Of course middle-aged9 men know, as well as we ancients, the fact that social life in England—or{2} rather let me say in Europe—is very different from what it was in the days of their fathers, and are perfectly10 well acquainted with the great and oftentimes celebrated12 causes which have differentiated13 the Victorian era from all others. But only the small records of an unimportant individual life, only the memories which happen to linger in an old man’s brain, like bits of drift-weed floating round and round in the eddies14 of a back-water, can bring vividly15 before the young of the present generation those ways and manners of acting16 and thinking and talking in the ordinary every-day affairs of life which indicate the differences between themselves and their grandfathers.
I was born in the year 1810 at No. 16, Keppel Street, Russell Square. The region was at that time inhabited by the professional classes, mainly lawyers. My father was a barrister of the Middle Temple to the best of my recollection, but having chambers17 in the Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn. A quarter of a century or so later, all the district in question became rather deteriorated18 in social estimation, but has, I am told, recently recovered itself in this respect under the careful and judicious19 administration of the Duke of Bedford. The whole region appeared to me, when I was recently in London, about the least changed part of the London of my youthful days. As I walked up Store Street, which runs in a line from Keppel Street to Tottenham Court Road, I spied the name of “Pidding, Confectioner.” I immediately entered the shop and{3} made a purchase at the counter. “I did not in the least want this tart,” said I to the girl who was serving in the shop. “Why did you take it, then?” said she, with a little toss of her head. “Nobody asked you to buy it.” “I bought it,” rejoined I, “because I used to buy pastry21 of Mr. Pidding in this shop seventy years ago.” “Lor’, sir!” said the girl, “did you really?” She probably considered me to be the Wandering Jew.
I remember well that my father used to point out to me houses in Russell Square, Bedford Square, and Bloomsbury Square in which judges and other notable legal luminaries22 used to live. But even in those days the localities in question, especially the last named of them, were beginning to be deserted24 by such personages, who were already moving farther westward25. The occasion of these walks with my father through the squares I have named—to which Red Lion Square might have been added—was one the painful nature of which has fixed26 it in my memory indelibly.
“Infandam memoria jubes renovare dolorem.”
For the object of these walks was the rendering27 an account of the morning’s studies. I was about six years old, when under my father’s auspices28 I was first introduced to the Eton Latin Grammar. He was a Wykehamist, had been a fellow of New College, and had held a Vinerian Fellowship. And his great ambition was, that his eldest29 son, myself, should tread in his steps and pursue the same{4} career. D?s aliter visum!—as regards at least the latter stages of that career. For I did become, and am, a Wykehamist, as much as eight years at Coll. B. M. Winton prope Winton can make me.
Of which more anon.
For the present I see myself alone in the back drawing-room of No. 16, Keppel Street, in which room the family breakfast took place—probably to avoid the necessity of lighting30 another fire in the dining-room below—at 7 A.M., on my knees before the sofa, with my head in my hands and my eyes fixed on the Eton Latin Grammar laid on the sofa cushion before me. My parents had not yet come down to breakfast, nor had the tea urn31 been brought up by the footman. Nota bene.—My father was a poor man, and his establishment altogether on a modest footing. But it never would have occurred to him or to my mother that they could get on without a man-servant in livery. And though this liveried footman served a family in which two tallow candles with their snuffer dish supplied the whole illumination of the evening, had the livery been an invented one instead of that proper to the family, the circumstance would have been an absurdity32 exciting the ridicule33 of all the society in which my parents lived. Tempora mutantur! Certainly at the present day an equally unpretending household would be burthened by no footman. But on the morning which memory is recalling to me the footman was coming up with the urn, and my parents were coming down to breakfast, probably simultaneously34; and the{5} question of the hour was whether I could get the due relationship of relative and antecedent into my little head before the two events arrived.
And that, as I remember it, was the almost unvaried routine for more than a year or two. I think, however, that the walks of which I was speaking when this retrospect35 presented itself to me must have belonged to a time a little, but not much later; for I had then advanced to the making of Latin verses. We used to begin in those days by making “nonsense verses.” And many of us ended in the same way! The next step—Gradus ad Parnassum—consisted in turning into Latin verse certain English materials provided for the purpose, and so cunningly prepared as to fall easily and almost inevitably36 into the required form. And these were the studies which, as I specially23 remember, were the subject of rehearsal37 during those walks from Lincoln’s Inn to Keppel Street.
