"Wull, my Uncle Zam, over to Exmoor, was very aiddicayted he was, a turrable 'and vur raidin' and writin'. So long as 'twas a buke 'e'd love'n and spell over'n vur hours and as 'appy as a king, as the zayin' is, but 'e liked best writin' down in this lil buke uv 'is own—a dairy they caals un. Why fer I don't knaw, 'cause tizzen much to do wi' the milk, so far as I can see, and I ain't blind neither. Wull, in this lil buke, and there was eight or nine uv them avore 'e died, 'e put down ivry blimmin' thing 'e did, 'tis true's I zit yer. Wull, when the funeral was over and all the cryin', 'is widder—my ol' Aunty Sary that was, bein' curyus like bein' a lil bit like you—thought she'd be findin' zummat tasty in these ol' dairies, and tuke it into 'er 'ead to try to rade all the eight bukesful, or mebbe 'twas nine. But 'er cud'n 'ardly du it, not bein' aiddicayted like 'im, and when 'er vound it tuke 'er 'alf the day to spell over 'alf wan page, 'er got 'erself into a turrable upset, an threw un all pon the vire, 'ollern' out 'Burn un all, burn un all, burn un all! Then 'er bangs out uv the rume. I was up vrom me zeat avore you cude say Bo, and rescued the bettermos' part uv them avore they was burnt. Aw my dear days, I niver did rade zuch stuff. 'E'd put 'pon they bukes ivry drimpy lil thing e'd done and zeen and zed they vorty years: 'ow many calves the ol' cow 'ad 'ad, how much butter an' crame 'e zold to Markit, all mixed up wi' stuff about the pixies 'e zaw, or thort 'e zeed, top uv Exmoor o' nights; and a lot o' religyus writin,' for 'e was a gude Christyen for all 'is pixies and goblins, wi' plenty 'o sound stuff 'bout 'Eaven and 'Ell, and a middlin' gude dale about 'is sowl...."
These were valuable hints. My resolve was confirmed. I would follow in the footsteps of John Bunyan and Robinson Crewjoe and Uncle Zam.
That day, October the Twelfth 1860 (thirty-seven years ago come Tuesday), in the unused half of an old blue-covered exercise book, I began. With what a sense of pride, of importance, of creativeness, of high adventure, I scrawled in great flourishing capitals my heading:
THE LIFE OF MARY LEE
Written By Herself.
My opening sentence was this: "I was born at Tawborough on March the Second, 1848." I have put it also on the first page of this present record, which from now, my thirteenth year onwards, is but a matured, shortened and bowdlerized version of the diary, eked out—more often for atmosphere than detail—by memory. The keeping of the diary, however, weakened my memory; which, though of its old photographic accuracy in what it held, yet held far less. I did not need to remember things, I said to myself: I could always find them in the book. Certainly for the first few years, I could have found there everything that was worth reading, as well as everything that wasn't; in later years, alas, I have succumbed to the fatal habit of compact little paragraphs epitomizing whole weeks, and even months, as fatal as the Sundries habit in a household account-book. Indeed, despite the pathetic leniency we show towards the trivial when it is the trivial in our own life, I find the earlier pages of my diary tiresomely full; far too fond of "What we had for dinner" or "Aunt Jael's scripture at this evening's worship."
As I told my diary everything, it began to take the place of my other self, and it is in this sense that I mean that the feeling of dual personality was weakened. The self-to-self talks became fewer; the sense of a person telling and a person told was blurred. Unspoken notes in a grimy exercise book took their place; although at first, and always in exciting passages, I would talk aloud, and take down, so to say, from my own dictation.
This early diary is morbid, precocious, shrewd, petty, priggish, and comically, pitifully sincere. Religion looms large, with food a bad second. This is natural enough. John Bunyan's whole aim was A Brief Revelation of the Exceeding Mercy of God in Christ to his poor Servant, John Bunyan; Robinson Crewjoe was not the man to let slip any opportunity for a pious ejaculation, a moral reflection or a godly aside; while Uncle Zam, according to his niece, took a middlin' gude deal of interest in his "Sowl." These great exemplars helped to increase what would have been in any case a heavy disproportion of holy matter. This kind of thing is typical of the earlier years:—
Feb. 13. Woke still worried by the problems of Infinity in Time and Space, tho' less despairing and appalled than the day before. I pray, pray, PRAY; but all the time at the back of my soul, the fear is still there:—Eternity faces me tho' I dare not face Him, and Where may my Eternity not be spent? Perhaps "One Day at a Time" is the only way. A wet day. Read Exodus this afternoon. Aunt Jael rough; so held forth to the Lawn children this evening. They are too appreciative; roar with laughter at everything I say; it does me good, though this is set off by the harm done me by encouragement in self-esteem. But no, no, no—I have a good and great ideal for this Mary, that I must strive to fulfil; and petty ministerings to her (my) vanity must be quashed and that right sternly. Laurie Prideaux gave me some chocolate cream. He is an obliging, kind, childlike, good, conceited boy. Polony for supper.
Sunday. Meeting. Bro. Quappleworthy on the Personal God. Saw Joe Jones, I think in Bear Street: must be on holiday from Bristol. Mrs. Cheese thought he was back. He did not see me; as he never looked towards or acknowledged me, I assumed did not. To Lord's Day School, two prayer-meetings, and Gospel-Service this evening. Very weary.
Like Uncle Zam on Aunt Sary, I indulged in a good deal of "plain-spaikin" on Aunt Jael. The diary thus became invested with a halo of danger. Suppose she found it in one of its many (and changing) hiding-places! She would beat me utterly, burn the diary, and mock cruelly at its contents. Yet it was from my Grandmother that I hid it with my most ardent cunning. She would neither beat, nor burn, nor mock, but I knew she would condemn it as "morbid" (the word is a later acquisition), and search me with her kind common-sense eyes; and I should be covered with shame. Not guilty shame, rather the shame a man feels when his naked soul is shown to the world; the shame I always felt when caught red-handed in one of my self-to-self declarations in the attic. What if other eyes should read this for instance?
1860. Sept. 25. There are three months just to Christmas. Then I shall kiss Robbie.