Father　and　Son
  A　study　of　two　temperaments
  by　Edmund　Gosse
  Der　Glaube　ist　wie　der　Liebe：　Er　Lasst　sich　nicht　erzwingen。
  Schopenhauer
  PREFACE
  AT　the　present　hour；　when　fiction　takes　forms　so　ingenious　and　so　specious；　it　is　perhaps　necessary　to　say　that　the　following　narrative；　in　all　its　parts；　and　so　far　as　the　punctilious　attention　of　the　writer　has　been　able　to　keep　it　so；　is　scrupulously　true。　If　it　were　not　true；　in　this　strict　sense；　to　publish　it　would　be　to　trifle　with　all　those　who　may　be　induced　to　read　it。　It　is　offered　to　them　as　a　document；　as　a　record　of　educational　and　religious　conditions　which；　having　passed　away；　will　never　return。　In　this　respect；　as　the　diagnosis　of　a　dying　Puritanism；　it　is　hoped　that　the　narrative　will　not　be　altogether　without　significance。
  It　offers；　too；　in　a　subsidiary　sense；　a　study　of　the　development　of　moral　and　intellectual　ideas　during　the　progress　of　infancy。　These　have　been　closely　and　conscientiously　noted；　and　may　have　some　value　in　consequence　of　the　unusual　conditions　in　which　they　were　produced。　The　author　has　observed　that　those　who　have　written　about　the　facts　of　their　own　childhood　have　usually　delayed　to　note　them　down　until　age　has　dimmed　their　recollections。　Perhaps　an　even　more　common　fault　in　such　autobiographies　is　that　they　are　sentimental；　and　are　falsified　by　self…admiration　and　self…pity。　The　writer　of　these　recollections　has　thought　that　if　the　examination　of　his　earliest　years　was　to　be　undertaken　at　all；　it　should　be　attempted　while　his　memory　is　still　perfectly　vivid　and　while　he　is　still　unbiased　by　the　forgetfulness　or　the　sensibility　of　advancing　years。
  At　one　point　only　has　there　been　any　tampering　with　precise　fact。　It　is　believed　that；　with　the　exception　of　the　Son；　there　is　but　one　person　mentioned　in　this　book　who　is　still　alive。　Nevertheless；　it　has　been　thought　well；　in　order　to　avoid　any　appearance　of　offence；　to　alter　the　majority　of　the　proper　names　of　the　private　persons　spoken　of。
  It　is　not　usual；　perhaps；　that　the　narrative　of　a　spiritual　struggle　should　mingle　merriment　and　humour　with　a　discussion　of　the　most　solemn　subjects。　It　has；　however；　been　inevitable　that　they　should　be　so　mingled　in　this　narrative。　It　is　true　that　most　funny　books　try　to　be　funny　throughout；　while　theology　is　scandalized　if　it　awakens　a　single　smile。　But　life　is　not　constituted　thus；　and　this　book　is　nothing　if　it　is　not　a　genuine　slice　of　life。　There　was　an　extraordinary　mixture　of　comedy　and　tragedy　in　the　situation　which　is　here　described；　and　those　who　are　affected　by　the　pathos　of　it　will　not　need　to　have　it　explained　to　them　that　the　comedy　was　superficial　and　the　tragedy　essential。
  September　1907
  CHAPTER　I
  THIS　book　is　the　record　of　a　struggle　between　two　temperaments；　two　consciences　and　almost　two　epochs。　It　ended；　as　was　inevitable；　in　disruption。　Of　the　two　human　beings　here　described；　one　was　born　to　fly　backward；　the　other　could　not　help　being　carried　forward。　There　came　a　time　when　neither　spoke　the　same　language　as　the　other；　or　encompassed　the　same　hopes；　or　was　fortified　by　the　same　desires。　But；　at　least；　it　is　some　consolation　to　the　survivor；　that　neither；　to　the　very　last　hour；　ceased　to　respect　the　other；　or　to　regard　him　with　a　sad　indulgence。
  The　affection　of　these　two　persons　was　assailed　by　forces　in　comparison　with　which　the　changes　that　health　or　fortune　or　place　introduce　are　as　nothing。　It　is　a　mournful　satisfaction；　but　yet　a　satisfaction；　that　they　were　both　of　them　able　to　obey　the　law　which　says　that　ties　of　close　family　relationship　must　be　honoured　and　sustained。　Had　it　not　been　so；　this　story　would　never　have　been　told。
  The　struggle　began　soon；　yet　of　course　it　did　not　begin　in　early　infancy。　But　to　familiarize　my　readers　with　the　conditions　of　the　two　persons　（which　were　unusual）　and　with　the　outlines　of　their　temperaments　（which　were；　perhaps　innately；　antagonistic）；　it　is　needful　to　open　with　some　account　of　all　that　I　can　truly　and　independently　recollect；　as　well　as　with　some　statements　which　are；　as　will　be　obvious；　due　to　household　tradition。