My father was in the habit of returning from his chambers to a five o’clock dinner—rather a late hour, because he was an industrious38 and laborious39 man. Well! we, that is my next brother (not the one whose name became subsequently well known in the world, but my brother Henry, who died early) and myself, used to walk from Keppel Street to Lincoln’s Inn, so as to arrive in time to walk back with my father. He was a fast walker; and as we trotted40 along one on each side of him, the repetition of our morning’s poetical41 achievements did not tend, as I well remember, to facilitate the difficulty of “keeping our wind.{6}”
But what has probably fixed all this in my mind during nearly three quarters of a century was my father’s pat application of one of our lines to the difficulties of those peripatetic42 poetizings. “Muse and sound of wheel do not well agree,” read the cunningly prepared original, which the alumnus with wonderful sagacity was to turn into, “Non bene conveniunt Musa rot?que sonus.” “That,” said my father, as he turned sharp round the corner into the comparative quiet of Featherstone Buildings, “is exactly why I turned out of Holborn!”
I do not know whether children of eight years old, or thereabouts, would at the present day be allowed to range London so freely as we were. But our great amusement and delight was to take long exploring walks in as distant parts of the huge (though then comparatively small) city as could be compassed within the time at our disposition43. One especially favourite excursion, I well remember, was to the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly to see the coaches start or arrive. I knew all their names, and their supposed comparative speed. By this means, indeed, came my first introduction to English geography. Formal lessons on such a thoroughly44 “commercial academy” subject were not, of course, thought of for an aspiring45 Wykehamist. But for the due enjoyment46 of the White Horse Cellar spectacle it was necessary to know the whereabouts of the cities, their distance from London, and the routes by which they were reached. It thus came to pass that our geographical47 notions were of a{7} curiously48 partial description—tolerably copious49 and accurate as regards the south and west of England, far less so as regards the north. For the north country coaches did not start from Piccadilly. On the opposite side of the way to the White Horse Cellar there was another coaching inn, the White Bear, on which I remember we used to look with much contempt, from the belief, whether in any degree well founded I know not, that the coaches which stopped there on their way out of town, or arrived there, were mainly slow coaches.
One does not traverse well nigh four score years without having experienced longings50 for the unattainable on several occasions. But I have no remembrance of any such eager, craving52 longing51 as the chronic53 longing of those days to make one of the great-coated companies who were departing to their various destinations by those “Telegraphs,” “High-Flyers,” “Magnets,” and “Independents.” (The more suggestive names of the “Wonder,” and its rival the “No Wonder!” once celebrated on the north-western road, belonged to a later day.) Had I been offered a seat on any of these vehicles my choice would have been dictated54 solely by considerations of distance—Falmouth for choice, as the westward Ultima Thule of coaching experience. With what rapture55 should I have climbed, in my little round jacket as I was, and without a thought of any other protection, to the roof of the Falmouth mail—the mail for choice, the Devonport “Quicksilver” being then in the womb of the future—and{8} started to fetch a forgotten letter (say) of the utmost importance, with strict injunctions to bring it back by the returning coach! I don’t think my imagination had yet soared to the supreme56 glories of the box seat. That came later. To have been a booked passenger, that that horn should have sounded for me, that I should have been included in the guard’s final and cheery assurance, that at length all was “right”—would have been ample enough for an ecstasy57 of happiness. What an endless vista58 of ever-changing miles of country! What an infinite succession of “teams!” What a delicious sense of belonging to some select and specially important and adventurous59 section of humanity as we should clatter60 at midnight, or even at three or four o’clock in the morning, through the streets of quiet little country towns, ourselves the only souls awake in all the place! What speculations61 as to the immediate20 bestowal62 and occupation of the coachman, when he “left you here, sir!” in the small hours! What a delightful63 sense of the possible dangers of the undertaking64 as testified by many eagerly read narratives65 of the disasters of the road. Alas66! I had no share in it all, save to stand on the curbstone amid the crowd of Jew boys selling oranges and cedar67 pencils sixpence a dozen, and hurrying passengers and guards and porters, and look on them all with envious68 longing.
