There is something very dry in family history, because no one cares for other people’s relations. What I note down is to show that I belong to all classes. I have a cousin who is a baronet named Key; another who is an earl named Ranfurly; and, as I was told, one of my family was a butcher named Bedford. In fact, while not a true Briton, which I am glad of, I have a full share to my name of the Saxon blood. As regards my mother’s family, they were comparatively obscure in the middle of this century, and are so still, except in the instance of one individual who has a statue in Trafalgar Square, set up by the Conservative Government in perpetual disapproval of the neglect which the hero of Khartoum experienced at the hands of the Gladstone-Granville administration. But for that he would have been, like Cromwell, without a statue. Of him I shall give my opinion in the proper place; and as his name is public property, I shall trace some of the families from which, in common with him, I have derived my origin.
I may say, then, that our grandfather, Captain William Augustus Gordon, was an officer somewhat distinguished in the service. He was at the taking of Moro Castle, Havanna, Louisburg, and Quebec. At the siege of Quebec he was on the staff of General Wolf, and saw him die happy. He retired early from the army, in which he made many powerful friends—married a lady of many high qualities and great personal beauty, named Clarke, whose family belonged to Hexham, in Northumberland, the sister of the Rev. Slaughter Clarke, incumbent of that place, at whose house he first met her while stationed in the town on military duty. He had a family by her of four daughters and three sons, of which my mother was the firstborn.
III.
I had a sister; she came two or three years before me, and died at the age of four or five and twenty, of typhoid fever. She was attended, but in vain, by men of skill—Dr. J. A. Wilson, physician to St. George’s, and Mr. Nussey, the king’s apothecary.
Then I have a brother, who came last—two years after me—my oldest friend.
We both had good abilities, as time has since shown, but being let to run wild, we had no serious use for them, so we devoted them to mischief. It seems a settled purpose in nature for children to destroy whatever things they can lay their hands on, by way of testing the strength of materials, and to privately annoy all who come within their reach, not out of wickedness, but for fun. I and my brother fully entered into these views, and did all in our power to assist them; the consequence was, we were a good deal disliked. Another failing that we indulged in was a love of the village boys’ society, and this caused us to be looked down on by gentlemen’s sons. The street boys we found the best company, and they were amenable to our orders, which could not be said of the genteel class.
All this is defensible in children who are allowed to follow their own devices, and is a sign of health, for good little boys and girls are never very well. There is no intellectual endowment of such value as a sense of the ridiculous; it argues the existence of imagination, to which it is a supplement and corrective.
Can any one say he has more than one friend who makes him part of himself? I have one—my brother. I used to say once, “If you want friends, you must breed them;” but experience tells us that this method has only an average success. Acquired friends must be engrafted in youth, or before, while growth is going on. Friendships made later are only impressions; they are not an integral part of us; and, though they may flourish, are liable to be overturned. Stately as they may become, like the elm, they have no tap-root.