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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 think it was about the beginning of the year 1804 that my mother, who was encumbered
with a large house, and who was besides in a very delicate state of health, determined
upon a removal from Angel Court, and this determination was hastened by the Commissioners
of the City of Westminster having determined to pull down the old court, with the broad
and narrow sanctuary before mentioned. The removal took me much from my favorite haunts,
the parks and the abbey.
Our new domicile was in North Street, in the parish of St. John the Evangelist. This
removal, however, brought me into neighbohood with  the large and handsome church of St. John [Smith Square], where, when able,
my mother attended service, and where I also became a regular attendant, still manifesting
the strongest desire to war the surplice.
The music at this church was ordinary. It bore no analogy to the cathedral music I had
been accustomed to hear, and I in consequence still often wandered to Dean's Yard, stole
quietly into the cloisters of the Abbey, and thence got into the church, by a private door
which was often left unfastened by the verger; and there I would again and again feast my
eyes with the monuments, until the melody of the great organ called me to the chancel, and
the voices of the choristers and canons filled me with ecstasy.
Since those halcyon days, I have listened to many organs, and have visited most of the
cathedrals in the principal cities of the British Empire, but no instrument has, in my
humble judgement, ever exceeded, either in power or in brilliancy of tone, that of the
Abbey Church of Westminster.
 The house where my mother had taken up her abode, and in which she
finished her earthly pilgrimage, was No. 16, in North Street, a very large and respectable
house. She occupied the second floor, which consisted only of three rooms, in the smallest
of which was an infirm old lady of the name of Greenwood, whom my mother had to attend
upon, and who have Peggy (such was the name she called my mother) very little leisure or
rest.
I was too noisy, or too inquisitive, or perhaps both, to be tolerated by this ancient
dame. But I did sometimes get into her room, where I was much delighted by a very fine old
screen, adorned with many beautiful watercolor [sic] drawings—not such a screen as
the ladies hold in their hands at the present day—but about six feet high, folding in
perhaps half a dozen leaves; and when unfolded and expanded, extending quite across the
room, and keeping out all unwelcome draughts of wind and noise; but I was never permitted
to remain long in this old lady's sanctum. She was nearly 90 years of age, took an
immoderate quantity of Scotch snuff, and spent her time between a large print Prayer Book
and her Bible.
My poor mother had to submit to many a lecture from this old lady about my wanderings.
I have heard my mother say she was a very good, but a very particular woman. She required
the most unremitting attention; and I think the anxiety and labor consequent upon
attending her, shortened my mother's existence. I cannot tell how my mother supported me;
I know she had some little pittance derived from this lady; and my uncle Lloyd, my
mother's brother, who was a barrister, and her constant visitor, allowed her something
more; and she besides received some small pension from the Exchequer, in which offices my
father had been employed. She, however, always maintained a near and ladylike appearance,
and I considered that I was born a gentleman.
My uncle Lloyd always treated her with kindness; and as her health was visibly breaking
up fast, he quieted her apprehensions with respect to me, and promised that he would take
care of, and bring me up. But as their conversation always was carried on in the Welsh
language, which I knew very little of, and that little confined to short tales my mother
had taught me, I never could exactly acquire a knowledge of her position or her
circumstances. There were some remains of better days in our apartments, and a few
articles of old fashioned plate* were occasionally brought out, so that my imagination was
satisfied that my mother was a real lady. she was, however, all the world to me, and I
know I was her chief anxiety.
I was very inquisitive, and pestered her with questions, which she did not seem always
willing to answer. I question not that I must often have behaved very undutifully, for her
rebukes were frequent, and I particularly remember her once saying tome, "I feel I
shall not be long with you, David: and then you will be sorry that you have no been so
dutiful as you ought to be. But, poor child, you are like other small children; and duty,
and pain, and suffering have small meaning for one of you age." It may be thought
strange, that I should remember these words after the lapse of so many years; but I have
already explained that my memory was very tenacious, and anything twice or thrice repeated
remains with me, if not in the very words, at least in substance, and I do not think my
memory impaired even to this day. Anything that I read three times over remains with me,
and I feel that I could acquire any literary knowledge, provided I could only be
sufficiently interested as to commence the study.
