‘There was a single instance in which I travelled on foot thirty miles
in one day. Whether the miles were measured or computed, is a
circumstance which I now forget: but the roads were so heavy, owing to a
strong clay soil, that the last quarter of a mile I had to go, I was
obliged to confess I could walk no farther, and I was carried on a
countryman’s shoulders. All those who heard of this, and knew how young,
how slight of limb, and stunted in my growth I was, expressed their
astonishment, and some their doubts. I think this happened before I was
ten years of age.
‘My father broke up his little establishment near Rugeley, and took me
with him into Cheshire, but left me at a village two or three miles from
Haslem, where I was intrusted to the care of an old woman, who kept a
lodging-house; and whom from the whole of her appearance, as well as her
kindness to me, I always remembered with respect. On the evening of my
arrival, but later, two travelling Irishmen came in, and were admitted
as lodgers. My father had bargained with the old woman, that she was to
provide for me: travellers, of course, who come in at sun-set, and
depart at day-break, provide for themselves, or are obliged to be
satisfied with what such barren abodes can supply. The Irishmen had
provided a halfpenny roll between them; what they might have more I do
not know. But my good old dame they noticed to be mashing up a plentiful
supper of new milk and potatoes for me, a dish in which their hearts
delighted. Whether it was contrivance, accident, or according to rule, I
cannot say; we did not, however, sup in the presence of the old woman,
but in the room in which we all three slept. No sooner were we here, and
I had begun in imagination to devour my delicate mashed potatoes, than
the Irishmen came up to me, patted my cheeks, told me what a pretty
little boy I was, asked me my name, inquired who took care of me, and to
what country I was going; and swore by the holy father they never in all
their lives, saw so sweet a looking boy, and so compliant and
good-tempered. “Do now,” said one of them, “let me taste of your mashed
potatoes.” “Aye, and me too,” said the other—“I _warrand_ you don’t much
care about them! We now are a _dale_ more used to them in Ireland: I’m
sure you’ll be very glad to make an exchange. Here now, here is a very
fine half-penny roll, which is very nice _ating_, and which to be sure
we bought for our own supper. To be sure, we should be fond enough of
it, but we don’t care about trifles; and as we have been used to _ate_
potatoes all the days of our lives, and you English all like bread, why
if you _plase_, my sweet compliable _fillow_, we will just make a little
bit of a swap, and so we shall all _ate_ our suppers heartily.” The
action followed the word; they took my potatoes, and gave me the dry
roll: while I, totally disconcerted, and not a little overawed by the
wildness of my fellow-lodgers’ looks, the strangeness of their brogue,
their red whiskers, dark beards, carotty wigs, and sparkling black eyes,
said not a word, but quietly submitted, though I thoroughly regretted
the dainty supper I had lost, and saw them devour it with an aching
heart.
‘Whenever I write dialogues like these, it is not to be supposed that I
pretend to repeat word for word what was said: after the lapse of so
many years, such a pretension would on the face of it be absurd. But I
do on all such occasions pretend to give a true picture of the
impressions that still remain on my mind, to express the tone and spirit
in which the words were spoken, and in general to repeat a part of the
words themselves.—I cannot too seriously declare that I write these
memoirs with a conscious desire to say nothing but the pure truth, the
chief intention of them being to excite an ardent emulation in the
breasts of youthful readers; by shewing them how difficulties may be
endured, how they may be overcome, and how they may at last contribute,
as a school of instruction, to bring forth hidden talent.