TOTTENHAM.
Our house at Sunderland Villa was what I suppose would be called an
eight-roomed house. It comprised four bedrooms, two sitting-rooms, and
a little room built out over the kitchen, which was Mr Bradlaugh's
"den" or study. There was a garden in the rear communicating by a
private way with "The Grove," a road running at right angles to
Northumberland Park, in which our house was situated; and at the bottom
of this garden, when things looked very prosperous indeed, some stables
were built. There was to be stalled the longed-for horse which was to
take my father to the City every day; but before the stables were quite
completed Black Friday came, and with it vanished all these entrancing
dreams. The building indeed remained, but merely as a playhouse for
us children, or to afford an occasional lodging for a friend (the
coachman's quarters being well and snugly built), and also, I fear, as
a "good joke" to the neighbourhood.
We usually had one or more dogs, belonging to the various members of
the family, for we were all fond of animals, and any big ones were kept
in the paved forecourt of the stables. At one time there were three
dwellers in the court, but these ultimately thinned down to one, the
dog Bruin, my father's special favourite. Bruin was part retriever and
part St Bernard, a fine dog to look at, and wonderfully clever. Mr
Bradlaugh was never weary of relating anecdotes of his intelligence
and sagacity. From his kennel in the court Bruin's chain-range covered
the garden gate, and with him there no bolt or lock was necessary,
for while with friends he was the mildest and gentlest of dogs, with
strangers or suspicious persons he was truly formidable. He made no
unnecessary show of what he could do; he quietly watched the person
until he was well within his reach, and then hurled himself at his
throat. This I once saw. He was devoted to my father, and with him
almost perfectly docile and obedient. And when, in 1870, Mr Bradlaugh
had to part with him, losing Bruin was by no means the smallest grief
at a time when there was little else but sadness and sorrow.
At St. Helen's Place Mr James Thomson (B. V.) had shared our home,
and he again lived with us for some years at Sunderland Villa. The
acquaintance which sprang up between them during Mr Bradlaugh's army
experiences in Ireland had soon ripened into warm friendship.
When my father quitted the service they kept up a close correspondence,
and many a time have I heard my mother lament that Mr Thomson's
"beautiful letters" had been destroyed. When Mr Thomson also left the
army and came to London at the end of 1862, he came to my father, who
at once held out a helping hand to him. In 1863 Mr Bradlaugh obtained
for him the appointment of Secretary to the Polish Committee, but his
inherited curse of intemperance seized upon him, and at a crucial
moment he disappeared.[33] On May 29th Mr W. J. Linton wrote from
Ambleside:--
[Footnote 33: Mr W. E. Adams speaks of this matter in his recollections
of my father, from which I have already quoted on page 68. "I think it
has been said," he remarks, "that Mr Bradlaugh did not do the best he
could for James Thomson, the author of 'The City of Dreadful Night.'
My own testimony on this subject may not be of much account, but I
happen to know that Mr Bradlaugh for many years maintained Thomson
as a member of his own family; sometimes finding him employment in
his own office, at other times getting him situations elsewhere. When
the Polish Revolution of 1862 broke out, a committee was formed in
London to assist the insurgents. I was appointed secretary of that
committee. But in 1863 it became necessary that I should resign in
order to accept an appointment in Newcastle. Mr Bradlaugh asked me to
do what I could to obtain for Thomson the succession to the office. It
was mainly on Mr Bradlaugh's strong and urgent recommendation that the
committee selected him. I transferred to him all the books, documents,
correspondence, etc., much of it of a very interesting and valuable
character. Although I endeavoured, both in Manchester and in Newcastle,
where I visited some of the leading politicians, to form branches of
the central committee in London, I ceased all active participation
in the movement. It was naturally expected, of course, that Thomson
would do all that had been hitherto done by me, and indeed, from his
superior qualifications, a great deal more. A few weeks after I had
been located in Newcastle, however, a letter was placed in my hands
from the late Peter Alfred Taylor, who was chairman of the Polish
Committee, asking whether I could tell him where James Thomson could be
found, since he had not been at the office for many days, and had left
the affairs of the committee in a disordered condition. Poor Thomson,
as it turned out, had been overtaken by one of those periodical attacks
of dipsomania which ultimately resulted in his death. It may readily be
imagined how much this collapse must have disturbed and distressed Mr
Bradlaugh. But it does not appear that it made any difference whatever
in his helpful friendship for the unfortunate poet; for some years
afterwards I still found Thomson a member of Mr Bradlaugh's family and
the occupant of an important post in the business which Mr Bradlaugh
was then conducting. These are matters of personal knowledge. I may add
that Mr Bradlaugh, whenever Thomson was the subject of conversation
between us, always spoke of him in the tenderest and most affectionate
terms. Even when, as I understand, he had been compelled to part
company with his unfortunate friend, no word of censure or complaint
ever passed Mr Bradlaugh's lips in my hearing.
