My Birth
When first struck with the notion of writing my own life I thought I should be able to do so without help from any living soul. How foolish of me! I see at the outset I must depend entirely upon the testimony of others with respect to the earliest portion of my existence; and, inasmuch as I am determined to stick to facts, I shall confess that I do not remember anything of the occasion when I first came into the world.
In view of this failing of memory, I think I can wholly rely upon the evidence of my mother. She told me, more than once, it was between two and three o’clock in the morning, on the 5th of October, 18—, that I first saw the light of a halfpenny candle. Whether because I felt offended at the poverty of the preparations made for my arrival, or that it was for some other reason I seemed so cross and yelled and screamed so, the two female neighbours who were present at the time were quite unable to determine. They, anyhow. made up their minds that I was an inconsiderate, unfeeling little wretch for making such a noise, aware as I was, or ought to have been, that my mother was so ill that morning. Of this much I am certain, I was not consulted at all upon the occasion, and it is possible that is what made me so ill-tempered and unreasonable—which, of course, is only surmise, and not to be set down as sober fact. If I were not perfectly sure that my mother never told the thing which was untrue, I could hardly believe myself to have been at that period of my life, as I nearly am now, bald-headed and toothless; that my nose, commonly considered Roman in shape, was not only flat, but like the new moon had its two ends turned up, and that so fleshy was I that there were holes in my elbows and knees, where there are now, goodness knows, nothing but protruding bones perceivable.
I do not remember, either, a time when I could not, or was not tolerably ready to walk; but my mother told me, for all that, that I was altogether averse to the process once, and did nothing but lie on my back, crying and kicking, unless I found someone to carry me. Although possessing no recollection of it, I regret having been guilty of so much misbehaviour. I marvel to think three years of my life should have passed which I know nothing of from memory; and if those who were best acquainted with me during that period, and in whose truthfulness I could rely, were to bring the very worst accusations against me, I should have nothing to do but believe them. Could I at that time have had reason, memory, feeling? Was I but a lump of living clay? If so, whence came reason, memory, and the like to me?
One thing I possessed, I know, from the testimony of my mother—and I fear I possess it even yet in too great a degree— namely, the spirit of mischief. I broke, so she told me, a great many things; and I know she told the truth. I smashed the few ornaments she owned; I scratched the faces and pulled the hair of divers of my relations and neighbours. I dragged one young girl’s earring right through her flesh, causing the blood to stream. down upon her shoulder. I squeezed the life out of three young kittens, and committed a number of other atrocities, such as it is not pleasant to have to admit, even to oneself, although I am not conscious of any guilt on their account. What surprises me most is that everyone should have been so taken with me, and behave towards me as if I had been a source of profit to everybody, when, in reality, I was good for nothing at all, and not only that, but a source of worry and trouble. My mother lost much of her sleep on my account, and was scores of times obliged to get up in the middle of the night to dose me with Cinder Tea. Upon occasion I used to cry for hours at a stretch, and inasmuch as I had taken it into my head not to talk for a matter of two years or so, no one knew what I cried for. And yet, for all that, I heard my mother saying she would not take the world for me—even when I screamed my loudest.
I grew up a great lump of a fat fellow, considering I lived almost entirely on milk; but, my weight notwithstanding, my neighbours used to compete for the pleasure of carrying me. It seems that I liked being without teeth, because when those parts of me began making their appearance I became very troubled in spirit, so much so that I experienced a falling off in flesh. I have been told that so greatly did I give way to bad temper on their account that I fell, ultimately, into convulsions. How mad it was of me! Would to heaven I were to experience the same ailment now. There is, however, one advantage in being as I am at present; no one is able to throw anything in my teeth.
Well, enough of the period of which I have no recollection. It is with much greater pleasure that I turn to a time I know something about from personal experience and memory.
Earliest Recollections
I believe, nay, am certain, that one of the first things I remember is going to chapel with my mother. I am not sorry my earliest recollections should be associated with the chapel. Dear old chapel! Many an imprint hast thou left upon my memory; and upon my conscience too, I trust. Whether it was the first, or the second, or the twentieth time I went there, or divers times which have fused themselves together in my memory, which created so deep an impression upon me, I cannot now determine, but sure I am that, taken in my mother’s hand to chapel, I remember finding the journey a very long one, and insisting upon being carried the greater part of the way. It was a Sunday night, very probably; the chapel being full, and lighted up, not with gas as now, but with a candles. The crowd frightened me, and I burst out crying. Mother, I recollect, placed her hand upon my mouth, nearly smothering me, and it was not until some one near us gave me a Nelson ball that I was comforted. Where have those famous sweetmeats gone to There is nothing like them in these days. Is it I or the sweetmeats that have changed? The ground floor of the building was very different then from what it is at present. It was open, rows of backless benches running across it, and a few deep seats being ranged around the walls. In the centre there was a large stove, surrounded always by a crowd of children with faces red as a cock’s comb. Most likely the season was winter.
