From fourteen months old, forward, I was in the care of one who ultimately became my stepmother. Memory refuses to revert so far back. There are some things which I do not remember, and for which I cannot supply a beginning. I do not remember when I began going to church, but as far back as memory reaches, I do remember attendance at such places of worship as St Stephen, St Georges Cathedral, and St Mary's Redcliffe -- the church that gathered fame in the days of Queen Elizabeth. I do not remember how or when I learned to read; but I remember that on one Sabbath evening, as the worshippers filed out of St Stephen's church, some one at the door gave away small tracts, and that when we arrived home I was curious to see what was printed on the small sheet of paper. It was at that point that mother said:- "When you read that, you shall have it as your own". As I look back now, I think that I must have inherited a good bump of acquisitiveness, and that it must have already been subject to considerable development, for the prospect of owning something stirred me into such activity on that Sunday evening, that I quite forgot everything and every one in that room; and sitting by the fireplace I proceeded at once to decipher that precious piece of paper. I do not now know the consequences, but I am sure that the first verse of Scripture imbedded in my life came to me at that time. Whatever the paragraphs contained I do not know, and I certainly did not know such a big word, but I was surprised and impressed by the fact that at the end of every "breaking off place", one statement was again and again repeated -- it was this:- "And him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out". How I wondered at it, and wondered Who said it! But I was then, as I have often been since, too self-controlled to let anyone think that I did not know; So I held my own counsel for many a long day. It has been one of the most precious texts in my life.
I cannot say that religion in our house was of the emotional type; rather, as far as it went, it was of the ethical character. True, often as I sat by the fire place, and without candles (parafine oil was very seldom used), rather we enjoyed the firelight, I was taught to sing:- "I want to be an angel, and with the angels stand", and later:- "Around the throne of God in heaven thousands of children stand".
So I grew to be religious; or rather I was inclined to let God develop what was in me. When I was told that God made everything, I believed it, and I had a considerable problem to work out in philosophy and satisfy my young mind as to just where He got His materials and how He put them together; the solution of that had to stand over for some time. In those young days I did love to walk less frequented streets and watch the bold moon chase me at eveningtime, and I had all the wonder of mind that still belongs to little people. But the one undying conviction that held fast to me was that God could not be seen but that He was very really in the faraway sky, and taking care of everybody.
I was still only about four years old when an incident occurred that has had much to do with all of my more mature life and work. Father, like his father before him was by trade a hat maker, and as I remember was generous and sociable and gathered about him many working friends, and so like the men of his day he was given to drinking. In this practice he boasted of how much he could take without showing the effect. Young as I was I made many observations, and did much reflecting. I could name many instances, but this one of my four-year-old life has stamped my life indelibly. I had been sleeping in my bed, but was suddenly awakened by the scream of mother, who stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by neighbours, and with blood streaming down her face, while father sat over by the fireplace with a terrible blaze leaping up the chimney, and which he constantly fed with the furniture which he broke across his knee. Apparently no one dared try to restrain him. I am glad that since then social and political life have taken on a finer character. It was the drink that made me fatherless.
I turn to pleasanter themes. Where J S Fry and Sons have extended their factory in Bristol, was once a part of my playground. And not far away were the famous Christmas steps, which enabled one to get up from lower town to White Ladies Road and Clifton with its palatial homes and fragrant gardens, opening out to Durdham Downs and the Sea Wall. How I loved to go off on a ramble all by myself! The hills of Clifton had a great attraction for me. Then sometimes I went out by Hotwell Road and found the footpath that wound its zig-zag way up to the Suspension Bridge -- the pride of all Bristolians. More frequently because nearer home, I chose to cross the Drawbridge at the Quay, and thence find my way up Brandon Hill where the boys of my day delighted in lying down and taking a good roll down from the cannons at the top to the road line at the bottom. Those were glorious days; and we did find so much pleasure in Bristol streets, her bridges and parks that no boy ever expressed dissatisfaction; or wanted to get away.
At seven years of age I prided myself on being familiar with sixty of the city streets, all of which I could name and describe without having them before me. This knowledge became a bit of my life's capital for business; for at the age of seven I earned my first pennies as a messenger boy. It happened in this wise:- near the humble street where I lived, there were three people who were working as their own masters or mistresses; one made picture frames, buying the materials and so making his own gilded mouldings; so he needed a boy to go to Broadmead and secure the necessary chemicals. He gave me a penny for each trip.
In another nearby street was a seamstress who took in sewing from a business house at the top of Wine street and Union, and her finished work had to be carried home and new orders returned to her. This was a lengthy walk, but it was a pleasant one, and what fun it was to watch boys at the top of the hill put brakes (shoes, they called them) on the ladies' carriages, as they were about to descend the hill, and themselves turn "handsprings" down the hill so as to be at the bottom of the hill when the carriage arrived, so as to replace the brakes, and received the ladies' sixpences. Mine was a long walk and the parcel sometimes heavy, and I received a penny for that trip also, but then I saw a good deal of life, and my pleasure compensated my pay.
My third employer who called me into requisition occasionally was an elderly woman who kept the corner grocery. I was proud of serving here, for it meant carrying a large basket over my arm, and it also meant going out into what was then an elite section of Bristol where I had to climb imposing steps up to front doors -- conditions which have long since changed -- and where kind hearted people not only paid me for the bathbrick, or the block of salt, but sometimes added a little for my own benefit. However from my employer I also received a penny a day. These three good people seemed to have studied their Bible well and studiously followed it. And I did not murmur; indeed I was thankful to have such good employers; it was my opportunity.
There is one spot in Bristol that I discovered only in recent years, but it opened up memories that had long been sleeping. The place is known as "Break-neck steps". I had for years been seeking this closed area of my childhood. It is a long time since the clock marked seven, but vivid was the vision when I stumbled off Milk street into this square with a high-sounding name. Who knows where roses may grow, or gold be found? Yes, those are the steps where four of us one day agreed to run a race. Each of us had a steel hoop -- there were no bicycles in those days -- a steel hoop that had a handle attached to it -- ah, that was my fine possession. We agreed that two of us should go down the steps, and around the block coming back to the top step; the other two were to take the opposite direction, returning by mounting the steps to the point of starting. I have lost many contests since then, but that was my first. In my eagerness to make a good start at the foot of those steps, I missed my footing, and went down head first. At the Royal Infirmary the doctor said I had dislocated my shoulder, and prescribed that mother should bandage it each day with cloths soaked in rainwater. That was a simple remedy, inexpensive, and very convenient, for over at one side at the top of the steps there stood a rain barrel, which filled up from the roofs of houses after every rainstorm, and Bristol has plenty of these, and all of the neighbours were at liberty to dip from this barrel. How strange that after sixty years I should visit those steps and find a rain barrel still standing there! Was this municipal generosity, or the force of necessity? There was one particular house rising above those steps where I had a Birthday party for my seventh birthday; the house is no longer there. Walls are there, but windows are gone; and walls apparently serve the purposes of a factory. Commerce is crowding in on domestic relations. And the residents there today are wondering what a stranger like me may be doing around such parts.
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