Bab Bab 2 · Of my going to school and of my coming thence.

With the home influences which I have described, it may be readily

imagined that my young mind turned very much upon the subject of

religion, the more so as my father and mother took different views upon

it. The old Puritan soldier held that the bible alone contained all

things essential to salvation, and that though it might be advisable

that those who were gifted with wisdom or eloquence should expound the

Scriptures to their brethren, it was by no means necessary, but rather

hurtful and degrading, that any organised body of ministers or of

bishops should claim special prerogatives, or take the place of

mediators between the creature and the Creator. For the wealthy

dignitaries of the Church, rolling in their carriages to their

cathedrals, in order to preach the doctrines of their Master, who wore

His sandals out in tramping over the countryside, he professed the most

bitter contempt; nor was he more lenient to those poorer members of the

clergy who winked at the vices of their patrons that they might secure

a seat at their table, and who would sit through a long evening of

profanity rather than bid good-bye to the cheesecakes and the wine

flask. That such men represented religious truth was abhorrent to

his mind, nor would he even give his adhesion to that form of church

government dear to the Presbyterians, where a general council of the

ministers directed the affairs of their church. Every man was, in his

opinion, equal in the eyes of the Almighty, and none had a right to

claim any precedence over his neighbour in matters of religion. The book

was written for all, and all were equally able to read it, provided that

their minds were enlightened by the Holy Spirit.

My mother, on the other hand, held that the very essence of a church

was that it should have a hierarchy and a graduated government within

itself, with the king at the apex, the archbishops beneath him, the

bishops under their control, and so down through the ministry to the

common folk. Such was, in her opinion, the Church as established in the

beginning, and no religion without these characteristics could lay any

claim to being the true one. Ritual was to her of as great importance

as morality, and if every tradesman and farmer were allowed to invent

prayers, and change the service as the fancy seized him, it would be

impossible to preserve the purity of the Christian creed. She agreed

that religion was based upon the Bible, but the Bible was a book which

contained much that was obscure, and unless that obscurity were

cleared away by a duly elected and consecrated servant of God, a

lineal descendant of the Disciples, all human wisdom might not serve to

interpret it aright. That was my mother’s position, and neither argument

nor entreaty could move her from it. The only question of belief on

which my two parents were equally ardent was their mutual dislike

and distrust of the Roman Catholic forms of worship, and in this the

Churchwoman was every whit as decided as the fanatical Independent.

It may seem strange to you in these days of tolerance, that the

adherents of this venerable creed should have met with such universal

ill-will from successive generations of Englishmen. We recognise now

that there are no more useful or loyal citizens in the state than our

Catholic brethren, and Mr. Alexander Pope or any other leading Papist is

no more looked down upon for his religion than was Mr. William Penn

for his Quakerism in the reign of King James. We can scarce credit how

noblemen like Lord Stafford, ecclesiastics like Archbishop Plunkett,

and commoners like Langhorne and Pickering, were dragged to death on

the testimony of the vilest of the vile, without a voice being raised in

their behalf; or how it could be considered a patriotic act on the part

of an English Protestant to carry a flail loaded with lead beneath his

cloak as a menace against his harmless neighbours who differed from

him on points of doctrine. It was a long madness which has now happily

passed off, or at least shows itself in a milder and rarer form.

