Whether it was because of his early precocity or because of the rising fortunes of the family, his father was induced to give Albert a more elaborate education than had been bestowed on his three brothers. After leaving the District Model National School he went in 1877, when he was fourteen, to Lurgan College in Co. Armagh. This was a fortunate choice and was to have far-reaching effects, for the headmaster of Lurgan College at this time was W.T. Kirkpatrick – the ‘Great Knock’ who was to play an important part in C.S. Lewis’s life, and of whom we shall hear more in the course of this narrative. Kirkpatrick was thirty-one at the time and a brilliant teacher. He seems to have taken Albert under his wing, and, once it was decided that the boy would pursue a legal career, he set about preparing him for it.
Albert left Lurgan College in 1879 and was articled the day after leaving school to the law firm of Maclean, Boyle and Maclean in Dublin. Kirkpatrick had inspired him to continue his general education, and most evenings were set aside for the study of literature, composition, logic and history. In 1881 he joined the Belmont Literary Society and was soon considered one of its best speakers. One member predicted that ‘Since Mr Lewis joined the Society his matrimonial prospects have gone up 20 per cent’,1 little knowing that they had been quite high since he first met Miss Edie Macown when he went off to Lurgan. Both, it seems, were more ‘in love with love’ than with one another, and by 1884 Edie had faded out of Albert’s life.
The following year Albert qualified as a solicitor and, after a brief partnership, started a practice of his own in Belfast which he conducted with uniform success for the rest of his life.
On returning to Belfast, Albert was united not only with his family but with their neighbours, the Hamiltons. When the Lewises moved to Lower Sydenham in 1870 they had become members of the parish of St Mark’s, Dundela. Four years later the church acquired a new rector, the Reverend Thomas Hamilton. Richard Lewis was always a stern critic of Thomas Hamilton’s sermons, but the young Lewises and the young Hamiltons became warm friends immediately. Whereas the Lewises sprang from Welsh farmers and were, despite their evangelical Christianity, materially minded, the Hamiltons were a family of reputable antiquity with a strong ecclesiastical tradition.
The Irish branch of the Hamilton family was descended from one Hugh Hamilton who settled at Lisbane, Co. Down, in the time of James I and was one of the Hamiltons of Evandale, of whom Sir James Hamilton of Finnart (d. 1540) was an ancestor. His great-great-grandson (Thomas’s grandfather) was Hugh Hamilton (1729–1805), successively a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, Dean of Armagh, Bishop of Clonfert, and, finally, Bishop of Ossory. In 1772 Hugh married Isabella, eldest daughter of Hans Widman Wood. Their fifth son, also named Hugh (1790–1865), was likewise educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He was ordained in 1813, and was Rector of Inishmacsaint, Co. Fermanagh. He married Elizabeth, daughter of the Right Hon. John Staples, and their second son, Thomas, was the grandfather of C.S. Lewis.
Thomas Robert Hamilton, born on 28 June 1826, took a First in Theology at Trinity College, Dublin in 1848 and was made deacon the same year. He was much afflicted with his throat and in 1850 set out with his family on a grand tour of Europe. Two years later he took another trip for his health, this time to India. He was ordained a priest in 1853. The following year, Thomas was appointed chaplain in the Royal Navy and served with the Baltic squadron of the fleet throughout the Crimean War. In 1859 he married Mary Warren (1826–1916), the daughter of Sir John Borlase Warren (1800–1863), by whom he had four children: Lilian (1860–1934), Florence Augusta (1862–1908), Hugh (1864–1900) and Augustus (1866–1945). From 1870 until 1874 Thomas was chaplain of Holy Trinity Church, Rome, after which he returned to Ireland and took up the incumbency of St Mark’s, Dundela.
