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.