Foolish as it appears to us, there were some solid reasons to account

for it. You have read doubtless how, a century before I was born, the

great kingdom of Spain waxed and prospered. Her ships covered every

sea. Her troops were victorious wherever they appeared. In letters, in

learning, in all the arts of war and peace they were the foremost nation

in Europe. You have heard also of the ill-blood which existed between

this great nation and ourselves; how our adventurers harried their

possessions across the Atlantic, while they retorted by burning such

of our seamen as they could catch by their devilish Inquisition, and by

threatening our coasts both from Cadiz and from their provinces in the

Netherlands. At last so hot became the quarrel that the other nations

stood off, as I have seen the folk clear a space for the sword-players

at Hockley-in-the-Hole, so that the Spanish giant and tough little

England were left face to face to fight the matter out. Throughout all

that business it was as the emissary of the Pope, and as the avenger of

the dishonoured Roman Church, that King Philip professed to come. It

is true that Lord Howard and many another gentleman of the old religion

fought stoutly against the Dons, but the people could never forget that

the reformed faith had been the flag under which they had conquered, and

that the blessing of the Pontiff had rested with their opponents. Then

came the cruel and foolish attempt of Mary to force upon them a creed

for which they had no sympathy, and at the heels of it another great

Roman Catholic power menaced our liberty from the Continent. The growing

strength of France promoted a corresponding distrust of Papistry in

England, which reached a head when, at about the time of which I write,

Louis XIV. threatened us with invasion at the very moment when, by

the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, he showed his intolerant spirit

towards the faith which we held dear. The narrow Protestantism of

England was less a religious sentiment than a patriotic reply to

the aggressive bigotry of her enemies. Our Catholic countrymen were

unpopular, not so much because they believed in Transubstantiation, as

because they were unjustly suspected of sympathising with the Emperor or

with the King of France. Now that our military successes have secured us

against all fear of attack, we have happily lost that bitter religious

hatred but for which Oates and Dangerfield would have lied in vain.

In the days when I was young, special causes had inflamed this dislike

and made it all the more bitter because there was a spice of fear

mingled with it. As long as the Catholics were only an obscure faction

they might be ignored, but when, towards the close of the reign of the

second Charles, it appeared to be absolutely certain that a Catholic

dynasty was about to fill the throne, and that Catholicism was to be the

court religion and the stepping-stone to preferment, it was felt that

a day of vengeance might be at hand for those who had trampled upon

it when it was defenceless. There was alarm and uneasiness amongst all

classes. The Church of England, which depends upon the monarch as an

arch depends upon the keystone; the nobility, whose estates and coffers

had been enriched by the plunder of the abbeys; the mob, whose ideas of

Papistry were mixed up with thumbscrews and Fox’s Martyrology, were all

equally disturbed. Nor was the prospect a hopeful one for their cause.

Charles was a very lukewarm Protestant, and indeed showed upon his

deathbed that he was no Protestant at all. There was no longer any

chance of his having legitimate offspring. The Duke of York, his younger

brother, was therefore heir to the throne, and he was known to be an

austere and narrow Papist, while his spouse, Mary of Modena, was

as bigoted as himself. Should they have children, there could be

no question but that they would be brought up in the faith of their

parents, and that a line of Catholic monarchs would occupy the throne

of England. To the Church, as represented by my mother, and to

Nonconformity, in the person of my father, this was an equally

intolerable prospect.

I have been telling you all this old history because you will find, as

I go on, that this state of things caused in the end such a seething and

fermenting throughout the nation that even I, a simple village lad, was

dragged into the whirl and had my whole life influenced by it. If I did

not make the course of events clear to you, you would hardly understand

the influences which had such an effect upon my whole history. In the

meantime, I wish you to remember that when King James II. ascended the

throne he did so amid a sullen silence on the part of a large class of

his subjects, and that both my father and my mother were among those who

were zealous for a Protestant succession.

My childhood was, as I have already said, a gloomy one. Now and again

when there chanced to be a fair at Portsdown Hill, or when a passing

raree showman set up his booth in the village, my dear mother would

slip a penny or two from her housekeeping money into my hand, and with

a warning finger upon her lip would send me off to see the sights. These

treats were, however, rare events, and made such a mark upon my mind,

that when I was sixteen years of age I could have checked off upon my

fingers all that I had ever seen. There was William Harker the strong

man, who lifted Farmer Alcott’s roan mare; and there was Tubby Lawson

the dwarf, who could fit himself into a pickle jar--these two I well

remember from the wonder wherewith they struck my youthful soul. Then

there was the show of the playing dolls, and that of the enchanted

island and Mynheer Munster from the Lowlands, who could turn himself

round upon a tight-rope while playing most sweetly upon a virginal.