Nota bene. On such an occasion at the present day—if it be possible to conceive such an anachronism—the Jew boys above referred to would be{9} probably Christian69 boys, and the object of their commerce, the evening papers. But I have no recollection of any such element in the scene at the White Horse Cellar some sixty-eight years since.
Occasionally when a holiday from lessons occurred—I am afraid most probably in consequence of my father being confined to his bed with headaches, which even at that early day, and increasingly, as years went on, afflicted70 him—we, my brother Henry and I, obtained permission for a longer ramble71. I have no recollection that on these occasions either the parks (unless perhaps sometimes St. James’s Park), or Kensington Gardens, or Hampstead, or Highgate, or any of the places that might be supposed to be attractive had any attractions for us. Our faces were ever turned eastward73. The city with its narrow mysterious lanes, and still more mysterious wharves74, its quaint11 secluded75 churches, its Guildhall, and its Gog and Magog, the queer localities of the halls of its Companies, and specially the abstruse76 mystery of that venerable Palladium, the London stone, excited in those days an irresistible78 influence on my imagination. But above all else the grand object of a much-planned eastern pilgrimage was the Docks!—with the out-going ships bearing, tied to their shrouds79, boards indicating their destinations. Here again was unsatisfied longing! But it was a longing more tempered by awe80 and uncertainty81. I am not sure that I would, if it had been offered to me, have stepped on board an East Indiaman bound for Bombay as eagerly as I{10} would have climbed a coach starting for the Land’s End. But it was a great triumph to have seen with our own eyes the Agra (or some other) Castle majestically82 passing through the dock gates, while passengers on deck, men and women, whose feet would absolutely touch land no more till they stopped at far Bombay on the other side of the world, spoke83 last farewells to friends standing84 on the dock walls or even on the gates themselves.
But I can recall no less vividly certain expeditions of a kind which appeared to our imaginations to be—and which perhaps really were in some degree—fraught with a certain amount of peril85. Stories had reached us of sundry86 mysteriously wicked regions, where the bandit bands of the great city consorted87 and lived outlaw88 lives under circumstances and conditions that powerfully excited our young imaginations. Especially accounts of a certain lane had reached us, where it was said all the pocket handkerchiefs stolen by all the pickpockets90 in London were to be seen exposed in a sort of unholy market. The name of this place was Saffron Hill. Whether any such place still exists, I know not. It has probably been swept away by the march of recent improvement. But it did in those days veritably exist. And to this extraordinary spot—as remote and strange to our fancy as the realms of Prester John—it was determined91 after protracted92 consideration by my brother and myself, that our next long ramble should be devoted93. We had ascertained94 that the dingy95 land of our researches lay somewhat to the{11} westward of Smithfield—which had already been the object of a most successful, adventurous, and delightful expedition, not without pleasurable perils96 of its own from excited bullocks, still more excited drovers and their dogs—and by dint97 of considerable perseverance98 we reached it, and were richly rewarded for our toil99 and enterprise. Report had spoken truly. Saffron Hill was a world of pocket-handkerchiefs. From every window and on lines stretched across the narrow street they fluttered in all the colours of the rainbow, and of all sizes and qualities. The whole lane was a long vista of pennon-like pocket-handkerchiefs! We should have much liked to attempt to deal in this strange market, not so much for the sake of possessing any of the articles, as with a view of obtaining experience, and informing ourselves respecting the manners and customs of the country. But we were protected from the possibly unpleasant results of any such tentative by the total absence from our pockets of any coin of the realm. We doubtless had pocket-handkerchiefs, and I have no recollection of their having been stolen. Probably it was ascertained by the inhabitants that they were not worth their notice.
