A country cousin coming up to stay with me in London, I made out a list of sights that should be seen. Besides these sights, she saw a fire at a house close by. There were lots of engines and escapes, and I felt rather grateful to Providence for making this addition to my list; but I felt less grateful three nights afterwards, when Providence added a burglary, not at a neighbour’s house, but at my own.
In chatting with a small boy who was staying here, I was telling him about the fig tree, and showing him that on the outer parts the leaves had five lobes each, but further in (where they received less light) the leaves had only three lobes, and in the densest part they had only one. He listened very attentively, and then he went indoors, and said to everyone he met, “I know all about fig-leaves.”
THE PICTURES WITH THE DOG ([p. 36]), IN THE LOWER PARLOUR ([p. 50])
Writing to my father while my brother was on a visit here, 6 June 1852, my grandfather says:—“I was talking to him yesterday about his lessons. He asked if Papa used to learn his book well. I said he was a very good boy to learn, and did not think of play until he had learnt his lessons, which had a good effect on him now he was a man; and I hoped he would try to make even a better man than his Papa and to know more and to do more. It then dropped, and I did not expect to hear any more about it, but this morning he asked me if his Papa ever swallowed a fourpenny piece. I never dreamt of his motive for putting the question to me. I said No, then he said That is one thing I have done more than Papa.”
In their childhood my brother and sister and their friends were fond of acting plays of their own writing; and they had to study each other’s feelings, lest the parts should be refused. She writes to him, 13 October 1858:—“I have quite finished two scenes, but I must alter the third, as you were to be killed in your sleep, which I know you would not like: so you shall fight with the guards, and they shall kill you after a long struggle.” I have several of these plays in manuscript; and there is no end of killing. With a death-rate of 2 to 3 per scene, each actor could take several parts.
I took a little boy one afternoon to his first Pantomime at Drury Lane. We were sitting in the stalls, and the seats were rather low for him, so I folded up the overcoats for him to sit upon. This brought his head up level with the other people’s heads, and it also brought his right foot level with the calf of my left leg. When anything pleased him, he gave me a little kick to show that he was pleased; and he was pleased with almost everything. I went home very lame.
A generation later on, that little boy’s little children were staying with me here; and I felt rather flattered at hearing that I was mentioned in their prayers each night. But I felt less flattered afterwards, when I discovered that my name came in between the donkey’s and the cook’s. Those children used to get a lot of jam upon their fingers, when they were at tea. One afternoon I heard one of them telling the other, “Nurse says we mustn’t touch the banisters, because we’re sticky.” And then I heard them go upstairs on all fours, wiping it all off upon the carpet. At times they were exacting. I do not object to being a horse, or even a great grizzeley bear—I know what is expected of me then. But I do object to being a crocodile, if a crocodile is expected to lurk underneath a sofa, and snap at people’s legs.