Last, but far the best in my estimation, was the grand play at the

Portsdown Fair, entitled ‘The true and ancient story of Maudlin, the

merchant’s daughter of Bristol, and of her lover Antonio. How they were

cast away on the shores of Barbary, where the mermaids are seen floating

upon the sea and singing in the rocks, foretelling their danger.’ This

little piece gave me keener pleasure than ever in after years I received

from the grandest comedies of Mr. Congreve and of Mr. Dryden, though

acted by Kynaston, Betterton, and the whole strength of the King’s own

company. At Chichester once I remember that I paid a penny to see the

left shoe of the youngest sister of Potiphar’s wife, but as it looked

much like any other old shoe, and was just about the size to have fitted

the show-woman, I have often feared that my penny fell into the hands of

rogues.

There were other shows, however, which I might see for nothing, and yet

were more real and every whit as interesting as any for which I

paid. Now and again upon a holiday I was permitted to walk down to

Portsmouth--once I was even taken in front of my father upon his pad

nag, and there I wandered with him through the streets with wondering

eyes, marvelling over the strange sights around me. The walls and the

moats, the gates and the sentinels, the long High Street with the great

government buildings, and the constant rattle of drums and blare of

trumpets; they made my little heart beat quicker beneath my sagathy

stuff jacket. Here was the house in which some thirty years before the

proud Duke of Buckingham had been struck down by the assassin’s dagger.

There, too, was the Governor’s dwelling, and I remember that even as I

looked he came riding up to it, red-faced and choleric, with a nose such

as a Governor should have, and his breast all slashed with gold. ‘Is he

not a fine man?’ I said, looking up at my father. He laughed and drew

his hat down over his brows. ‘It is the first time that I have seen Sir

Ralph Lingard’s face,’ said he, ‘but I saw his back at Preston fight.

Ah, lad, proud as he looks, if he did but see old Noll coming in through

the door he would not think it beneath him to climb out through the

window!’ The clank of steel or the sight of a buff-coat would always

serve to stir up the old Roundhead bitterness in my father’s breast.

But there were other sights in Portsmouth besides the red-coats and

their Governor. The yard was the second in the kingdom, after Chatham,

and there was ever some new war-ship ready upon the slips. Then there

was a squadron of King’s ships, and sometimes the whole fleet at

Spithead, when the streets would be full of sailors, with their faces as

brown as mahogany and pigtails as stiff and hard as their cutlasses. To

watch their rolling gait, and to hear their strange, quaint talk,

and their tales of the Dutch wars, was a rare treat to me; and I have

sometimes when I was alone fastened myself on to a group of them, and

passed the day in wandering from tavern to tavern. It chanced one day,

however, that one of them insisted upon my sharing his glass of Canary

wine, and afterwards out of roguishness persuaded me to take a second,

with the result that I was sent home speechless in the carrier’s cart,

and was never again allowed to go into Portsmouth alone. My father was

less shocked at the incident than I should have expected, and reminded

my mother that Noah had been overtaken in a similar manner. He also

narrated how a certain field-chaplain Grant, of Desborough’s regiment,

having after a hot and dusty day drunk sundry flagons of mum, had

thereafter sung certain ungodly songs, and danced in a manner unbecoming

to his sacred profession. Also, how he had afterwards explained that

such backslidings were not to be regarded us faults of the individual,

but rather as actual obsessions of the evil one, who contrived in this

manner to give scandal to the faithful, and selected the most godly for

his evil purpose. This ingenious defence of the field-chaplain was the

saving of my back, for my father, who was a believer in Solomon’s axiom,

had a stout ash stick and a strong arm for whatever seemed to him to be

a falling away from the true path.