"The kindness which Mr Bradlaugh had shown to poor Thomson was shown
in a modified degree to me too. I should regard myself as one of the
most ungrateful creatures living if I ever forgot the kindly help and
sympathy I received from him in a most trying period of my life. For
many months during this period, when I was begging some brother man to
give me leave to toil, I breakfasted at his house nearly every morning
(and a breakfast was a matter of some consequence to me then), in order
to learn what had come of inquiries which he was day by day making on
my behalf, inquiries which eventually resulted in a service of the
highest value."]
"DEAR BRADLAUGH,--The enclosed from Taylor. I send it to you
knowing no other way of getting at Thomson, and wishful not to throw
over any one spoken kindly of by you. But for myself I would not stand
a second utter neglect of this kind. However, it rests with Taylor.
"After some trouble about Thomson, he might at least have written
to me in the first instance, or to Taylor now, to account even for
'illness'--which I begin to doubt.
"_I_ only asked him for a daily paper, which would have satisfied me
of his daily attention. I have had _three_ since I left. Row him,
please!--Yours ever, very hard worked,
W. J. LINTON."
ENCLOSURE.
"House of Commons, May 28, 1863.
"DEAR LINTON,--Do you know Thomson's address or how to get at
it? He has not been at S. Street this week, and everything is going to
the D----l.--Yours ever,
P. A. TAYLOR."
These fits of intemperance, comparatively rare at first, unhappily
became more and more frequent. While Mr Thomson lived with us when he
came back after one of these attacks--or was brought back, for indeed
it usually happened that some friend searched for him and brought him
home despite himself--he was nursed and cared for until he was quite
himself again, for it often happened that he was bruised and wounded,
and unfit to go out for some days.
Although he failed so miserably in his secretary's work, Mr Bradlaugh
gave him a post in his own office, and encouraged him to write for the
_National Reformer_. He had already written a few scattered articles,
first for the _Investigator_ in 1859, and then for the _National
Reformer_. In the latter his writings ultimately extended over a period
of fifteen years, commencing in 1860, and ending in the summer of
1875. His contributions range from the smallest review notice of some
pamphlets written by Frederic Harrison, to his great and remarkable
poem of "The City of Dreadful Night." Those who think most highly of
this wonderful work admit that there was no other publisher in London
who would have published it, but at the same time they give no credit
to my father for discerning genius to which every one else was then
blind; on the contrary, they join in the suggestion that Mr Thomson
was in some way ill-used by Mr Bradlaugh, although _how_ they do not
deign to tell. Most of "B. V.'s" writings to the _National Reformer_
were done in the years 1865, 1866, 1867, the first half of 1868, and
second half of 1869, 1870, 1871, 1874, and the early months of 1875. In
the other years his contributions were more scattered, but no year is
entirely without.
While he lived with us at Sunderland Villa, Mr Thomson was just one
of the family, sharing our home life in every particular. He was a
favourite with us all; my father loved him with a love that had to
bear many a strain, and we children simply adored him. Sometimes in
the evenings he, with my mother for a partner, my father with Miss
Lacey (a frequent inmate of our house), would form a jovial quartet
at whist; and many were the jokes and great the fun on these whist
evenings. On Sundays, if my father were at home, he and Mr Thomson
would take us children and Bruin for a walk over the Tottenham Marshes
to give Bruin a swim in the Lea; or if my father were away lecturing,
as was too frequently the case, then Mr Thomson would take us for a
long ramble to Edmonton to see Charles Lamb's grave, or maybe across
the fields to Chingford. In the winter time, when the exigencies of
the weather kept us indoors, he would devote his Sunday afternoons to
us, and tell us the most enchanting fairy tales it was ever the lot of
children to listen to. One snowy night my father and he came to fetch
my sister and me home from a Christmas party. They had to carry us,
for the snow was deep. They took us out of the house with due regard to
propriety; but they had not got far before they were all too conscious
of the weight of their respective burdens, so they set us down in a
fairly clear spot, and then readjusted us "pick-a-back." There was much
joking over our weight, and we heartily joined in the laugh and enjoyed
the jests at our expense, and over and above all the notion of being
aided and abetted by our elders in doing something so shocking as a
"pick-a-back" ride through the streets. These were delightful, happy
times to us at least, and, in spite of all his cares, not unhappy for
my father. He had youth and health and hope and courage, a friend he
loved, and children he was ever good to. I feel indeed as though my pen
must linger over these small trifles, over these merry moods and happy
moments, and I am loth to put them aside for sadder, weightier matters.