  My　parents　were　poor　gentlefolks；　not　young；　solitary；　sensitive；　and　although　they　did　not　know　it；　proud。　They　both　belonged　to　what　is　called　the　Middle　Class；　and　there　was　this　further　resemblance　between　them　that　they　each　descended　from　families　which　had　been　more　than　well…to…do　in　the　eighteenth　century；　and　had　gradually　sunken　in　fortune。　In　both　houses　there　had　been　a　decay　of　energy　which　had　led　to　decay　in　wealth。　In　the　case　of　my　Father's　family　it　had　been　a　slow　decline；　in　that　of　my　Mother's；　it　had　been　rapid。　My　maternal　grandfather　was　born　wealthy；　and　in　the　opening　years　of　the　nineteenth　century；　immediately　after　his　marriage；　he　bought　a　little　estate　in　North　Wales；　on　the　slopes　of　Snowdon。　Here　he　seems　to　have　lived　in　a　pretentious　way；　keeping　a　pack　of　hounds　and　entertaining　on　an　extravagant　scale。　He　had　a　wife　who　encouraged　him　in　this　vivid　life；　and　three　children；　my　Mother　and　her　two　brothers。　His　best　trait　was　his　devotion　to　the　education　of　his　children；　in　which　he　proclaimed　himself　a　disciple　of　Rousseau。　But　he　can　hardly　have　followed　the　teaching　of　'Emile'　very　closely；　since　he　employed　tutors　to　teach　his　daughter；　at　an　extremely　early　age；　the　very　subjects　which　Rousseau　forbade；　such　as　history；　literature　and　foreign　languages。
  My　Mother　was　his　special　favourite；　and　his　vanity　did　its　best　to　make　a　bluestocking　of　her。　She　read　Greek；　Latin　and　even　a　little　Hebrew；　and；　what　was　more　important；　her　mind　was　trained　to　be　self…supporting。　But　she　was　diametrically　opposed　in　essential　matters　to　her　easy…going；　luxurious　and　self…indulgent　parents。　Reviewing　her　life　in　her　thirtieth　year；　she　remarked　in　some　secret　notes：　'I　cannot　recollect　the　time　when　I　did　not　love　religion。'　She　used　a　still　more　remarkable　expression：　'If　I　must　date　my　conversion　from　my　first　wish　and　trial　to　be　holy；　I　may　go　back　to　infancy；　if　I　am　to　postpone　it　till　after　my　last　wilful　sin；　it　is　scarcely　yet　begun。'　The　irregular　pleasures　of　her　parents'　life　were　deeply　distasteful　to　her；　as　such　were　to　many　young　persons　in　those　days　of　the　wide　revival　of　Conscience；　and　when　my　grandfather；　by　his　reckless　expenditure；　which　he　never　checked　till　ruin　was　upon　him；　was　obliged　to　sell　his　estate；　and　live　in　penury；　my　Mother　was　the　only　member　of　the　family　who　did　not　regret　the　change。　For　my　own　part；　I　believe　I　should　have　liked　my　reprobate　maternal　grandfather；　but　his　conduct　was　certainly　very　vexatious。　He　died；　in　his　eightieth　year；　when　I　was　nine　months　old。
  It　was　a　curious　coincidence　that　life　had　brought　both　my　parents　along　similar　paths　to　an　almost　identical　position　in　respect　to　religious　belief。　She　had　started　from　the　Anglican　standpoint；　he　from　the　Wesleyan；　and　each；　almost　without　counsel　from　others；　and　after　varied　theological　experiments；　had　come　to　take　up　precisely　the　same　attitude　towards　all　divisions　of　the　Protestant　Church　that；　namely；　of　detached　and　unbiased　contemplation。　So　far　as　the　sects　agreed　with　my　Father　and　my　Mother；　the　sects　were　walking　in　the　light；　wherever　they　differed　from　them；　they　had　slipped　more　or　less　definitely　into　a　penumbra　of　their　own　making；　a　darkness　into　which　neither　of　my　parents　would　follow　them。　Hence；　by　a　process　of　selection；　my　Father　and　my　Mother　alike　had　gradually；　without　violence；　found　themselves　shut　outside　all　Protestant　communions；　and　at　last　they　met　only　with　a　few　extreme　Calvinists　like　themselves；　on　terms　of　what　may　almost　be　called　negation　with　no　priest；　no　ritual；　no　festivals；　no　ornament　of　any　kind；　nothing　but　the　Lord's　Supper　and　the　exposition　of　Holy　Scripture　drawing　these　austere　spirits　into　any　sort　of　cohesion。　They　called　themselves　'the　Brethren'；　simply；　a　title　enlarged　by　the　world　outside　into　'Plymouth　Brethren'。
  It　was　accident　and　similarity　which　brought　my　parents　together　at　these　meetings　of　the　Brethren。　Each　was　lonely；　each　was　poor；　each　was　accustomed　to　a　strenuous　intellectual　self…　support。　He　was　nearly　thirty…eight；　she　was　past　forty…two；　when　they　married。　From　a　suburban　lodging；　he　brought　her　home　to　his　mother's　little　house　in　the　northeast　of　London　without　a　single　day's　honeymoon。　My　Father　was　a　zoologist；　and　a　writer　of　books　on　natural　history；　my　Mother　also　was　a　writer；　author　already　of　two　slender　volumes　of　religious　versethe　earlier　of　which；　I　know　not　how；　must　have　enjoyed　some　slight　success；　since　a　second　edition　was　printedafterwards　she　devoted　her　pen　to　popular　works　of　edification。　But　how　infinitely　removed　in　their　aims；　their　habits；　their　ambitions　from　'literary'　people　of　the　present　day；　words　are　scarcely　adequate　to　describe。　Neither　knew　nor　cared　about　any　manifestation　of　current　literature。　For　each　there　had　been　no　poet　later　than　Byron；　and　neither　had　read　a　romance　since；　in　childhood；　they　had　dipped　into　the　Waverley　Novels　as　they　appeared　in　succession。　For　each　the　various　forms　of　imaginative　and　scientific　literature　were　merely　means　of　improvement　and　profit；