‘Through the Warrens the blood went back to a Norman knight whose bones lie at Battle Abbey,’ wrote Lewis in Surprised by Joy.2 This was the very ‘William of Warenne’ of Kipling’s poem ‘The Land’ – and it seems a pleasant coincidence that the author of Puck of Pook’s Hill owned and wrote his series of tales about the land which had once belonged to an ancestor of the author of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Hamilton was an impressive and eloquent preacher, and during many of his sermons was often seen to be shedding tears in the pulpit (‘one of his weepy ones today’, the Lewises would say).3 His religion was, unfortunately, marred by his intense bigotry towards Catholics, whom he considered the Devil’s own children.4 He was also especially sensitive to swearing and in his naval journals he often recorded how he took a sailor aside to whisper some admonition in his ear. Once when returning to his ship in the captain’s gig, in a dangerous sea, he heard the officer in charge rebuke one of the crew with an oath. Hamilton immediately admonished the officer publicly. Afterwards the captain remonstrated with his chaplain, taking the view that the seriousness of the emergency excused the officer’s slip. ‘Captain,’ replied Hamilton, ‘if you found yourself in the presence of the enemy, what would you do?’ ‘Well, I suppose my duty,’ said the captain. ‘And I, Captain, was in the presence of my enemy, and I did my duty,’ was Hamilton’s retort.5 On the positive side of the account can be added the fact that Thomas Hamilton volunteered unhesitatingly for duty in the Baltic cholera camp at a time when deaths from that disease were of daily occurrence in the fleet.
Hamilton’s wife, Mary Warren, was infinitely his superior in energy and intelligence. This clever and aristocratic woman was a typical daughter of a Southern Irish seigneur of the mid-nineteenth century, and the Rectory at Dundela reflected her tastes. The following account comes from her grandson, Warren Lewis:
The house was typical of the woman: infested with cats (which were however rigorously excluded from the study), their presence was immediately apparent to the nose of the visitor when the slatternly servant opened the front door. Supposing him to have been invited to dine, he would find himself in a dirty drawing room, adorned with rare specimens of glass, china and silver. The hand which his hostess extended to him would gleam with valuable rings, but would bear too evident traces of her enthusiasm as a poultry keeper. The announcement of dinner was the signal for a preconcerted rush on the part of the family, the object of which was to ensure the unfortunate guest the chair which had only three sound legs. The dinner, in spite of the orders of the head of the house, was apt to be thoroughly in keeping with the general style of the establishment, and the visitor, having partaken of a perfectly cooked salmon off a chipped kitchen dish, would probably be offered an execrably mangled chop, served in a collector’s piece of Sheffield plate.6
Despite this unusual home life, Hamilton tried to ensure that his children received a good education. He was particularly successful with his second daughter, Florence (or ‘Flora’). She was born in Queenstown, Co. Cork, on 18 May 1862, and was old enough to have benefited from the years the family spent in Rome. On their move to Belfast she attended ‘Ladies’ Classes’ at the Methodist College. At the same time she went to the Queen’s University (then the Royal University of Ireland) where she performed brilliantly. While Albert was preparing for the Bar, Flora was reading Mathematics. In 1880 the eighteen-year-old Flora took her first degree at Queen’s. In another examination the following year, she passed with First Class Honours in Geometry and Algebra. She remained at Queen’s University until she was twenty-three when, in 1885, she passed the second university examination and obtained First Class Honours in Logic and Second Class Honours in Mathematics.
Albert had long been a favourite of Thomas and Mary Hamilton – especially of the latter, who liked discussing politics with him. He, however, was far more interested in Flora than in her parents, and in 1886 he made his feelings known to her. Flora at once made it clear that she could never have anything ‘but friendship to give in exchange’7 and urged him to stop writing to her. Though they lived only a mile apart, the correspondence continued. In 1889 Flora began writing magazine articles and, because of his superior knowledge of English literature, she foun
d in Albert an able and flattering critic. Hamilton, with considerable astuteness, realized that Albert’s attachment to his daughter could be made to serve his own purposes. He was a man much addicted to short jaunts or holidays and in the unfortunate Albert he found not only a courier but, on many occasions, a disbursing officer. ‘I’m a mere parcel,’8 he would say genially, leaving Albert to make all the arrangements. Never had a Jacob served more arduously for his Rachel than did Albert, and he was at last rewarded for his patience. In 1893 Flora agreed to marry him, and in her cool-headed and matter-of-fact way, she wrote: ‘I wonder do I love you? I am not quite sure. I know that at least I am very fond of you, and that I should never think of loving anyone else.’9
After a year’s engagement, during which many love letters were exchanged, Albert and Flora were married. The wedding was celebrated on 29 August 1894 at St Mark’s Church, Dundela. The reception was held immediately afterwards in the Royal Avenue Hotel, and Albert’s somewhat disappointed father-in-law was heard to say, ‘Now that he’s got what he wanted, there’ll be no more jaunts.’10
Albert and Flora went to North Wales for their honeymoon, after which they returned to Belfast and settled at Dundela Villas, one of a pair of semi-detached houses within a mile of Albert’s old home.* It was in this house that their first son, Warren Hamilton, was born on 16 June 1895, and their second son, Clive Staples, on 29 November 1898.
