But　the　difficulty　still　remained。　During　these　months　what　was　to　become　of　me？　My　Father　could　not　take　me　with　him　from　hotel　to　hotel　and　from　lecture…hall　to　lecture…hall。　Nor　could　he　leave　me；　as　people　leave　the　domestic　cat；　in　an　empty　house　for　the　neighbours　to　feed　at　intervals。　The　dilemma　threatened　to　be　insurmountable；　when　suddenly　there　descended　upon　us　a　kind；　but　little…known；　paternal　cousin　from　the　west　of　England；　who　had　heard　of　our　calamities。　This　lady　had　a　large　family　of　her　own　at　Bristol；　she　offered　to　find　room　in　it　for　me　so　long　as　ever　my　Father　should　be　away　in　the　north；　and　when　my　Father；　bewildered　by　so　much　goodness；　hesitated；　she　came　up　to　London　and　carried　me　forcibly　away　in　a　whirlwind　of　good…nature。　Her　benevolence　was　quite　spontaneous；　and　I　am　not　sure　that　she　had　not　added　to　it　already　by　helping　to　nurse　our　beloved　sufferer　through　part　of　her　illness。　Of　that　I　am　not　positive；　but　I　recollect　very　clearly　her　snatching　me　from　our　cold　and　desolate　hearthstone；　and　carrying　me　off　to　her　cheerful　house　at　Clifton。
  Here；　for　the　first　time；　when　half　through　my　eighth　year；　I　was　thrown　into　the　society　of　young　people。　My　cousins　were　none　of　them；　I　believe；　any　longer　children；　but　they　were　youths　and　maidens　busily　engaged　in　various　personal　interests；　all　collected　in　a　hive　of　wholesome　family　energy。　Everybody　was　very　kind　to　me；　and　I　sank　back；　after　the　strain　of　so　many　months；　into　mere　childhood　again。　This　long　visit　to　my　cousins　at　Clifton　must　have　been　very　delightful；　I　am　dimly　aware　that　it　was　yet　I　remember　but　few　of　its　incidents。　My　memory；　so　clear　and　vivid　about　earlier　solitary　times；　now　in　all　this　society　becomes　blurred　and　vague。　I　recollect　certain　pleasures；　being　taken；　for　instance；　to　a　menagerie；　and　having　a　practical　joke；　in　the　worst　taste；　played　upon　me　by　the　pelican。　One　of　my　cousins；　who　was　a　medical　student；　showed　me　a　pistol；　and　helped　me　to　fire　it；　he　smoked　a　pipe；　and　I　was　oddly　conscious　that　both　the　firearm　and　the　tobacco　were　definitely　hostile　to　my　'dedication'。　My　girl…cousins　took　turns　in　putting　me　to　bed；　and　on　cold　nights；　or　when　they　were　in　a　hurry；　allowed　me　to　say　my　prayer　under　the　bed…clothes　instead　of　kneeling　at　a　chair。　The　result　of　this　was　further　spiritual　laxity；　because　I　could　not　help　going　to　sleep　before　the　prayer　was　ended。
  The　visit　to　Clifton　was；　in　fact；　a　blessed　interval　in　my　strenuous　childhood。　It　probably　prevented　my　nerves　from　breaking　down　under　the　pressure　of　the　previous　months。　The　Clifton　family　was　God…fearing；　in　a　quiet；　sensible　way；　but　there　was　a　total　absence　of　all　the　intensity　and　compulsion　of　our　religious　life　at　Islington。　I　was　not　encouragedI　even　remember　that　I　was　gently　snubbedwhen　I　rattled　forth；　parrot…　fashion；　the　conventional　phraseology　of　'the　saints'。　For　a　short；　enchanting　period　of　respite；　I　lived　the　life　of　an　ordinary　little　boy；　relapsing；　to　a　degree　which　would　have　filled　my　Father　with　despair；　into　childish　thoughts　and　childish　language。　