But the subject reminds me of an experience of the pocket-picking world which occurred to me some twenty years later. It was at Naples. People generally in those days carried silk pocket-handkerchiefs instead of the scraps100 of muslin which are affected101 nowadays. And five silk pocket-handkerchiefs were abstracted from my pockets{12} during my walks abroad in as many days. I then took to wearing very common ones, and lost no more! An American then at Naples, whose experiences of the proclivities102 of that population had been similar to mine, was not so fortunate in the result of the defensive103 measures he adopted. He sewed strongly into the interior of his pocket a large fish-hook. The result which he anticipated followed. The thief’s hand was caught, and the American, turning sharply, seized him by the wrist and held him in a grasp like a vice104 till he could hand him over to a gendarme105. But within a fortnight that American was stabbed to the heart one night as he was going home from the theatre. The light-fingered fraternity, it would seem, considered that such a practice was not within the laws of the game; whereas my more moderate ruse77 did not offend their sense of justice and fair play.
My brother and I reached home safely enough after our expedition to thief-land; and were inexhaustible in our accounts of the wonders we had witnessed. For it formed no part of our plan, and would not have been at all in accordance with the general practice of our lives to conceal106 the facts from our parents. Probably we had a sufficient suspicion of the questionable107 nature of the expedition we contemplated108 to prevent us from declaring it beforehand. But our education and habits would have forbidden any dream of concealing109 it.
As far as my recollection serves me, our moral{13} and religious education led us to consider the whole duty of boy to be summed up in the two precepts110, “obey,” and “tell no lies.” I think there was a perfunctory saying of some portion of the catechism on a Sunday morning. But I am very sure that in our own minds, and apparently111 in those of all concerned, the vastly superior importance of the Virgil lesson admitted of no moment’s doubt. But it must not be imagined from this that my parents were more irreligious people than their neighbours; still less that they were not most affectionately and indeed supremely112 solicitous113 for the well-being114 and education of their children. My father was the son of a priest of the Church of England, and my mother the daughter of another, the Rev6. William Milton, Vicar of Heckfield, a New College living not far from Reading. Their associates were mainly barristers or clergy115. My father was wholly and absolutely free from the prevailing116 vice of the time, and I never remember to have seen him in any slightest degree the worse for drink. And in the whole manière d’être of the house and home there was no note or symptom of any life save one of the most correct respectability and propriety117, fully89 up to the average of the time. But my parents were by no means what was called in the language of the time “evangelicals.” And in the social atmosphere of those days, any more decided118 and marked amount of religious instruction and teaching would have unmistakably indicated “evangelical tendencies.” Moreover, though I cannot remember, and it is{14} exceedingly improbable, that any ideas were directly instilled119 into our minds on the subject, it certainly is the fact that I grew into boyhood with the notion that “evangelicalism” or “low churchism” was a note of vulgarity—a sort of thing that might be expected to be met with in tradesmen’s back parlours, and “academies,” where the youths who came from such places were instructed in English grammar and arithmetic, but was not to be met with, and was utterly120 out of place, among gentlemen and in gentlemanlike places of education, where nothing of the kind was taught.
All this to mark the change of tempora and mores121, in these as in so many other respects, since George the Third was king.
Among the few surviving remembrances of those childhood’s years in Keppel Street, I can still recall to the mind’s eye the face and features of “Farmer,” the highly trustworthy and responsible middle-aged woman who ruled the nursery there, into which a rapid succession of brothers and sisters was being introduced in those years. Farmer, as I remember her, inspired more awe than affection. She was an austere122 and somewhat grim sort of body. And somehow or other the obscurely terrible fact that she was an Anabaptist (!) had reached the world of the nursery. I need hardly say that the accusation123 carried with it no sort of idea whatever to our minds. I don’t think we had any knowledge that the mystic term in question had reference to any forms or modifications124 of religious belief. But we were well{15} assured that it implied something mysterious and terrible. And I am afraid that we gracelessly availed ourselves of what we should have considered a misfortune, if we had at all known what it meant, to express on occasions of revolt against discipline, our scorn for an individual so disgraced by nature. I have still in my ear the lilt of a wicked chorus the burthen of which ran:—
“Old Farmer is an Anabaptist!
When she is gone, she will not be missed!”