Or the two would sit in my father's little "den" or study, and smoke.
Mr Bradlaugh smoked a great deal at this time, and "B. V." was an
inveterate smoker; the one had his cigar, and the other his pipe; and
while the smoke slowly mounted up and by degrees so filled the room
that they could scarce see each other's faces across the table, they
would talk philosophy, politics, or literature. I can see them now, in
some ways a strangely assorted pair, as they sat in that little room
lined with books; at the far side of the table the poet and dreamer,
with his head thrown back and with the stem of his pipe never far from
his lips, his face almost lost in the blue clouds gently and lazily
curling upwards; and here, near the fireplace, my father, essentially a
man to whom to think, to plan, was to _do_, sitting in careless comfort
in his big uncushioned oaken chair, now taking frequent strong draws at
his cigar, transforming the dull ash into a vigorous point of light,
and again laying it aside to die into dull ash once more, whilst he
argued a point or drew himself up to write. How often and how vividly
that once familiar scene rises before my closed eyes! Of course, whilst
with us, Mr Thomson had the use of my father's little library as his
own, and many of the books still bear the traces of his reading in the
pencilled notes.
During the Carlist War, in 1873, Mr Bradlaugh obtained for his friend
an appointment to go to Spain as special correspondent to a New York
paper; but alas! he was taken "ill" whilst about his duties, wrote
irregularly and infrequently, and as a climax wrote three lines
describing an important event when three columns were expected. He was
consequently recalled, and when he got back my father found, to his
additional vexation, that he (Mr Thomson) had lost the Colt's revolver
which he had lent him. It was an old friend to Mr Bradlaugh; he had had
it for many years, and it had served him well.
My father's anger was, as usual, short lived; and in the next year he
published "B. V.'s" "City of Dreadful Night," and thenceforward gave
him regular work on the _National Reformer_. But he was unhappily one
not to be relied upon; and on a special occasion when he was left with
the responsibility of the paper he disappeared and left it, as far as
he was concerned, to come out as best it could. At length, in 1875,
in spite of all my father's forbearance and affection, Mr Thomson for
some reason felt injured; but whatever might have been his grievances,
they were in fact utterly baseless. Mr Thomson resented his supposed
injury by an open insult, and from that moment the friendship between
these two was dead. On Mr Thomson's side it seemed turned to hatred
and bitter animosity, and he said against my father some of the most
bitter things possible for a man to say. The memory of all past love
and kindness seemed washed out and drowned in a whirl of evil passions.
My father was deeply wounded, and at first, for some year or two,
never voluntarily mentioned his old friend's name; but when the first
soreness had passed he spoke of him, seldom, it is true, but with a
certain tenderness, and always as "poor Thomson." We found amongst
things long put away a silver cup won by Mr Thomson and inscribed with
his name; we asked my father what we should do with it. "Send it to
him, my daughters; I dare say he needs it, poor fellow." And indeed we
heard afterwards that it soon found its way to the pawnshop. It was
characteristic of my father that he said nothing to us, his daughters,
of his quarrel with one to whom he knew we were greatly attached; we
heard of it from others not too friendly to my father. We, naturally
and without a word, although not without great grief, ranged ourselves
on our father's side, and met Mr Thomson as a stranger; we felt that he
was grateful for our sacrifice, but he neither uttered a syllable of
approval or comment, nor did he ever attempt to sway us by sign or word.