*A few articles have, since my brother's death, been give to me.
All this time, though I knew I had many brothers, I could not charge my memory with
having often seen them. They were growing up young men, with the single exception of my
brother William, who was in a public school, while I was a mere child of eight years of
age. [Of Margaret Lloyd's sons, in 1804, Thomas was 18; Joseph, 17; William, 12. If Ann
Miles's children were alive, James would have been 32; John, 30; and Edward, 28.] I was
never much troubled either with their counsel, superintendence, or company. I knew my
mother, and that was all; and sometimes try to recall to my mind the mild and pale face of
that dear friend. And when my own children pain me, and I feel grieved at their neglect, I
often wonder whether I was not equally disobedient, and this reflection has saved them
many a severe lecture.
Among the old-fashioned articles in my mother's room was a picture painted on glass,
and rather common in the day of which I write, and it attracted much of my childish
attention. It was a tree, very much like a large apple tree, laden with fruit, each apple
having written on it its own name and quality. I used to think this the forbidden fruit
tree, and I firmly believed it to be an exact representation of that tree which caused the
fall of man, of which my good mother had often read me the history. And yet I often
wondered how a knowledge of this tree was acquired, so as to represent it so exactly, for
I recollected the account of the Fall, and I knew that Adam and Eve were driven out of the
garden and could not get in again.
I believed the serpent had really spoken to Eve, and I supposed Eve, who was holding
the apple in her hand, was considering whether she should eat it or not. But how the tree
was so exactly described, was a puzzle to me. At last I supposed that Adam must have
remembered the tree so well as to be able to draw it, and so keep it as a remembrance of
his disobedience, so that, he might be reminded of his sin, and be kept in a state of
continual repentance. And when I had arrived at this conclusion, I believed it to be
really true, and that the tree was now painted and sold to people that they might always
see Adam's sin, and know what kind of punishment awaited us all from listening to the
serpent.
Perhaps my mother told me all this in answer to some of my number questions, but this I
do not remember; however, this belief remained with me. I did not for an instant conceive
that the picture was a work of imagination. I had been taught that everything mentioned in
the Bible was literally true, and I believed that this painted description of the tree was
as true as the Bible itself. On my return to London, in the middle of 1847, I incidentally
fell in with similar picture; cracked and sadly mutilated, it is true; but it immediately
attracted me attention. I made inquiries how the person had become possessed of it, and
found it to be the identical picture I had so often wondered at in my childish days.
I made proposal for its purchase; but the possessor, who was the widow of a deceased
brother of mine, very kindly presented me with it. It may be inferred that I value it
highly, as the only relic that has fallen into my hands of my poor mother's property. But
to return to my narrative. Deprived as I was of the glorious harmony of the abbey, I now
began to love the simpler melody of the Psalms, and the tones which then were sung in the
parish churches, many of them eminently beautiful, remain with me to this day. Among them
may be mentioned, St. David's, Gainsborough, Irish, London New, Peckham, Rockingham,
Sheffield, Wakefield, St. Matthew's, St. Ann's, Westonfavell, etc. They were all very
simple, but their harmony at this day causes my eyes to swim whenever I hear or sing them.
I also was very partial to Non nobis Domine, Denmark, and some few Anthems in
the Collection of Dr. Miller's Church Music. I never looked into the collections of
Dissenters; I could conceive no music at all equal to that of the Church of England, out
of the pale of which, I was taught to believe, there could be no salvation.
Thus passed my time till I was nearly nine years of age. I was very cheerful in my
disposition, but I could assume a quiet solemnity in church. I was very timid and shy
among such children as were strange to me; but to those whom I knew well I was always full
of fun—could run, jump, and leap as fast or as high as any of them; and at night
there was none among them who could tell a better story.
