Charles Bradlaugh: a Record of His Life and Work, Volume 1 (of 2): With an Account of his Parliamentary Struggle, Politics and Teachings. Seventh EditionRobertson, J. M. (John Mackinnon)
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Charles Bradlaugh: a Record of His Life and Work, Volume 1 (of 2): With an Account of his Parliamentary Struggle, Politics and Teachings. Seventh Edition
Robertson, J. M. (John Mackinnon)
Bradlaugh, Charles, 1833-1891
I was here about to break off and take up again the thread of the story
of Mr Bradlaugh's public work, but it occurs to me that I have said
little about my father's treatment of us, his children, and of our
early education. There is so little to say, and certainly so little
of importance to linger over, that I should have passed on to other
matters were it not for the imaginings of those who make it their
business to spread false statements concerning Mr Bradlaugh, even on
such a purely personal matter as his children's education.
My father was away from home so much that ordinarily we saw him very
little, and my earliest recollection of him is at St. Helen's Place.
One evening in particular seems to stand out in my memory. The room
was alight and warm with gas and fire; and at one end of the table,
covered with papers, sat my father. I suppose that we were romping
and noisy, and interfered with his work, for he turned towards us and
said in grave tones, which I can always hear, "Is it not time you
little lassies went to bed?" A trifling incident, but it shows that at
that time he was obliged to do his thinking and writing in the common
room in the midst of his family, and the term "little lassies" was
a characteristic one with him. When we were quite little, if he had
anything serious to say to us, it was his "little lassies" he talked
to; as we grew older it was "my daughters," and what he had to say
always seemed to have an additional emphasis by the use of the special,
yet tender term, almost entirely reserved for serious occasions. In the
morning, when he left home, we three children always assembled for the
"goodbye" kiss; after that we seldom saw him until the next day. If,
however, he was home in the evenings while we were still up, we used
to sit by his elbow while he played whist or chess, and after the game
was over he would so carefully explain his own moves, and perhaps the
faults of his partner or his opponents, that before I was twelve years
old I could play whist as well as I can to-day, and chess a great deal
better, merely through watching his play, and paying attention to his
comments.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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