Although our home was small, the doors were made to open very
wide. Relations and friends, all who stood in need of kindness and
hospitality, seemed to find their way here. My father's youngest
sister Harriet, after leaving the Orphan Asylum in which she had been
placed at her father's death, lived with us for a long time. She
was a brilliant, handsome girl, yet bearing a strong resemblance to
my father. I can always picture her as she stood one 30th of April,
awaiting the child guests who were to come to make merry over my
sister's birthday. Standing against the wall I can see her tall,
well-proportioned figure, robed in one of the sprigged muslin gowns
of those days, the short sleeves and low neck of the time showing her
fine arms and shoulders. I see her face with its fair complexion, alive
with vivacity and the warm glow of health, her light brown hair, her
laughing mouth and eyes--eyes which were certainly not of the "angel"
order, but whose fire and flash gave some warning of the unrestrained
temper within. Poor Harriet! this same temper was her own undoing.
Driven by it she married badly, in every sense of the word, dragged
through a few years of miserable existence, and eventually died in the
Fulham Hospital, of smallpox, when it fell to my father to discharge
the funeral expenses--such was the poverty of her own home. I have
heard that stories have been told and even preached from a public
platform of her "deathbed conversion," but this is only one of the
common pious frauds. Her illness was quite unexpected, and lasted only
a few days, none of her family, except her husband, knowing of it
until after she was dead. Apart from that point and the nature of her
illness, which would somewhat stand in the way of much visiting, I am
not aware that she ever called herself anything but a Christian. She
was brought up in that religion, and she was not interfered with whilst
with us.
Here, also, Mr Bradlaugh's younger brother found a resting place and
tendance after illness; but as I shall have occasion to speak of him
later, I will for the moment pass him with a mere mention.
Others, too, more than I can count, found their way to that small
house in Northumberland Park. Some were nursed there, some did their
courtship there, and some were even married from there. In the
meantime, who can tell how many were the visitors to that little study
at the back, over the kitchen? Alas! I can only remember the names of
a few. There were Frenchmen like Talandier, Le Blanc, Elisée Reclus,
Alphonse Esquiros; Italians and Englishmen working for Mazzini and
Garibaldi; Irish politicals like General Cluseret and Kelly; and there
was Alexander Herzen, for whom my father had a great admiration, and
whom he always counted as a friend. These, whose names are sometimes
joined to faces, and others, faces without names, lie indistinctly in
the dim far-back memory of my childhood.
* * * * *
I was here about to break off and take up again the thread of the story
of Mr Bradlaugh's public work, but it occurs to me that I have said
little about my father's treatment of us, his children, and of our
early education. There is so little to say, and certainly so little
of importance to linger over, that I should have passed on to other
matters were it not for the imaginings of those who make it their
business to spread false statements concerning Mr Bradlaugh, even on
such a purely personal matter as his children's education.
My father was away from home so much that ordinarily we saw him very
little, and my earliest recollection of him is at St. Helen's Place.
One evening in particular seems to stand out in my memory. The room
was alight and warm with gas and fire; and at one end of the table,
covered with papers, sat my father. I suppose that we were romping
and noisy, and interfered with his work, for he turned towards us and
said in grave tones, which I can always hear, "Is it not time you
little lassies went to bed?" A trifling incident, but it shows that at
that time he was obliged to do his thinking and writing in the common
room in the midst of his family, and the term "little lassies" was
a characteristic one with him. When we were quite little, if he had
anything serious to say to us, it was his "little lassies" he talked
to; as we grew older it was "my daughters," and what he had to say
always seemed to have an additional emphasis by the use of the special,
yet tender term, almost entirely reserved for serious occasions. In the
morning, when he left home, we three children always assembled for the
"goodbye" kiss; after that we seldom saw him until the next day. If,
however, he was home in the evenings while we were still up, we used
to sit by his elbow while he played whist or chess, and after the game
was over he would so carefully explain his own moves, and perhaps the
faults of his partner or his opponents, that before I was twelve years
old I could play whist as well as I can to-day, and chess a great deal
better, merely through watching his play, and paying attention to his
comments.
Broxbourne was then his favourite place for fishing; it was easily
reached from Northumberland Park, and there were in those days good
fish in the Lea. He and the proprietor of the fishing-right were very
good friends; and sometimes when it grew too dark to fish, he would
wind up his day with a pleasant game at billiards before taking the
train home. He generally took us children with him if the day was fine,
and these were indeed red-letter days for us. We were on our honour
not to get into any mischief, and, with the one restriction that we
were not to make a noise close to the water, we were allowed a perfect,
glorious liberty. Sometimes we too would fish, and my father would
give us little lines and floats and hooks, and with an impromptu rod
stolen from the nearest willow or ash tree we would do our best to
imitate our superior. But my brother was the only one who showed great
perseverance in this respect; my sister and I soon tired of watching
the placid float on the sparkling water, and sought other amusements.