* * *
* The villas were demolished in 1952, their place now taken by Dundela Flats, 47 Dundela Avenue, Belfast.
NOTES
1 Undated letter from Albert to Edie Macown, LP II, p. 9.
2 SBJ, ch. 1, p. 1.
3 LP I, p. 3.
4 Ibid., p. 2.
5 Ibid., p. 201.
6 Ibid., p. 3.
7 Ibid., II, p. 152.
8 Ibid., I, p. 5.
9 Ibid., II, p. 248.
10 Ibid., I, p. 5.
1
EARLY DAYS
If any star danced at the birth of Clive Staples Lewis on 29 November 1898 in one of the semi-detached Dundela Villas near the outskirts of Belfast, the mists of time – and the predominant drizzle of Northern Ireland – have obscured it.
His brother Warren, three years old at the time, wrote, ‘Of his arrival I remember nothing, though no doubt I was introduced to him, and it was only by degrees that I became dimly conscious of him as a vociferous disturber of my domestic peace.’1
Warren’s natural jealousy of the newcomer died away as soon as babyhood ended, and the encumbrance was able to grow into a companion. Clive seems to have matured with commendable speed, not only talking, but expressing his preferences with typical decisiveness before he was two.
The first ten years of his childhood differed little from that of any average child in a similar period and setting. Early delights were those of rail travel each summer to and from nearby seaside resorts: ‘… the selection of toys to be taken, the bustle of packing, and then the great moment when the cab arrived to take us to the station … Then came the glorious excitement of the train journey, and, supreme bliss, the first sight of the sea.’2
This month by the sea each year was their only holiday, and the single variation came in August 1907 when Mrs Lewis took the two boys to Berneval, near Dieppe, in northern France – Clive’s only holiday abroad until he went to Greece in 1960. Otherwise, as they grew older, they could bicycle out for the day into the country, and occasionally visit friends or relations at no great distance.
About his early years Clive Lewis remembered with most gratitude, after ‘good parents, good food and a garden (which then seemed large) to play in … two other blessings’: first, his nurse Lizzie Endicott, ‘in whom even the exacting memory of childhood can discover no flaw – nothing but kindness, gaiety and good sense … The other blessing was my brother. Though three years my senior, he never seemed to be an elder brother; we were allies, not to say confederates from the first.’3 When they were very young, Lizzie, drying them after a bath one day, threatened to smack their ‘pigieboties’ or ‘piggiebottoms’. The boys decided that Warnie was the ‘Archpiggiebotham’ and Jack the ‘Smallpiggiebotham’ or ‘APB’ and ‘SPB’, names they were to use for one another throughout their lives.*4
The biggest change in their lives during Clive’s first ten years was the building of the ‘New House’ – Little Lea – at 76 Circular Road, Strandtown, and the move into it on 21 April 1905. This was on the very edge of suburbia: ‘On one side it was within twenty minutes’ walk of a tram stop, on the other within a mile of what was indisputably open hilly farm land.’5 And as they both had bicycles, the real country, which they now discovered for the first time, was only a few minutes’ ride away from their own front door. During these early ‘golden years’ before boarding-school Clive developed a passionate love of Co. Down that he retained all his life.
Besides this delight there was, as Warren, or ‘Warnie’ as the family called him, records, ‘the new house itself which, though perhaps the worst designed house I ever saw, was for that very reason a child’s delight. On the top floor, cupboard-like doors opened into huge, dark, wasted spaces under the roof, tunnel-like passages through which children could crawl, connecting space with space.’6 ‘The New House is almost a major character in my story,’ wrote Clive years later in Surprised by Joy. ‘I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstair indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles.’7 And he in turn wove these recollections into much that he was to write, from Dymer to The Magician’s Nephew.
