In 1842 Rhyl was a little quiet place known to the Liverpool people as a good bathing-place, but not spoiled by formal rows of houses and big hotels. There was at that time in Rhyl a gentleman who possessed a sort of genteel cottage in a relatively large garden, and though the house was small, it might have done for a widower like my father, and it was for sale. I remember urging my father to buy it, as Rhyl pleased me on account of the possibilities of boating and riding on the sands, besides which we had enjoyed some excellent fishing, which delighted me as a child, though I gave up the amusement afterwards. I mention the house here for a particular reason. It has remained very distinctly in my memory ever since, as my father's last chance of escape from his habits and associates. Whilst we were in Wales together he conducted himself as a man ought to do who is travelling with a lady and a child. He was not harsh with me, and notwithstanding my habitual fear of him, some of my Welsh days with him are pleasant to live over again in memory. Now, if he had bought that house, the sort of life we were then leading might have become habitual, and he might possibly have been saved from the sad fate that awaited him. However, though tempted for a moment, he refused because it did not seem a good investment, being a flimsy little building, not very well contrived.
Though my father would not buy the house to please me, he bought me a little bay mare at Rhyl that was a pretty and swift creature, and we took her on the steamer to Menai, where, for want of a convenient arrangement for landing horses, she was pitched into the sea and made to swim ashore. She had been in a hot place on the steamer, near the engines, and the sudden change to the cold sea-water was probably (so we thought afterwards) the reason why she became broken-winded, which was a great grief to me. I hardly know why I record these trifles, but they have an importance in the feelings of a boy, and I am weak enough to have very tender feelings about animals down to the present day.
We visited Anglesea and Caernarvon, and other places too well known for the reader to tolerate a description of them here. In those days the tubular bridge had not yet been thought of; but the beautiful suspension bridge at Menai was already in existence, and was the most remarkable bridge then existing in the world. I was more struck by the beauty of the structure than by its costliness or size; the journal says, "It is indeed wonderfully beautiful." On one of our excursions we saw what in rainy weather is a good waterfall, and I find a reference to this that I quote for the curious bit of Welsh-English that is included in it,—"We came to a little village, which has in a wet season a very fine waterfall; the driver said it would not be seen to advantage because there was 'few water.' There certainly was 'few water,' but the fine high rocks gave a powerful idea of what it would have been had the rushing of waters taken the place of the death-like stillness which then prevailed."
The reader will perhaps pardon me for having dwelt longer on this Welsh tour than the interest of it may seem to warrant; but I look back to it with lingering regret as the last agreeable association connected with the memory of my father. It was a most happy little tour. I had an intensely strong affection for my father's eldest sister Mary, who accompanied us, and whose dear handwriting I recognize in a few corrections in the journal. Besides, that year 1842 is absolutely the last year of my life in which I could live in happy ignorance of evil and retain all the buoyancy of early boyhood. A terrible experience was in reserve for me that soon aged me rapidly, and made a really merry boyish life impossible for me after having passed through it.
CHAPTER V.
1843-1844.
A painful chapter to write.—My father calls me home.—What kind of a house it was.—Paternal education and discipline.—My life at that time one of dulness varied by dread.
The writing of this chapter is so painful to me that the necessity for it has made me put off the composition of this autobiography year after year. Then why not omit the chapter altogether? The omission is impossible, because the events of the year 1843-1844 were quite the most important of my early boyhood, and have had a most powerful and in some respects a disastrous influence over my whole life.
Notwithstanding my father's kindness to me during our Welsh tour, my feelings towards him were not, and could not be, those of trust and confidence. He was extremely severe at times, often much more so than the occasion warranted, this being partly natural in a strong authoritative man, and partly the result of irritability brought on by his habit of drinking. When inflamed with brandy he became positively dangerous, and I had a well-founded dread of his presence. At all times he was very uncertain—he might greet me with a kind word or he might be harsh or silent, just as it happened. During my visits to him at Shaw, one of my two aunts invariably accompanied me and stayed as long as I stayed, which was a great protection for me. The idea of being left alone with my father, even for a day, was enough to fill me with apprehension; however, it did not seem likely that I should have to live with him, as I should probably be sent to some distant school, and only come home for the holidays.
This was the view of my future that was taken by my aunts and myself, when one day in the year 1843, I believe in the month of June, there came a letter from my father peremptorily declaring, in terms which admitted of no discussion, that although a child might live with ladies it was not good for a boy, and that he had determined to have me for the future under his own roof. The news came upon me like a thunderclap in a clear sky. I had grateful and affectionate feelings towards both my aunts, but to the elder my feelings were those of a son, and a very loving son, towards his mother. She had, in fact, taken the place of my mother so completely that I remained unconscious of my loss. I reserve for a pleasanter chapter than this the delightful duty of painting her portrait; at present it is enough to say that a separation from her in childhood was the most bitter grief that could be experienced by me, and my father's ukase made this separation seem destined to be eternal, except perhaps a short visit in the holidays. In a word, my filial life with her seemed at an end.