At Carthagena Weir my father would "make it right" with old Brimsden
the lock-keeper, and he would rig us up a rope swing on which he would
make a seat of a most wonderful sheep-skin; or there were a score of
ways in which we amused ourselves, for there was no one to say, "Don't
do this" or "Don't do that." We could roll in the grass and get our
white muslin dresses grass-green, jump in the ditch and fill our shoes
with mud, anything so long as we enjoyed ourselves and did no harm.
Whether it was the feeling of freedom and the being made our own judges
of right or wrong, I do not know, but I do not remember one occasion
on which we were rebuked either by the lenient guardian with us or by
the stricter one when we got home again--for, of course, as is mostly
the way with women, my mother was much more particular about the
"proprieties" than my father; and had he brought us home in a _very_
tumbled, muddy condition, our fishing expeditions would have been less
frequent.
As to our early education, our father did the best he could for us; but
his means were small, and the opportunities for schooling twenty-five
and thirty years ago were not such as they are to-day. My sister and
I, first alone and then with my brother, were sent to a little school
taught by two maiden ladies; the boys being taught upstairs, and the
girls in a room below. At this school, as always, although the contrary
has been stated, we were withdrawn from religious instruction, but the
Misses Burnell did not always obey this injunction: if a bogie was
wanted to frighten us with, then "God" was trotted out. I remember
on one occasion, when I suppose I had been naughty, Miss Burnell,
pointing to the sky, told me that God was watching me from above and
could see all I did. Childlike, I took this literally, though I suppose
with the proverbial "grain of salt," for I leaned out of the window
and gazed up into the sky to see for myself this "God" who was always
watching my actions. It was just dusk, and it happened to be a time
when some comet was visible. When I looked out and saw this brilliant
body lighting up the darkness all about it, I was convinced that
_this_ was the "eye of God" of which Miss Burnell had been talking,
and hastily drew in my head again to get out of his sight! But as at
home we had no mysterious Being either to fear (because that seems the
first impression generally made upon sensitive children) or to love,
this awful Eye blazing away overhead merely left a vague feeling of
uneasiness behind, which time and healthier thought effaced. My little
brother was soon taken from this school and sent to a boarding-school,
where he remained only a few months, as it was unsatisfactory; he was
also over-walked, which resulted in laming him for a time. The master
who took the boys out for walking exercise could not have been of an
exactly cheerful disposition, for at the time of the dreadful ice
accident in 1867, when forty persons were drowned, he marched the boys
to Regent's Park to see the dead bodies taken out of the water. It was
a terrible sight for little boys to see; and as my little brother was
only just over seven years old, the remembrance of these rows of dead
bodies made an indelible impression upon his mind. He was then sent to
some good friends at Plymouth, Mr and Mrs John Williamson, and while he
grew well and strong in the sea breezes, he went to school with their
son. On coming home again, he was sent to Mr John Grant, schoolmaster
in the 2nd Battalion Grenadier Guards--then a friend of Mr Thomson's,
and so of my father's--who took him as a private pupil. My sister and I
learned French of different French refugees who frequented our house,
and I must do them the justice to say that our French was both a great
deal better taught and learned than our English. My father used to hold
sudden examinations at unstated times of our progress in the French
language, especially if he happened to come across a _franc_ piece,
reminiscent of his journeys to the Continent. This _franc_ was to be
the reward of the one who answered best; but somehow I was so stupid
and desperately nervous that I never once won the prize: my sister
always carried it off in triumph.
Never during the whole of our childhood did my father once raise his
hand against us, never once did he speak a harsh word. We _were_
whipped, for my mother held the old-fashioned, mistaken notion that to
"spare the rod" was to "spoil the child;" but when scolding or whipping
failed to bring obedience, the culprit was taken to that little study;
there a grave look and a grave word brought instant submission. But it
seldom went beyond the threat of being taken there, for we loved him so
that we could not bear him even to know when we were naughty.
I feel that much of this may well seem very trivial to those who read
my book, but my excuse for dwelling so long on such details is that
even the most ordinary incidents in my father's history have been
misstated and distorted. I take my opportunity whilst I may, for many
lie cold in the grave, and mine is now almost the only hand which can
nail down the wretched calumnies which strike at such small personal
matters as these.