I remember the Big Seat, the Singers’ Seat to its left, and Abel Hughes, with his velvet cap, stationed under the pulpit, going about every now and then to snuff the candles. I shall have something more to say concerning Abel directly. The pulpit was built against the wall, so high up that it reminded me of the swallow’s nest left under the eaves of our house during the previous summer. It puzzled me how “the man” (so I styled him) who was in the pulpit could have climbed thither, and what was his object in doing so? Was it a habit of his, and did he ever get a fall in descending, as I did more than once in coming downstairs? Did someone carry him down, as my brother Bob used to carry me?
I wondered greatly no one had a word to say but “the man in the box,” and still more that he should have so much. I understood not a word of it all with the exception of “Jesus Christ,” and I fancied at first /le was the “Jesus Christ” whom my mother so often spoke to me about. I was expecting him every moment to stop talking; but in vain. After he had spoken a long time, according to my reckoning, he put on a fierce look, flushed in the face, and shouted loudly. I made up my mind then that he was not Jesus Christ. I fancied him to be “giving it” me rather badly—what for I did not know; but he looked at me so often that I knew well enough it was to me he was referring. So thinking, I began to cry again, and had to be half suffocated a second time, and given another Nelson ball before I ceased my noise.
I looked about me, upstairs and down, and wondered at seeing so many people in the gallery. Were they in the habit of sleeping there? How did they get beds enough? I found the chapel darkening, and the man in the box looking smaller, and appearing to retreat farther and farther away from me, although he kept on shouting, higher and still higher. I felt myself gathered to my mother, and suddenly—in profoundest slumber —lost sight of everybody and everything. I don’t know how long I slept; but they had great trouble in waking me, despite the singing of the congregation. I liked the singing much better than the sermon, feeling, in some way I could never explain, that I understood it. By this time the man in the pulpit had sat down. He was wiping the perspiration from his brow, and tying a great cravat loosely about his neck. Seeing Abel Hughes mount the pulpit steps, I concluded he was going to bring “the man” away upon his back, just as brother Bob used to bring me downstairs at home. Great was my disappointment at finding him stop mid-way and saying something to the people, which I subsequently learned referred to the Churchprogamme for the ensuing week. The greater part of the congregation then left, but my mother and divers others remained behind, and the chapel doors were shut. This made me think we were never going home again, and I began to cry once more. Mother however told me, “in her deed,” we should go ‘just directly,” and that pacified me a little. Thereupon I saw the man who I imagined had been belabouring me descend from the pulpit. I watched closely his progress, fearing he would have a fall. He got to the bottom safely. After this I saw Abel Hughes lift the linen cloth which covered something in front of the Big Seat, fold it neatly, and put it on one side. I wondered at the sight thus brought to view. What lovely vessels! The man who had spoken at such length rose, advanced towards them, said something further about Jesus Christ, and began to eat of the broken bread placed near. I thought he was taking supper, and that having tasted one bit and one drop only, the meal was not to his liking. To my great surprise I saw him take up the bread, carry it about, and give everybody a morsel. Feeling very hungry myself, I reflected that despite his treatment of me, he was a decent person after all. My mother, when he came to her, took a bit up from the plate. I, too, held out my hand, but he refused me. Feeling mightily offended with him, I burst out crying afresh, and for about the sixth time that night. It was clear now that the man owed me some grudge. Mother had great difficulty in soothing me. When the man came round with the cup, I hid my face under her cloak, so as not to have to look upon him, nor he to have the chance of refusing me a second time. What with the darkness of the night and these insults of the preacher, I became very cross and ill-tempered, my mother being obliged to carry me all the way home.
How fortunate it is that this history is not intended for publication! Were it otherwise, I should not have been able to narrate what I have narrated; so simple is it and so childish, though true; and, though possibly new to literature, yet not so to the experience of here and there a reader.