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David George Goyder
My Battle for Life
The Autobiography of a Phrenologist
FIRST PERIOD:
FROM BIRTH TILL NINE YEARS OF AGE.
1796 TO 1805 (continued)
I have, when regiments were drafted for foreign service, often stood at Story's Gate
aforesaid, and seen the troops defile through, with martial music playing, and standards
floating on the breeze. I have watched them, and followed them to the bridge of
Westminster, beyond which I was forbidden to stray; and I have wondered to what unknown
country that bridge led. Then have I again strayed back in the park—again loitered
hours in watching the recruits at drill, who, in their turn, were drafted off in a similar
manner, when sufficiently instructed.
But in the parks what numerous happy hours have I spent! All the different walks were
to me as familiar as the court in which was my mother's house. The Green Park,
Constitution Hill, Buckingham House—now a royal palace—the old Brick Palace of
St. James's, the Malls, the Parade, the before-mentioned Bird-Cage Walk, the Canal in
front of the Horse Guards, the Artillery House, the Quart Pots, as they were termed (small
pieces of artillery fire on rejoicing days, or on occasion of victories over the French)
Spring Gardens, Gwydyr House, of the proprietor of which I believe I am some
hundred-and-fifty-sixth cousin, et hoc genus omne.
A few months since I again visited all these localities, but many of them were as much
changed as myself. Some of the noble mansions, however, still remain—Gwydyr House
among them—but not a vestige of  Carlton
House, the favorite residence of George IV, when Prince of Wales. I stopped at the Horse
Guards, to try if I could hear the music of the old clock. Yes—I did hear it! The
chimes are still the old familiar sounds. They fell upon my ears as the voices of old
friends, from whom I had long been separated, and whom I had never anticipated I should
hear again. The deep tone of the War Office clock proclaims still, and with a voice
seemingly unimpaired by years, the steady flight of Old Time; and though its voice feel not
on my ears with the force "of other days," it still brought back associations
mingled with much pain and may bitter feelings, some of which I may, perhaps, detail at
the proper time and place; but, on the whole, I listened to the chimes of that dear old
clock with more of pleasure than of pain. I cannot describe its sound, but my memory
assured me there was no change in the music of that old clock.
But I must not so often digress. When sated with the parks, the music of the military
bands, the drilling of the recruits, and the departure of the troops for active service, I
used to spend much of my time in the old Abbey Church. I delighted in the cloisters; and
as I saw the processions of the choristers, the canons, and the prebendaries in their
white surplices, I though how I should like to be a priest,and be constantly engaged in
the services of the Abbey Church.
I cannot tell how or when I learned to read. I have no the slightest recollection of
any one teaching me my letters—doubtless, this was the work of my good
mother—but I do not remember the time when I was unable to read; and next to the
delight which I took in military music, and strolling in the parks, I used to experience
intense pleasure in reading the Church Service out of my mother's large Prayer Book, and I
will remember that this pleasure was increased, when I was allowed to throw a table-cloth
over my shoulders. which gratified me as much as if it were a surprise. Again and again
have I heard the deep tones of the noble organ in the Abbey Church, while sitting in my
mother's house—this house being a considerable distance from the church—and I
have started up and ran off to enjoy the sublime music. Music has ever been my passion. Even now, when everything falls upon my ears as though the tympanum
were but so much lead, music lights up my countenance with joy; its sweet sounds appear to
penetrate my otherwise dull sense; and if I were closely noticed while under its soothing
influence, my moist eye would give evidence of the power it has over my affections. I am
fully of the opinion of our immortal bard, that
"The man that has not music in his soul,
And is not moved by concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils;
Let no such man be trusted."
My veneration for the old Abbey was deep, fervent, and solemn, and that veneration
still clings to me. The wonderful extent,its stupendous height, the massy pillars which
support the roof, the sculptured marble monuments with which it abounds, its gorgeous
chapels (that of Henry VII, I particularly remember); its antique wonder-inspiring
waxwork, among which was the maid of honor who pricked her finger with a needle, and bled
to death—a just punishment, I was told, for working on the Sabbath day; its choice of
poetic monuments, giving the name of "Poet's Corner" to the place where the
ashes of that imaginative race rest; and its grand chancel, where service was performed
every day, and where I have so often heard,
"the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced choir below";
all, all steal over my memory at the present day, making me mourn over the loss of that
delightful sense, which drunk in, in early life, such delicious flood of sacred harmony.
Yes! the loss of hearing next to the loss of sight, must be the most severe privation that
man can be subjected to. But it will not do to dwell longer on that privation, or to think
what I have lost by it. It must be permitted for a wise purpose.
I was now seven years of age, with a growing reputation for tenacity of memory. I was
fond of listening to the tales that were told in my presence. I would treasure up the
chief incidents, and then invent others, and weave them into tales, so that at this age I
was always welcome in the evening to the boys of the court.  At this
time, and for years previous, the name of Pitt was familiar in every one's mouth, and his
portrait was universally seen in all the picture shops. [Pitt having resigned as Prime
Minister in March 1801, he became Prime Minister once more in 1804.] He was most
unmercifully caricatured and satirized. Every measure that he brought forward was sure to
call forth a host of satirists, and he was as easily known for his long nose as the
Duke of Wellington was by his hooked one. he was universally hated by the poorer people
for his tax-inventing propensities, while those who had the tact to satirize him, did so
without remorse, and doubtless were well paid for it. A name with so notorious a
reputation could not escape my open ears, and his portrait—always with his
distinguishing nose, however—was presented under every variety of shape to the public
gaze. I recollect seeing an old caricature (it was old then, inasmuch as it was originally
published at the first addition, by Pitt, to the Salt Tax*) the point of which I could not
then understand, but it was universally admired. A cook in a gentleman's kitchen was
represented as preparing dinner for a large party, and in the midst of her labor repairs
to the salt-box for a handful of salt, which, upon reaching, up starts the lid of box, and
out pops the head of Pitt, long nose and all, with the exclamation—"Ah, Cookie,
how do you do!" Starting back with affright, the poor cook exclaims—"The
deuce take the fellow, he's got into the salt-box now."
*The Salt Tax was originally imposed in the reign of Queen Anne, at 2s. 6d. per
cwt. It was increased by Pitt to 5s., and in 1808 to 15s.
Never was there a man so severely lampooned as well as caricatured as William Pitt. On
one occasion, when he had brought into the House a very obnoxious Budget, a host of
anonymous pamphlets were issued, some of them exceedingly biting and caustic.
[Pitt died in January 1806.]
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© Chris Goddard, 27 November, 2004
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