I remember in connection with poor Farmer and her heresies125, an incident which must have been ridiculous enough to the adult actors in it. Dr. Nott, one of the prebendaries of Winchester, was an old and intimate friend of my mother’s—had been such I believe, before her marriage. The mention of this gentleman recalls to my mind—but this recollection dates from a later day,—that it used to be said satirically, with what truth I will not attempt to guess, that there was a large Chapter at Winchester and Nott, one of them, a clergyman: the intention being to insinuate126 that he was the only properly clerical character among them. At all events, Dr. Nott was an exemplary dignitary of the Church, not only in character, tastes, and pursuits, but in outward presentment also. I remember well his spare figure, his pale and delicately cut features, his black gaiters to the knee, and his elaborate white neckcloth. He was a competent, and what would have been called in that day an “elegant” Italian scholar. It was{16} wholly under his supervision127, that a few years subsequently the extensive restoration and repair of Winchester Cathedral was executed; a supervision which cost him, in consequence of a fall from a ladder in the nave128, a broken leg and subsequent lameness129 for life. He had, if I mistake not, been one of the tutors of the Princess Charlotte.
Well, upon one occasion of a visit of Dr. Nott’s in Keppel Street, we children were summoned to the drawing-room for his inspection130; and in reply to a variety of questions as to progress, and goodness in the nursery, etc., I, as the eldest, took courage to reply that if we were not always as good and obedient in the nursery as might be desired, the circumstance was to be attributed to the painful fact that our nurse was an Anabaptist! Whether Dr. Nott was selected as the recipient131 of this confidential132 communication because I had any vague idea that this disgraceful circumstance had any special connection with his department of human affairs, I cannot say. We were however told that the fact was no wise incompatible133 with Farmer’s character as an excellent nurse and good servant, and least of all could be considered as absolving134 us from the duty of obedience135. I remember that I wondered then,—and I wonder still—what passed upon the subject between my mother and the Doctor after our dismissal to the nursery.
Another intimate friend of my mother’s and frequent visitor in Keppel Street was Lady Dyer, the wife, and subsequently widow of General Sir{17} Thomas Dyer. Sir Thomas resided on his estate of Ovington, near Winchester; and I take it that my mother’s intimacy136 with Lady Dyer had been brought about by the friendship existing between both ladies and Miss Gabell, the eldest daughter of Dr. Gabell, the Head Master of Winchester College. Lady Dyer, after several years of widowhood, married the Baron137 de Zandt; and I remember, very many years subsequently to the time that I am here writing of, visiting her with my mother at her schloss, near Bamberg, where she lived in the huge house alone after losing her second husband.
I fancy it was mainly due to her intimacy with my mother during those years in Keppel Street that the house was frequented by several Italians; exiles from their own country under stress of political troubles. Especially I remember among these General Guglielmo Pepe, subsequently the hero of the hopeless defence of Venice against the Austrians. Of course I was too young to know or see much of him in the Keppel Street days; but many years afterwards I had abundant opportunities of knowing Pepe’s genuine nobility of character, high honour, and ardent138 patriotism139. He was a remarkably140 handsome man, but not a brilliant or amusing companion. I remember that his sobriquet141 among the three ladies mentioned together above was Gateau de Plomb! But none the less was he highly and genuinely respected by them. He had a kind of simple, dignified142, placid143 manner of enunciating the most astounding144 platitudes145, and replying to the{18} laughter they sometimes produced by a calm, gentle smile, which showed how impossible it was for his simple soul to imagine that his hearers were otherwise than delighted with his wit and wisdom. How well I can remember the pleasure his visits were wont146 to afford in the nursery by reason of the dried Neapolitan figs147 and Mandarin148 oranges, which he used to receive from his brother, General Fiorestano Pepe, and never failed to distribute among his English friends. His brother, when Guglielmo threw in his lot with the “patriots,” never forfeited149 his allegiance or quarrelled with the King of Naples. Yet the two brothers continued on affectionately fraternal terms to the last.