The　result　was　that　of　this　little　happy　breathing…space　I　have　nothing　to　report。　Vague；　half…blind　remembrances　of　walks；　with　my　tall　cousins　waving　like　trees　above　me；　pleasant　noisy　evenings　in　a　great　room　on　the　ground…　floor；　faint　silver…points　of　excursions　into　the　country；　all　this　is　the　very　pale　and　shadowy　testimony　to　a　brief　interval　of　healthy；　happy　child…life；　when　my　hard…driven　soul　was　allowed　to　have；　for　a　little　while；　no　history。
  The　life　of　a　child　is　so　brief；　its　impressions　are　so　illusory　and　fugitive；　that　it　is　as　difficult　to　record　its　history　as　it　would　be　to　design　a　morning　cloud　sailing　before　the　wind。　It　is　short；　as　we　count　shortness　in　after　years；　when　the　drag　of　lead　pulls　down　to　earth　the　foot　that　used　to　flutter　with　a　winged　impetuosity；　and　to　float　with　the　pulse　of　Hermes。　But　in　memory；　my　childhood　was　long；　long　with　interminable　hours；　hours　with　the　pale　cheek　pressed　against　the　windowpane；　hours　of　mechanical　and　repeated　lonely　'games'；　which　had　lost　their　savour；　and　were　kept　going　by　sheer　inertness。　Not　unhappy；　not　fretful；　but　long；long；　long。　It　seems　to　me；　as　I　look　back　to　the　life　in　the　motherless　Islington　house；　as　I　resumed　it　in　that　slow　eighth　year　of　my　life；　that　time　had　ceased　to　move。　There　was　a　whole　age　between　one　tick　of　the　eight…day　clock　in　the　hall；　and　the　next　tick。　When　the　milkman　went　his　rounds　in　our　grey　street；　with　his　eldritch　scream　over　the　top　of　each　set　of　area　railings；　it　seemed　as　though　he　would　never　disappear　again。　There　was　no　past　and　no　future　for　me；　and　the　present　felt　as　though　it　were　sealed　up　in　a　Leyden　jar。　Even　my　dreams　were　interminable；　and　hung　stationary　from　the　nightly　sky。
  At　this　time；　the　street　was　my　theatre；　and　I　spent　long　periods；　as　I　have　said；　leaning　against　the　window。　I　feel　now　that　coldness　of　the　pane；　and　the　feverish　heat　that　was　produced；　by　contrast；　in　the　orbit　round　the　eye。　Now　and　then　amusing　things　happened。　The　onion…man　was　a　joy　long　waited　for。　This　worthy　was　a　tall　and　bony　Jersey　Protestant　with　a　raucous　voice；　who　strode　up　our　street　several　times　a　week；　carrying　a　yoke　across　his　shoulders；　from　the　ends　of　which　hung　ropes　of　onions。　He　used　to　shout；　at　abrupt　intervals；　in　a　tone　which　might　wake　the　dead：
  Here's　your　rope　。　。　。　。　To　hang　the　Pope　。　。　。　。　And　a　penn'orth　of　cheese　to　choke　him。
  The　cheese　appeared　to　be　legendary；　he　sold　only　onions。　My　Father　did　not　eat　onions；　but　he　encouraged　this　terrible　fellow；　with　his　wild　eyes　and　long　strips　of　hair；　because　of　his　godly　attitude　towards　the　'Papacy'；　and　I　used　to　watch　him　dart　out　of　the　front　door；　present　his　penny；　and　retire；　graciously　waving　back　the　proffered　onion。　On　the　other　hand；　my　Father　did　not　approve　of　a　fat　sailor；　who　was　a　constant　passer…by。　This　man；　who　was　probably　crazed；　used　to　wall　very　slowly　up　the　centre　of　our　street；　vociferating　with　the　voice　of　a　bull；
  Wa…a…atch　and　pray…hay！　Night　and　day…hay！
