Whether it was from this or from any other cause, I cannot say for certain, but up to twelve years of age I was a pale, weak, sickly boy, given to sick headaches, sleepless nights, vomitings, and general debility, with a strong tendency to get alone somewhere, and either dream away the hours, or read and re-read any book that I was fortunate enough to procure.
Up to the age of twelve my life was a kind of tideless sea; time passed, but there were no events to mark it. Companions I had none, except my two sisters, and sometimes a forest lad, the son of a gamekeeper, who used to take me out squirrel-hunting or birds’-nesting. These expeditions, however, were all but forbidden by my aunt, who visited with her severe displeasure either absence from a meal or a late arrival for one.
Having given priority in description to my aunt, I must now endeavour to describe my father. If I were to write pages I could not more fully delineate my father’s character better than to state that he had but one fault, viz, he was too kind. This kindness actually degenerated into weakness, or, as some people might term it, feebleness or indifference. This peculiar attribute manifested itself in a neglect of my early education, and of that of my sisters. If it were suggested to him that I was old enough to go to a school, he invariably found some excuse, such as that I was just then too much out of health, or he could not spare me, or I was doing very well at home, or he could not select a school where he could be sure I should receive proper attention. The true reason for these excuses was, I believe, that he could not make up his mind to part with me. I was almost his only companion, for our nearest neighbour was three miles off, and he was a man devoted to hunting only, and had none of those refined tastes or love for literature and art that my father was famous for. The result of these conditions was that at the age of thirteen I was very old in manner and thought; I was prematurely old before I was young; but I lacked the knowledge, education, and experience which usually come with age, and I was, as regards other boys, the most veritable ignoramus as to the world—knowing nothing of boys, or of the great school-world, a complete dunce as regards those points of education on which all other lads of my own age were well-informed—having a somewhat exaggerated idea of my own talents, genius, and acquirements, and disposed to look down on those boys, sons of the neighbouring gentry, who about twice a year came to our house to partake of our hospitality, and enjoy a picnic in the forest.
My father was a perfect gentleman, in the full meaning of the word. He was most sensitive himself, and, believing all those with whom he associated to be equally gifted, he was most careful and considerate in all he said or did. With him it was little short of a crime to say or do anything that could by any chance hurt the feelings of even an acquaintance. I remember once hearing an anecdote related about my father, which may show how great was the belief at least of his sympathies with others. A guest at his dinner-table, on one occasion, upset by accident a glass of sherry on the table-cloth. The visitor apologised for his awkwardness, in most humble terms, blushed deeply, and again commenced a second apology. My father tried to place the guest at his ease, but, noticing how uncomfortable he appeared, my father (it was said, purposely) upset his own glass of wine, at which he laughed immoderately, and was joined by all at table, the result being that no further apologies were offered or awkwardness exhibited by the clumsy guest.
My father’s pet hobby was Natural History. He had a splendid collection of all the moths and butterflies to be found in England. It was a great treat for me to walk with him under the wide-spreading arms of the giant beech-trees or grand old oaks that grew around us, and watch him select the grub or cocoon of some insect that would have escaped the attention of common eyes, and hear him describe the changes through which this creature passed in its material career.
Many are the happy hours that I have passed with him watching the gambols of the squirrel, or, with a pair of powerful opera glasses, scrutinising the detail labours of various birds as they built their nests. The peculiar habits of various birds and insects were well known to me long before some of them were made known to the reading world by those gentlemen whose books on natural history were written from their experience gained in the library of the British Museum.
Long before naturalists had begun to speculate on the cause of that peculiar drumming noise made by the snipe when on the wing, my father and I had convinced ourselves that it was due to the bird spreading open the pinion feathers as it stooped in its flight. The New Forest was especially suited for the residence of a naturalist, as in it were many rare birds and insects, and the opportunities for watching the habits of these were frequent.
About my future course in life my father never spoke; he seemed disposed to let matters drift on; and I believe his wish was that I never should leave home for the purpose of taking up a profession, but that at his death I should still continue the quiet, peaceful life that we had hitherto led in the forest.
It is possible that I might have continued contented as a mere forest boy with country tastes, somewhat feeble powers, and what may be termed a wasted life, had I not by chance met an individual who in one short day turned the whole current of my thoughts into a new channel, and raised in my mind longings and wishes to which I had hitherto been a stranger. As my whole future life turned at this point I must devote a new chapter to a description of my meeting with this person.