From the day that I first learned my letters from the horn-book at my

mother’s knee I was always hungry to increase my knowledge, and never a

piece of print came in my way that I did not eagerly master. My father

pushed the sectarian hatred of learning to such a length that he was

averse to having any worldly books within his doors. (Note A, Appendix)

I was dependent therefore for my supply upon one or two of my friends in

the village, who lent me a volume at a time from their small libraries.

These I would carry inside my shirt, and would only dare to produce when

I could slip away into the fields, and lie hid among the long grass, or

at night when the rushlight was still burning, and my father’s snoring

assured me that there was no danger of his detecting me. In this way

I worked up from Don Bellianis of Greece and the ‘Seven Champions,’

through Tarleton’s ‘Jests’ and other such books, until I could take

pleasure in the poetry of Waller and of Herrick, or in the plays of

Massinger and Shakespeare. How sweet were the hours when I could lay

aside all thought of freewill and of predestination, to lie with my

heels in the air among the scented clover, and listen to old Chaucer

telling the sweet story of Grisel the patient, or to weep for the chaste

Desdemona, and mourn over the untimely end of her gallant spouse. There

were times as I rose up with my mind full of the noble poetry, and

glanced over the fair slope of the countryside, with the gleaming sea

beyond it, and the purple outline of the Isle of Wight upon the horizon;

when it would be borne in upon me that the Being who created all this,

and who gave man the power of pouring out these beautiful thoughts, was

not the possession of one sect or another, or of this nation or that,

but was the kindly Father of every one of the little children whom

He had let loose on this fair playground. It grieved me then, and it

grieves me now, that a man of such sincerity and lofty purpose as your

great grandfather should have been so tied down by iron doctrines, and

should imagine his Creator to be so niggard of His mercy as to withhold

it from nine-and-ninety in the hundred. Well, a man is as he is trained,

and if my father bore a narrow mind upon his broad shoulders, he has at

least the credit that he was ready to do and to suffer all things

for what he conceived to be the truth. If you, my dears, have more

enlightened views, take heed that they bring you to lead a more

enlightened life.

When I was fourteen years of age, a yellow-haired, brown-faced lad, I

was packed off to a small private school at Petersfield, and there I

remained for a year, returning home for the last Saturday in each month.

I took with me only a scanty outfit of schoolbooks, with Lilly’s ‘Latin

Grammar,’ and Rosse’s ‘View of all the Religions in the World from the

Creation down to our own Times,’ which was shoved into my hands by my

good mother as a parting present. With this small stock of letters I

might have fared badly, had it not happened that my master, Mr. Thomas

Chillingfoot, had himself a good library, and took a pleasure in

lending his books to any of his scholars who showed a desire to improve

themselves. Under this good old man’s care I not only picked up some

smattering of Latin and Greek, but I found means to read good English

translations of many of the classics, and to acquire a knowledge of the

history of my own and other countries. I was rapidly growing in mind as

well as in body, when my school career was cut short by no less an event

than my summary and ignominious expulsion. How this unlooked-for ending

to my studies came about I must now set before you.