The quiet course of those Keppel Street years was, as I remember, once or twice broken by the great event of a visit to Heckfield to my maternal150 grandfather, the Rev. William Milton, a ci-devant Fellow of New College. He had at that time married a second wife, a Miss Partington, his first wife, a Derbyshire Gresley, my maternal grandmother, whom I had never seen, having died young. As my grandfather Milton was the son of a Bristol saddler (who lived to the age of ninety-nine), I suppose his marriage with a Gresley must have been deemed a mésalliance for the lady. But her death having occurred before my time, I never heard anything of this.
The vicar of Heckfield held the adjoining chapelry of Mattingly, at which place the morning service was performed on alternate Sundays. He was an ex{19}cellent parish priest after the fashion of his day;—that is to say he was kindly151 to all, liberal to the poor to the utmost extent of his means, and well beloved by his neighbours, high and low. He was a charming old man, markedly gentlemanlike and suave152 in his manner; very nice in his person; clever unquestionably in a queer, crotchety sort of way; and thoroughly minded to do his duty according to his lights in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him. But he would have had no more idea of attempting anything of the nature of active parochial work or reform, as understood at the present day, than he would have had of scheming to pay the National Debt. Indeed, the latter would have been the more likely to occupy his mind of the two, for he was crotchety and full of schemes. Especially he was fond of mechanics, and spent much money and much labour during many years on a favourite scheme for obviating153 the danger arising from the liability of a stage coach to be upset. He published more than one pamphlet on the subject, illustrated—I can see the pages before me now—by designs of various queer-looking models. There was a large coach-house attached to the vicarage, and it was always full of the strangest collection of models of coaches. I remember well that they all appeared to me hideous155, and as ?sthetically inferior to my admired “Telegraphs” and “High-Flyers” as a modern ironclad seems to the three-decker of his youth in the eyes of an old sailor. But, as may be imagined. I never ventured{20} to broach156 any such heresy157 in my grandfather’s hearing! I should unquestionably have done so had it been my father. But lesser158 acquaintanceship and the venerable age of my grandfather checked my presumption159.
There was—and doubtless is—a very pretty evergreen160-embowered lawn at the vicarage, and on this also there always used to be some model or other intended to illustrate154 the principles of traction72. One I especially remember which was called (not, it may seem, very grammatically) rotis volventibus. This machine consisted of two huge wheels, some ten feet high, joined together by a number of cross-bars at a distance of a foot or so from each other. It will be understood what a delightful amusement it must have been to creep into the interior of this structure, and cause it to roll over the smoothly161 shaven turf by stepping treadmill162 fashion on the cross-bars one after the other. But unfortunately in one part of the lawn there was a steep declivity163, and one day, when the idea of making rotis volventibus descend164 this slope became irresistible, there was a tremendous smashing of the evergreen hedge, and a black-and-blue little body, whose escape without broken bones was deemed truly prodigious165.
“Never, Tom,” said my grandfather, “put in motion forces which you are unable to control!”
The words remained implanted in my memory. But I do not suppose they carried much instruction with them to my mind at the time.
I believe my grandfather spent more money on{21} his mechanical fads166 than was quite prudent167, and took out patents which were about as remunerative168 and useful as that which Charles the Second is said to have granted to a sailor who stood on his head on the top of Salisbury steeple, securing to him the monopoly of that practice!
I remember another eccentricity169 in which the vicar indulged. He said the contact of a knife’s edge with earthenware170, or porcelain171, was extremely disagreeable. He caused, therefore, a number of dinner plates to be made with a little circular depression some two inches in diameter and about as deep as a crown piece in the centre, and had some round pieces of silver to fit into these receptacles, on which he cut his meat.
He was withal a very popular man, a good scholar, with decidedly scholarly tastes, much of a mathematician172, a genuine humourist, with a sort of Horatian easy-going geniality173 about him, which was very charming even to us boys.
My brother Henry was one year my junior; my brother Anthony, with whom the world subsequently became acquainted, was five years younger than I. Henry, therefore, was the companion of all the London rambles174 which have been mentioned. I think we were tolerably good boys, truthful175 and obedient to legitimate176 authority. I was, however, if nursery traditions of a somewhat later day may be accepted as embodying177 real facts, rather too much given to yielding obedience only on reason shown; to “argify,” as certain authoritarians178 are wont to call{22} it; and to make plenary submission179 only when consciously defeated in argument.