  This　melancholy　admonition　was　the　entire　business　of　his　life。　He　did　nothing　at　all　but　walk　up　and　down　the　streets　of　Islington　exhorting　the　inhabitants　to　watch　and　pray。　I　do　not　recollect　that　this　sailor…man　stopped　to　collect　pennies；　and　my　impression　is　that　he　was；　after　his　fashion；　a　volunteer　evangelist。
  The　tragedy　of　Mr。　Punch　was　another；　and　a　still　greater　delight。　I　was　never　allowed　to　go　out　into　the　street　to　mingle　with　the　little　crowd　which　gathered　under　the　stage；　and　as　I　was　extremely　near…sighted；　the　impression　I　received　was　vague。　But　when；　by　happy　chance；　the　show　stopped　opposite　our　door；　I　saw　enough　of　that　ancient　drama　to　be　thrilled　with　terror　and　delight。　I　was　much　affected　by　the　internal　troubles　of　the　Punch　family；　I　thought　that　with　a　little　more　tact　on　the　part　of　Mrs。　Punch　and　some　restraint　held　over　a　temper；　naturally　violent；　by　Mr。　Punch；　a　great　deal　of　this　sad　misunderstanding　might　have　been　prevented。
  The　momentous　close；　when　a　figure　of　shapeless　horror　appears　on　the　stage；　and　quells　the　hitherto　undaunted　Mr。　Punch；　was　to　me　the　bouquet　of　the　entire　performance。　When　Mr　Punch；　losing　his　nerve；　points　to　this　shape　and　says　in　an　awestruck；　squeaking　whisper；　'　Who's　that？　Is　it　the　butcher？　and　the　stern　answer　comes；　'No；　Mr。　Punch！'　And　then；　'Is　it　the　baker？〃　No；　Mr。　Punch！　〃Who　is　it　then？'　（this　in　a　squeak　trembling　with　emotion　and　terror）；　and　then　the　full；　loud　reply；　booming　like　a　judgement…bell；　'It　is　the　Devil　come　to　take　you　down　to　Hell；'　and　the　form　of　Punch；　with　kicking　legs；　sunken　in　epilepsy　on　the　floor；　all　this　was　solemn　and　exquisite　to　me　beyond　words。　I　was　not　amused　I　was　deeply　moved　and　exhilarated；　'purged'；　as　the　old　phrase　hath　it；　'with　pity　and　terror'。
  Another　joy；　in　a　lighter　key；　was　watching　a　fantastic　old　man　who　came　slowly　up　the　street；　hung　about　with　drums　and　flutes　and　kites　and　coloured　balls；　and　bearing　over　his　shoulders　a　great　sack。　Children　and　servant…girls　used　to　bolt　up　out　of　areas；　and　chaffer　with　this　gaudy　person；　who　would　presently　trudge　on；　always　repeating　the　same　set　of　words
  Here's　your　toys　For　girls　and　boys；　For　bits　of　brass　And　broken　glass；　（these　four　lines　being　spoken　in　a　breathless　hurry）　A　penny　or　a　vial…bottell　。　。　。　。　（this　being　drawled　out　in　an　endless　wail）。
  I　was　not　permitted　to　go　forth　and　trade　with　this　old　person；　but　sometimes　our　servant…maid　did；　thereby　making　me　feel　that　if　I　did　not　hold　the　rose　of　merchandise；　I　was　very　near　it。　My　experiences　with　my　cousins　at　Clifton　had　given　me　the　habit　of　looking　out　into　the　world　even　though　it　was　only　into　the　pale　world　of　our　quiet　street。
  My　Father　and　I　were　now　great　friends。　I　do　not　doubt　that　he　felt　his　responsibility　to　fill　as　far　as　might　be　the　gap　which　the　death　of　my　Mother　had　made　in　my　existence。　I　spent　a　large　portion　of　my　time　in　his　study　while　he　was　writing　or　drawing；　and　though　very　little　conversation　passed　between　us；　I　think　that　each　enjoyed　the　companionship　of　the　other。　Them　were　two；　and