Petersfield had always been a great stronghold of the Church, having

hardly a Nonconformist within its bounds. The reason of this was that

most of the house property was owned by zealous Churchmen, who refused

to allow any one who differed from the Established Church to settle

there. The Vicar, whose name was Pinfold, possessed in this manner great

power in the town, and as he was a man with a high inflamed countenance

and a pompous manner, he inspired no little awe among the quiet

inhabitants. I can see him now with his beaked nose, his rounded

waistcoat, and his bandy legs, which looked as if they had given way

beneath the load of learning which they were compelled to carry. Walking

slowly with right hand stiffly extended, tapping the pavement at every

step with his metal-headed stick, he would pause as each person passed

him, and wait to see that he was given the salute which he thought due

to his dignity. This courtesy he never dreamed of returning, save in

the case of some of his richer parishioners; but if by chance it were

omitted, he would hurry after the culprit, and, shaking his stick in his

face, insist upon his doffing his cap to him. We youngsters, if we met

him on our walks, would scuttle by him like a brood of chickens passing

an old turkey cock, and even our worthy master showed a disposition to

turn down a side-street when the portly figure of the Vicar was seen

rolling in our direction. This proud priest made a point of knowing the

history of every one within his parish, and having learnt that I was the

son of an Independent, he spoke severely to Mr. Chillingfoot upon the

indiscretion which he had shown in admitting me to his school. Indeed,

nothing but my mother’s good name for orthodoxy prevented him from

insisting upon my dismissal.

At the other end of the village there was a large day-school. A constant

feud prevailed between the scholars who attended it and the lads who

studied under our master. No one could tell how the war broke out, but

for many years there had been a standing quarrel between the two, which

resulted in skirmishes, sallies, and ambuscades, with now and then a

pitched battle. No great harm was done in these encounters, for the

weapons were usually snowballs in winter and pine-cones or clods of

earth in the summer. Even when the contest got closer and we came to

fisticuffs, a few bruises and a little blood was the worst that could

come of it. Our opponents were more numerous than we, but we had the

advantage of being always together and of having a secure asylum upon

which to retreat, while they, living in scattered houses all over the

parish, had no common rallying-point. A stream, crossed by two bridges,

ran through the centre of the town, and this was the boundary which

separated our territories from those of our enemies. The boy who crossed

the bridge found himself in hostile country.

It chanced that in the first conflict which occurred after my arrival at

the school I distinguished myself by singling out the most redoubtable

of our foemen, and smiting him such a blow that he was knocked helpless

and was carried off by our party as a prisoner. This feat of arms

established my good name as a warrior, so I came at last to be regarded

as the leader of our forces, and to be looked up to by bigger boys than

myself. This promotion tickled my fancy so much, that I set to work to

prove that I deserved it by devising fresh and ingenious schemes for the

defeat of our enemies.

One winter’s evening news reached us that our rivals were about to make

a raid upon us under cover of night, and that they proposed coming by

the little used plank bridge, so as to escape our notice. This bridge

lay almost out of the town, and consisted of a single broad piece of

wood without a rail, erected for the good of the town clerk, who lived,

just opposite to it. We proposed to hide ourselves amongst the bushes on

our side of the stream, and make an unexpected attack upon the invaders

as they crossed. As we started, however, I bethought me of an ingenious

stratagem which I had read of as being practised in the German wars, and

having expounded it to the great delight of my companions, we took Mr.

Chillingfoot’s saw, and set off for the seat of action.

On reaching the bridge all was quiet and still. It was quite dark and

very cold, for Christmas was approaching. There were no signs of our

opponents. We exchanged a few whispers as to who should do the daring

deed, but as the others shrank from it, and as I was too proud to

propose what I dare not execute, I gripped the saw, and sitting

astraddle upon the plank set to work upon the very centre of it.

My purpose was to weaken it in such a way that, though it would bear the

weight of one, it would collapse when the main body of our foemen were

upon it, and so precipitate them into the ice-cold stream. The water was

but a couple of feet deep at the place, so that there was nothing for

them but a fright and a ducking. So cool a reception ought to deter

them from ever invading us again, and confirm my reputation as a daring

leader. Reuben Lockarby, my lieutenant, son of old John Lockarby of the

Wheatsheaf, marshalled our forces behind the hedgerow, whilst I sawed

vigorously at the plank until I had nearly severed it across. I had no

compunction about the destruction of the bridge, for I knew enough of

carpentry to see that a skilful joiner could in an hour’s work make

it stronger than ever by putting a prop beneath the point where I had

divided it. When at last I felt by the yielding of the plank that I had

done enough, and that the least strain would snap it, I crawled quietly

off, and taking up my position with my schoolfellows, awaited the coming

of the enemy.