We had little or nothing of the “amusements” nowadays so liberally supplied to children. There was the pantomime at Christmas, intensely enjoyed. And I remember well pondering on the insoluble question, why my parents, who evidently, I thought, could if they chose it, go to the theatre every night of their lives, should abstain180 from doing so.
I do not remember any discontented longings for more or other amusements than we had. I was a thoroughly well constituted and healthy child, but without the smallest pretention to good looks, either in esse or in posse; sturdily built, with flaxen head, rosy181 cheeks, and blue eyes; broad of hand and foot; strong as a little pony182—a veritable Saxon in type. I seem to my recollections to have been somewhat bravely ready to accept a life, in which the kicks might be more superabundant than the halfpence, not without complacent183 mental reference to the moral and physical breadth of shoulders, ready for whatever fate might lay on them. The nature of my childish mind, as I remember, was to place its ideas of heroism184 in capacity for uncomplaining endurance, rather than in capability185 for mastering others.
All the usual childish complaints and maladies touched me very lightly. I was as indifferent to weather, wet or dry, wind or shine, as a Shetland pony. Feet wet through had to remain in statu quo till they were dry again. Assiduously taught{23} by my mother, I read at a very early age. Her plan for teaching the letters was as follows. She had a great number of bone counters with the alphabet in capitals and small letters on either side printed on them; then having invited a charming little girl, the daughter of a neighbour—(Katie Gibbon, laid to rest this many a year under the yew186 tree in the churchyard of the village of Stanton, near Monmouth)—who was just my own age, she tossed the counters broadcast over the floor, instituting prizes for him, or her, who should in crawling races over the floor, soonest bring the letter demanded. Reading thus began to be an amusement to me at an unusually early age. I believe I gave early indications of possessing a certain quantum of brain power; but had no reputation for cleverness. Indeed, had my parents ever formed the opinion that any one of their children was in any way markedly clever, they would have carefully concealed187 it from the subject of it. I take it, I was far from being what is called a prepossessing child. I had, I well remember, a reputation for an uncompromising expression of opinion, which was not altogether admirable. My mother used to tell in after years how, when once I had been, at about four years old, attentively188 watching her dressing189 for dinner, while standing on a chair by the side of her dressing table, I broke silence when the work was completed to say very judicially190, “Now you have made yourself as fine as poso—(possible)—and you look worse than you did when you began!{24}”
I am tempted191 to insert here a letter to my father from Dr. Williams, my old Winchester master, which (amusingly to me) illustrates192 what I have here written of my nursery tendencies. It belongs to a later date, when I was within half a year of leaving Winchester. I had not found it among my papers when I wrote the passage to which it is now appended. But I place it here in homage193 to the dictum that the child is father to the man.
“I have the pleasure,” Dr. Williams writes, “to express my approbation194 of your son’s conduct during the last half-year. His firmness in maintaining what was right and putting down what was wrong was very conspicuous195 in the early part of that time; not that I imagine it was less afterwards, but occasion did not call it forth196 so much.”
What the occasion was I entirely197 forget; evidently he refers to some exercise of my power as a Prefect.
“I have remarked to you before that he is fond of having a reason assigned for every thing; but he must take care that this do not degenerate198 into captiousness199. His temper is generally good, but a little too sensitive when he fancies a smile is raised at his expense.”
I feel no confidence that years have rendered me safe from the first fault which my excellent master thus warned me against; but I am sure they have cured me of the second.
