John Brooks’s coarse leer and his ‘I know’d the Lord would provide.’  The infant plant of philanthropy was burned in my bosom as if by quick-lime.

In the course of the summer, a young schoolmaster called on my Father to announce to him that he had just opened a day-school for the sons of gentlemen in our vicinity, and he begged for the favour of a visit.  My Father returned his call; he lived in one of the small white villas, buried in laurels, which gave a discreet animation to our neighbourhood.  Mr. M. was frank and modest, deferential to my Father’s opinions and yet capable of defending his own.  His school and he produced an excellent impression, and in August I began to be one of his pupils.  The school was very informal; it was held in the two principal dwelling-rooms on the ground-floor of the villa, and I do not remember that Mr. M. had any help from an usher.

There were perhaps twenty boys in the school at most, and often fewer.  I made the excursion between home and school four times a day; if I walked fast, the transit might take five minutes, and, as there were several objects of interest in the way, it might be spread over an hour.  In fine weather the going to and from school was very delightful, and small as the scope of it was, it could be varied almost indefinitely.  I would sometimes meet with a schoolfellow proceeding in the same direction, and my Father, observing us over the wall one morning, was amused to notice that I always progressed by dancing along the curbstone sideways, my face turned inwards and my arms beating against my legs, conversing loudly all the time.  This was a case of pure heredity, for so he used to go to his school, forty years before, along the streets of Poole.

One day when fortunately I was alone, I was accosted by an old gentleman, dressed as a dissenting minister.  He was pleased with my replies, and he presently made it a habit to be taking his constitutional when I was likely to be on the high road.  We became great friends, and he took me at last to his house, a very modest place, where to my great amazement, there hung in the dining-room, two large portraits, one of a man, the other of a woman, in extravagant fancy-dress.  My old friend told me that the former was a picture of himself as he had appeared, ’long ago, in my unconverted days, on the stage’.

I was so ignorant as not to have the slightest conception of what was meant by the stage, and he explained to me that he had been an actor and a poet, before the Lord had opened his eyes to better things.  I knew nothing about actors, but poets were already the objects of my veneration.  My friend was the first poet I had ever seen.  He was no less a person than James Sheridan Knowles, the famous author of Virginius and The Hunchback, who had become a Baptist minister in his old age.  When, at home, I mentioned this acquaintance, it awakened no interest.  I believe that my Father had never heard, or never noticed, the name of one who had been by far the most eminent English playwright of that age.

It was from Sheridan Knowles’ lips that I first heard fall the name of Shakespeare.  He was surprised, I fancy, to find me so curiously advanced in some branches of knowledge, and so utterly ignorant of others.  He could hardly credit that the names of Hamlet and Falstaff and Prospero meant nothing to a little boy who knew so much theology and geography as I did.  Mr. Knowles suggested that I should ask my schoolmaster to read some of the plays of Shakespeare with the boys, and he proposed The Merchant of Venice as particularly well-suited for this purpose.  I repeated what my aged friend (Mr. Sheridan Knowles must have been nearly eighty at that time) had said, and Mr. M. accepted the idea with promptitude. (All my memories of this my earliest schoolmaster present him to me as intelligent, amiable and quick, although I think not very soundly prepared for his profession.)

Accordingly, it was announced that the reading of Shakespeare would be one of our lessons, and on the following afternoon we began The Merchant of Venice.  There was one large volume, and it was handed about the class; I was permitted to read the part of Bassanio, and I set forth, with ecstatic pipe, how

  In Belmont is a lady richly left,
  And she is fair, and fairer than that word!

Mr. M. must have had some fondness for the stage himself; his pleasure in the Shakespeare scenes was obvious, and nothing else that he taught me made so much impression on me as what he said about a proper emphasis in reading aloud.  I was in the seventh heaven of delight, but alas! we had only reached the second act of the play, when the readings mysteriously stopped.  I never knew the cause, but I suspect that it was at my Father’s desire.  He prided himself on never having read a page of Shakespeare, and on never having entered a theatre but once.  I think I must have spoken at home about the readings, and that he must have given the schoolmaster a hint to return to the ordinary school curriculum.