Meantime, my mother's health continued to decline, and she was at length confined to
her bed. My uncle took care of her in her illness—that, is he provided a proper
nurse, and saw that she wanted to for night. I was told that my mother would soon be taken
from me. I did not know the loss I was likely to sustain, and I dare say I received the
news as most children would do, with tears at first, but which tears were soon dried up.
I knew that my uncle lived in a large house, and in good style, some little distance
from my mother's lodging, and I supposed, if my mother did, I should be taken into his
house; and thus, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, I did no give myself much
trouble about what would become of me. My mother continued to grow weaker, and the nurse
was always glad to get me out of the way. I had been strolling one day to my favorite
haunt in the Abbey, and admiring the sculptures in Poet's Corner, when the bell announced
the time for closing the Abbey gates. I therefore left the venerable edifice, and
returning home by way of Abingdon Street, I began singing the 149th Psalm, of Brady and
Tate's version:
"O praise ye the Lord,
Prepare your glad voice," etc.
I remember I was singing it to the tune of the "Dead March in Saul," that
being the tune to which it was sung in St. Margaret's and St. John's Churches, and on my
arrival at home found that I had been singing the funeral dirge of my good mother. She had
departed somewhat unexpectedly, in the fifty-fifth year of her age, and on a day never to
be forgotten by me—namely, on the 1st day of March, the day that I was nine years of
age. And thus, at this early age, was I left, bereft of both parents, and thrown upon the
charity and tender mercy of others. I cried bitterly, and was completely stupefied.
My mother was the only being that appeared to live for me: her anxiety was for me only;
and although she depended on the word of her brother, my uncle, it may be concluded this
did not altogether lessen her anxiety on my account. I was taken care of previous to the
funeral by the people of the house. There were no females, if I recollect right, at my
mother's funeral. My uncle, my brothers, and myself, together with a cousin from a
distance, named Evan EVANS, whom I had never seen before, followed her remains to the
Broadway Church in Westminster, and I saw the earth thrown upon the coffin which contained
the remains of the dearest friend I ever had.
I did not know it then; but it has been painfully brought home to me since. When I have
seen children happy under their parents' roof, protected from danger, carefully trained
and educated, and guided by parental experience to meet the troubles of the world, I have
thought of my own condition at nine years of ages, with scarcely a friend to advise me,
and with a disposition so flexible that I might easily have been led either to good or to
evil. Yet the wonderful interventions of Providence in my behalf have been so marvellous,
as often to remind me of the divine words—"Leave your fatherless children to
me."
Yes, the Lord has indeed dealt bountifully with me. He has been to me my mother, my
father, my friend; and has raised up instrumental mediums for my support and guidance,
some of which I shall have occasion to notice in future part of this narrative. Yes,
I feel I have cause to be much more grateful than I am; but I can say truly, what perhaps
many more can say, that I only began to estimate my mother's worth when she was lost to me
for ever. I do in honest truth wish that I had known her better. And O, that I could
accurately throw her image on the retina of my mind's eye! Vain wish! I must not longer
dwell on this part of my life.
I returned with the other mourners to my desolate home, but not to remain there. I was
removed, not to my uncle's house, as I had expected, but to the house of the cousin, who
for the first time I saw at my mother's funeral, and a weary journey it was for me. The
abbey, the parks, and the associations of my infant home, were exchanged for a small house
in a small street, far, far from Westminster.
 My new home as at Cross Street, Holywell Mount, Finsbury Square.
The family of my cousin consisted of himself, his wife, two sons, and a daughter; the
oldest son, nearly my own age; the others respectively seven and five years; the daughter,
the youngest. They were excellent and worthy people, and I shall have occasion to speak of
them in a future part of this narrative. I was soon at home in my new abode, and began to
be a favorite with my young cousins, for my habit of telling stories returned to me, and
in the evening we used to assemble in our little yard, when I would recount some of my
wonderful tales.
Continue...
© Chris Goddard, 27 November, 2004
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