I was born at Down on 16th August 1848: I was christened at Malvern—a fact in which I had a certain unaccountable pride. But now my only sensation is one of surprise at having been christened at all, and a wish that I had received some other name. I was never called Francis, and I disliked the usual abbreviation Frank, while Franky or Frankie seemed to me intolerable. I also considered it a hardship to have but one Christian name. Our parents began by giving two names to the elder children; but their inventive capacity gave way and the younger ones had each but one. It seemed, too, a singular fact that—as they afterwards confessed—they gave names which they did not especially like. Our godfathers and godmothers were usually uncles and aunts, but this tepid relationship was deprived of any conceivable interest by the fact that the uncles were usually represented by the parish clerk. This, of course, we only knew by rumour, but we realised that they gave no christening mugs—a line of conduct in which I now fully sympathise. My
brother Leonard did indeed receive a silver spoon from Mr Leonard Horner, but I fancy that this came to him on false pretences.
I have no idea at what age we began to go to church, but I have a general impression of unwillingly attending divine service for many boyish years. We had a large pew, lined with green baize, close beneath the clergyman’s desk, and so near the clerk that we got the full flavour of his tremendous amens. I have a recollection of entertaining myself with the india-rubber threads out of my elastic-sided boots, and of gently tweaking them when stretched as miniature harp-strings. The only other diverting circumstance was the occurrence of book-fish (Lepisma?) in the prayer books or among the baize cushions. I have not seen one for fifty years, and I may be wrong in believing that they were like minute sardines running on invisible wheels. In looking back on the service in Down church, I am astonished at the undoubted fact that whereas the congregation in general turned towards the altar in saying the Creed, we faced the other way and sternly looked into the eyes of the other churchgoers. We certainly were not brought up in Low Church or anti-papistical views, and it remains a mystery why we continued to do anything so unnecessary and uncomfortable.
I have a general impression of coming out of church cold and hungry, and of seeing the labourers standing about the porch in tall hats and green or purple smock-frocks. But the chief object of interest was Sir John Lubbock (the father of the late Lord
Avebury), of whom, for no particular reason, we stood in awe. He made it up to us by coming to church in a splendid fluffy beaver hat. My recollection is that we often went only to the afternoon service, which we preferred for its brevity. I have a clear recollection of our delight when, on rainy Sundays, we escaped church altogether.
A feature that distinguished Sunday from the rest of the week was our singular custom of having family prayers on that day only. When we were growing up we mildly struck at the ceremony, and my mother accordingly dropped it on finding that the servants took no especial interest in it.
On Sundays we wore our best jackets, but I think that, when church was over, we put on our usual tunics or blouses of surprising home-made fit. But I clearly remember climbing (in my Sunday clothes) a holly-tree on a damp Christmas Day, and meeting my father as I descended green from head to foot. I remember the occurrence because my father was justly annoyed, and this impressed the fact on me, since anything approaching anger was with him almost unknown.
In our blouses we might with impunity cover ourselves with the thick red clay of our country-side, and this we could always do by playing in a certain pit where we built clay forts, etc. We used also to run down the steep ploughed fields, our feet (grown with adhering clay to huge balls) swinging like pendulums and scattering showers of mud on all sides. Then we would come cheerfully home, entering by the back door and taking off our boots
as we sat on the kitchen stairs in semi-darkness and surrounded by pleasant culinary smells.
In later years, when we used to take long winter tramps along our flinty winding lanes, this unbooting on the back stairs was a prelude to eating oranges in the dining-room, a feast that took the place of five o’clock tea—not then invented.