I remember too, in connection with those Keppel Street days, to have heard my mother speak of an{25} incident which somewhat curiously illustrates the ways and habits of a time already so far left behind us by a whole world of social changes. It was nothing more than a simple visit to the theatre to hear Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth. But this exploit involved circumstances that rendered it memorable200 for other reasons besides the intense gratification derived201 from the performance. In the first place “the pit” was the destination to which my father and mother were bound; not altogether, I take it, so much for the sake of the lower price of admission (though my father was a sufficiently202 poor and a sufficiently careful man to render this a consideration), as from the idea that the pit offered the best vantage ground for a thoroughly appreciative203 and critical judgment204 of the performance. For when we children were taken to see a pantomime we went, as I remember, to the boxes. But this visit to the pit involved the necessity of being at the theatre at two in the afternoon, and then standing in the crowd till, if I rightly remember, six in the evening! Of course food had to be carried. And each man there did his best to support and assist the lady under his charge. But the ordeal205 must have been something tremendous, and the amount of enthusiasm needed to induce a lady to face it something scarcely to be understood at the present day. My mother used to relate that sundry women were carried out from the crowd at the theatre door fainting.
Before closing this Keppel Street chapter of my{26} existence I may mention one or two circumstances of the family life there which illustrate the social habits of those days. The family dinner-hour was five. There were no dinner napkins to be seen; they were perhaps less needed by clean-shaven chins and lips. Two tallow candles, requiring to be snuffed by snuffers lying in a little plated tray ad hoc every now and then, partially206 illumined the table, but scarcely at all the more distant corners of the room. Nor were any more or better lights used during the evening in the drawing-room. The only alternative would have been wax lights at half-a-crown a pound—an extravagance not to be thought of. Port and sherry were always placed on the shining mahogany table when the cloth was withdrawn207, and no other wine. Only on the occasion of having friends to dinner, the port became a “magnum” of a vintage for which my father’s cellar was famous, and possibly Madeira might be added.
Perhaps it may be worth noting here as an incident illustrating208 change of manners that I vividly remember my mother often singing to us children in Keppel Street an old song about an “unfortunate Miss Bayly,” who had been seduced209 by a “Captain bold of Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters.” Now a purer or more innocent-minded woman than my mother did not live, nor one less likely to have suffered aught that she imagined to be unfitted virginibus puerisque to reach the ears of her children. Nor do I suppose that we had the faintest notion of the nature of the evil inflicted210 on the unfortunate{27} Miss Bayly by the Captain bold, nor that we were in any degree scandalised by the subsequent incident of the parish priest being bribed211 by “a one pound note” to accord Christian burial to the corpse212 of a suicide, which he had previously213 refused to bury. It may be feared that quite as many “unfortunates” share the fate of Miss Bayly either in town or country quarters at the present day as in the early days of the century. But I take it that the old world ditty in question would not be selected for nursery use at the present day.
I could chatter214 on about those childish days in Keppel Street, and have been, I am afraid, too garrulous215 already. What I have said, however, is all illustrative of the social changes seventy years have wrought216, and may at the same time serve to show that I started on my octogenarian career a sturdy, hardy217 little mortal, non sine D?s animosus infans.
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1
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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33
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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41
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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42
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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43
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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44
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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45
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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46
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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47
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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55
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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57
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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60
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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66
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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70
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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72
traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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73
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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75
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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80
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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104
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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105
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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111
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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113
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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114
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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115
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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116
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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117
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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118
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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119
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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121
mores
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| n.风俗，习惯，民德，道德观念 | |
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122
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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123
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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124
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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125
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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126
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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127
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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128
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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129
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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130
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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131
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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132
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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133
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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134
absolving
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的现在分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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135
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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136
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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137
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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138
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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139
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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140
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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141
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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142
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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143
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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144
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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145
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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146
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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147
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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148
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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149
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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151
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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152
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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153
obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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154
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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155
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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156
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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157
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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158
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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159
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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160
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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161
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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162
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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163
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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164
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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165
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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166
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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167
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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168
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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169
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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170
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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171
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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172
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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173
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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174
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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175
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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176
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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177
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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178
authoritarians
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| 权力主义者，专制者，独裁者( authoritarian的名词复数 ) | |
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179
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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180
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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181
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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182
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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183
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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184
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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185
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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186
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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187
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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188
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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189
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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191
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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192
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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193
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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194
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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195
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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196
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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197
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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198
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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199
captiousness
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| 吹毛求疵的 | |
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200
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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201
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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202
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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203
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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204
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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205
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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206
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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207
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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208
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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209
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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210
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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212
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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213
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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214
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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215
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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216
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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217
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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