The fact that I was ‘a believer’, as it was our custom to call one who had been admitted to the arcana of our religion, and that therefore, in all commerce with ‘unbelievers’, it was my duty to be ’testifying for my Lord, in season and out of season’—­this prevented my forming any intimate friendships at my first school.  I shrank from the toilsome and embarrassing act of button-holing a schoolfellow as he rushed out of class, and of pressing upon him the probably unintelligible question ‘Have you found Jesus?’ It was simpler to avoid him, to slip like a lizard though the laurels and emerge into solitude.

The boys had a way of plunging out into the road in front of the school-villa when afternoon school was over; it was a pleasant rural road lined with high hedges and shadowed by elm-trees.  Here, especially towards the summer twilight, they used to linger and play vague games, swooping and whirling in the declining sunshine, and I was glad to join these bat-like sports.  But my company, though not avoided, was not greatly sought for.  I think that something of my curious history was known, and that I was, not unkindly but instinctively, avoided, as an animal of a different species, not allied to the herd.  The conventionality of little boys is constant; the colour of their traditions is uniform.  At the same time, although I made no friends, I found no enemies.  In class, except in my extraordinary aptitude for geography, which was looked upon as incomprehensible and almost uncanny, I was rather behind than in front of the others.  I, therefore, awakened no jealousies, and, intent on my own dreams, I think my little shadowy presence escaped the notice of most of my schoolfellows.

By the side of the road I have mentioned, between the school and my home, there was a large horse-pond.  The hedge folded around three sides of it, while ancient pollard elms bent over it, and chequered with their foliage in it the reflection of the sky.  The roadside edge of this pond was my favourite station; it consisted of a hard clay which could be moulded into fairly tenacious forms.  Here I created a maritime empire—­islands, a seaboard with harbours, light-houses, fortifications.  My geographical imitativeness had its full swing.  Sometimes, while I was creating, a cart would be driven roughly into the pond, and a horse would drink deep of my ocean, his hooves trampling my archipelagoes and shattering my ports with what was worse than a typhoon.  But I immediately set to work, as soon as the cart was gone and the mud had settled, to tidy up my coastline again and to scoop out anew my harbours.

My pleasure in this sport was endless, and what I was able to see, in my mind’s eye, was not the edge of a morass of mud, but a splendid line of coast, and gulfs of the type of Tor Bay.  I do not recollect a sharper double humiliation than when old Sam Lamble, the blacksmith, who was one of the ‘saints’, being asked by my Father whether he had met me, replied ’Yes, I zeed ’un up-long, making mud pies in the ro-ad!’ What a position for one who had been received into communion ‘as an adult’!  What a blot on the scutcheon of a would-be Columbus!  ‘Mud-pies’, indeed!

Yet I had an appreciator.  One afternoon, as I was busy on my geographical operations, a good-looking middle-aged lady, with a soft pink cheek and a sparkling hazel eye, paused and asked me if my name was not what it was.  I had seen her before; a stranger to our parts, with a voice without a trace in it of the Devonshire drawl.  I knew, dimly, that she came sometimes to the meeting, that she was lodging at Upton with some friends of ours who accepted paying guests in an old house that was simply a basket of roses.  She was Miss Brightwen, and I now conversed with her for the first time.

Her interest in my harbours and islands was marked; she did not smile; she asked questions about my peninsulas which were intelligent and pertinent.  I was even persuaded at last to leave my creations and to walk with her towards the village.  I was pleased with her voice, her refinements, her dress, which was more delicate, and her manners, which were more easy, than what I was accustomed to, We had some very pleasant conversation, and when we parted I had the satisfaction of feeling that our intercourse had been both agreeable to me and instructive to her.  I told her that I should be glad to tell her more on a future occasion; she thanked me very gravely, and then she laughed a little.  I confess I did not see that there was anything to laugh at.  We parted on warm terms of mutual esteem, but I little thought that this sympathetic Quakerish lady was to become my mother.