I had scarce concealed myself when we heard the steps of some one

approaching down the footpath which led to the bridge. We crouched

behind the cover, convinced that the sound must come from some scout

whom our foemen had sent on in front--a big boy evidently, for his step

was heavy and slow, with a clinking noise mingling with it, of which we

could make nothing. Nearer came the sound and nearer, until a shadowy

figure loomed out of the darkness upon the other side, and after pausing

and peering for a moment, came straight for the bridge. It was only as

he was setting foot upon the plank and beginning gingerly to pick his

way across it, that we discerned the outlines of the familiar form, and

realised the dreadful truth that the stranger whom we had taken for the

advance guard of our enemy was in truth none other than Vicar Pinfold,

and that it was the rhythmic pat of his stick which we heard mingling

with his footfalls. Fascinated by the sight, we lay bereft of all power

to warn him--a line of staring eyeballs. One step, two steps, three

steps did the haughty Churchman take, when there was a rending crack,

and he vanished with a mighty splash into the swift-flowing stream. He

must have fallen upon his back, for we could see the curved outline

of his portly figure standing out above the surface as he struggled

desperately to regain his feet. At last he managed to get erect, and

came spluttering for the bank with such a mixture of godly ejaculations

and of profane oaths that, even in our terror, we could not keep from

laughter. Rising from under his feet like a covey of wild-fowl, we

scurried off across the fields and so back to the school, where, as you

may imagine, we said nothing to our good master of what had occurred.

The matter was too serious, however, to be hushed up. The sudden chill

set up some manner of disturbance in the bottle of sack which the Vicar

had just been drinking with the town clerk, and an attack of gout set in

which laid him on his back for a fortnight. Meanwhile an examination of

the bridge had shown that it had been sawn across, and an inquiry traced

the matter to Mr. Chillingfoot’s boarders. To save a wholesale expulsion

of the school from the town, I was forced to acknowledge myself as both

the inventor and perpetrator of the deed. Chillingfoot was entirely in

the power of the Vicar, so he was forced to read me a long homily

in public--which he balanced by an affectionate leave-taking in

private--and to expel me solemnly from the school. I never saw my old

master again, for he died not many years afterwards; but I hear that his

second son William is still carrying on the business, which is larger

and more prosperous than of old. His eldest son turned Quaker and went

out to Penn’s settlement, where he is reported to have been slain by the

savages.

This adventure shocked my dear mother, but it found great favour in the

eyes of my father, who laughed until the whole village resounded

with his stentorian merriment. It reminded him, he said, of a similar

stratagem executed at Market Drayton by that God-fearing soldier Colonel

Pride, whereby a captain and three troopers of Lunsford’s own regiment

of horse had been drowned, and many others precipitated into a river, to

the great glory of the true Church and to the satisfaction of the

chosen people. Even of the Church folk many were secretly glad at the

misfortune which had overtaken the Vicar, for his pretensions and his

pride had made him hated throughout the district.

By this time I had grown into a sturdy, broad-shouldered lad, and every

month added to my strength and my stature. When I was sixteen I could

carry a bag of wheat or a cask of beer against any man in the village,

and I could throw the fifteen-pound putting-stone to a distance of

thirty-six feet, which was four feet further than could Ted Dawson, the

blacksmith. Once when my father was unable to carry a bale of skins out

of the yard, I whipped it up and bare it away upon my shoulders. The

old man would often look gravely at me from under his heavy thatched

eyebrows, and shake his grizzled head as he sat in his arm-chair puffing

his pipe. ‘You grow too big for the nest, lad,’ he would say. ‘I doubt

some of these days you’ll find your wings and away!’ In my heart I

longed that the time would come, for I was weary of the quiet life of

the village, and was anxious to see the great world of which I had heard

and read so much. I could not look southward without my spirit stirring

within me as my eyes fell upon those dark waves, the white crests of

which are like a fluttering signal ever waving to an English youth and

beckoning him to some unknown but glorious goal.