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MY UNCLE.
Now I must tell you what my uncle was like.
The first thing that struck you about him would have been, how tall and
thin he was. The next thing would have been, how he stooped; and the
next, how sad he looked. It scarcely seemed that Martha Moon had been
able to do much for him. Yet doubtless she had done, and was doing, more
than either he or she knew. He had rather a small head on the top of his
long body; and when he stood straight up, which was not very often, it
seemed so far away, that some one said he took him for Zacchaeus looking
down from the sycomore. I never thought of analyzing his appearance,
never thought of comparing him with any one else. To me he was the best
and most beautiful of men--the first man in all the world. Nor did I
change my mind about him ever--I only came to want another to think of
him as I did.
His features were in fine proportion, though perhaps too delicate.
Perhaps they were a little too small to be properly beautiful. When first
I saw a likeness of the poet Shelley, I called out "My uncle!" and
immediately began to see differences. He wore a small but long moustache,
brushed away from his mouth; and over it his eyes looked large. They were
of a clear gray, and very gentle. I know from the testimony of others,
that I was right in imagining him a really learned man. That small head
of his contained more and better than many a larger head of greater note.
He was constantly reading--that is, when not thinking, or giving me the
lessons which make me now thank him for half my conscious soul.
Reading or writing or thinking, he made me always welcome to share his
room with him; but he seldom took me out walking. He was by no means
regular in his habits--regarded neither times nor seasons--went and came
like a bird. His hour for going out was unknown to himself, was seldom
two days together the same. He would rise up suddenly, even in the middle
of a lesson--he always called it "a lesson together"--and without a word
walk from the room and the house. I had soon observed that in gloomy
weather he went out often, in the sunshine seldom.
The house had a large garden, of a very old-fashioned sort, such a place
for the charm of both glory and gloom as I have never seen elsewhere. I
have had other eyes opened within me to deeper beauties than I saw in
that garden then; my remembrance of it is none the less of an enchanted
ground. But my uncle never walked in it. When he walked, it was always
out on the moor he went, and what time he would return no one ever knew.
His meals were uninteresting to him--no concern to any one but Martha,
who never uttered a word of impatience, and seldom a word of anxiety. At
whatever hour of the day he went, it was almost always night when he came
home, often late night. In the house he much preferred his own room to
any other.
This room, not so large as the kitchen-hall, but quite as long, seems to
me, when I look back, my earliest surrounding. It was the centre from
which my roving fancies issued as from their source, and the end of their
journey to which as to their home they returned. It was a curious place.
Were you to see first the inside of the house and then the outside, you
would find yourself at a loss to conjecture where within it could be
situated such a room. It was not, however, contained in what, to a
cursory glance, passed for the habitable house, and a stranger would not
easily have found the entrance to it.
Both its nature and situation were in keeping with certain peculiarities
of my uncle's mental being. He was given to curious inquiries. He would
set out to solve now one now another historical point as odd as
uninteresting to any but a mind capable of starting such a question. To
determine it, he would search book after book, as if it were a live
thing, in whose memory must remain, darkly stored, thousands of facts,
requiring only to be recollected: amongst them might nestle the thing he
sought, and he would dig for it as in a mine that went branching through
the hardened dust of ages. I fancy he read any old book whatever of
English history with the haunting sense that next moment he might come
upon the trace of certain of his own ancestors of whom he specially
desired to enlarge his knowledge. Whether he started any new thing in
mathematics I cannot tell, but he would sit absorbed, every day and all
day long, for weeks, over his slate, suddenly throw it down, walk out for
the rest of the day, and leave his calculus, or whatever it was, for
months. He read Shakespeare as with a microscope, propounding and
answering the most curious little questions. It seemed to me sometimes, I
confess, that he missed a plain point from his eyes being so sharp that
they looked through it without seeing it, having focused themselves
beyond it.
A specimen of the kind of question he would ask and answer himself,
occurs to me as I write, for he put it to me once as we read together.
"Why," he said, "did Margaret, in Much ado about Nothing, try to
persuade Hero to wear her other rabato?"
And the answer was,
"Because she feared her mistress would find out that she had been wearing
it--namely, the night before, when she personated her."
And here I may put down a remark I heard him make in reference to a
theory which itself must seem nothing less than idiotic to any one who
knows Shakespeare as my uncle knew him. The remark was this--that whoever
sought to enhance the fame of lord St. Alban's--he was careful to use the
real title--by attributing to him the works of Shakespeare, must either
be a man of weak intellect, of great ignorance, or of low moral
perception; for he cast on the memory of a man already more to be pitied
than any, a weight of obloquy such as it were hard to believe anyone
capable of deserving. A being with Shakespeare's love of human nature,
and Bacon's insight into essential truth, guilty of the moral and social
atrocities into which his lordship's eagerness after money for scientific
research betrayed him, would be a monster as grotesque as abominable.
I record the remark the rather that it shows my uncle could look at
things in a large way as well as hunt with a knife-edge. At the same
time, devoutly as I honour him, I cannot but count him intended for
thinkings of larger scope than such as then seemed characteristic of him.
I imagine his early history had affected his faculties, and influenced
the mode of their working. How indeed could it have been otherwise!
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