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.