The house was full of books – ‘I had always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass’8 – though all of these were the works of novelists, historians, essayists and biographers. Neither of Clive Lewis’s parents ‘had the least taste for that kind of literature to which my allegiance was given the moment I could choose books for myself. Neither had ever listened for the horns of elfland. There was no copy of Keats or Shelley in the house, and the copy of Coleridge was never (to my knowledge) opened. If I am a romantic, my parents bear no responsibility for it.’9
But even from his earliest days ‘Jack’ Lewis (at the age of four he had suddenly announced that his name was Jacksie – soon shortened into Jack – and refused to answer to any other ever after) had been able to find chinks at least in the magic casements, long before he could fling them wide and venture out over the perilous seas in the faery lands forlorn of which he was to add not a few to the literary atlas. To begin with, Lizzie Endicott would tell him fairy tales of her own country – of leprechauns with their pots of buried gold, of the Daoine Sidh, and of the Isle of Mell Moy which was to make him such an enthusiastic reader of James Stephens and the early Yeats.
Then came the early Beatrix Potter volumes, hot from the press. Squirrel Nutkin, his favourite, was published in 1903 before he was five. ‘I liked the Beatrix Potter illustrations at a time when the idea of humanized animals fascinated me perhaps even more than it fascinates most children,’ he wrote in An Experiment in Criticism (1961);10 and he followed up this fascination through the pages of old volumes of Punch with their animal cartoons by Tenniel and Sambourne and Partridge, besides those in Lewis Carroll, and in the old Dalziel illustrations to Mother Goose of which a copy of the 1895 reprint had been given to Warnie.
The first real introduction to romance came by chance, by way of a copy of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court in which he was able to taste something of the true Logres even through Mark Twain’s vulgar ridicule of the great Arthurian cycle. This was followed by an even more blessed discovery: the monthly Strand Magazine was serializing Conan Doyle’s Sir Nigel from December 1905 to December 1906 – a real introduction to the world of chivalry. But more important even than Mark Twain’s perverted Arthuriad and Doyle’s brightly coloured Middle Ages were the serials in the Strand by E. Nesbit with H.
R. Millar’s superb and evocative illustrations: Five Children – and It (April to December 1902), The Phoenix and the Carpet (July 1903 to June 1904), and The Story of the Amulet (May 1905 to April 1906). ‘The last did most for me,’ he recollected in 1955. ‘It first opened my eyes to antiquity, the “dark backward and abysm of time”.11 I can still re-read it with delight.’12
This naturally leads on to the stories that Jack Lewis began writing before he was six and continued to elaborate for the next half-dozen years or more. After the move to Little Lea, he soon ‘staked out a claim to one of the attics’ and made it his ‘study’, decorating the walls with pictures of his own making or cut from brightly coloured Christmas editions of magazines. ‘Here,’ he records, ‘my first stories were written, and illustrated, with enormous satisfaction. They were an attempt to combine my two chief literary pleasures – “dressed animals” and “knights-in-armour”. As a result, I wrote about chivalrous mice and rabbits who rode out in complete mail to kill not giants but cats.’13
It is tempting to look here for the origin of such characters as Reepicheep the chivalric Talking Mouse, one of the most successfully developed among the higher animals of Narnia. But when discussing stories made up in childhood and their effect, or otherwise, on those written later, he told Green categorically that none of the characters or adventures in the Narnian stories was drawn from the Animal-Land of his own childhood inventions. The whole spirit of Narnia is different, as he also pointed out in Surprised by Joy: ‘Animal-Land had nothing whatever in common with Narnia except the anthropomorphic beasts. Animal-Land, by its whole quality, excluded the least hint of wonder.’14 ‘In mapping and chronicling Animal-Land I was training myself to be a novelist. Note well, a novelist; not a poet. My invented world was full (for me) of interest, bustle, humour and character; but there was no poetry, even no romance in it. It was almost astonishingly prosaic.’15
C. S. Lewis Page 2
