Memoirs of My Life and Writings | Page 9

my Christian name of Edward, that, in case of the departure of
the eldest son, this patronymic appellation might be still perpetuated in
the family. --Uno avulso non deficit alter. To preserve and to rear so
frail a being, the most tender assiduity was scarcely sufficient, and my
mother's attention was somewhat diverted by an exclusive passion for
her husband, and by the dissipation of the world, in which his taste and
authority obliged her to mingle. But the maternal office was supplied
by my aunt, Mrs. Catherine Porten; at whose name I feel a tear of
gratitude trickling down my cheek. A life of celibacy transferred her
vacant affection to her sister's first child; my weakness excited her pity;
her attachment was fortified by labour and success: and if there be any,
as I trust there are some, who rejoice that I live, to that dear and

excellent woman they must hold themselves indebted. Many anxious
and solitary days did she consume in the patient trial of every mode of
relief and amusement. Many wakeful nights did she sit by my bedside
in trembling expectation that each hour would be my last. Of the
various and frequent disorders of my childhood my own recollection is
dark. Suffice it to say, that while every practitioner, from Sloane and
Ward to the Chevalier Taylor, was successively summoned to torture or
relieve me, the care of my mind was too frequently neglected for that of
my health: compassion always suggested an excuse for the indulgence
of the master, or the idleness of the pupil; and the chain of my
education was broken, as often as I was recalled from the school of
learning to the bed of sickness.
As soon as the use of speech had prepared my infant reason for the
admission of knowledge, I was taught the arts of reading, writing, and
arithmetic. So remote is the date, so vague is the memory of their origin
in myself, that, were not the error corrected by analogy, I should be
tempted to conceive them as innate. In my childhood I was praised for
the readiness with which I could multiply and divide, by memory alone,
two sums of several figures; such praise encouraged my growing talent;
and had I persevered in this line of application, I might have acquired
some fame in mathematical studies.
After this previous institution at home, or at a day school at Putney, I
was delivered at the age of seven into the hands of Mr. John Kirkby,
who exercised about eighteen months the office of my domestic tutor.
His learning and virtue introduced him to my father; and at Putney he
might have found at least a temporary shelter, had not an act of
indiscretion driven him into the world. One day reading prayers in the
parish church, he most unluckily forgot the name of King George: his
patron, a loyal subject, dismissed him with some reluctance, and a
decent reward; and how the poor man ended his days I have never been
able to learn. Mr. John Kirkby is the author of two small volumes; the
Life of Automathes (London, 1745), and an English and Latin
Grammar (London, 1746); which, as a testimony of gratitude, he
dedicated (Nov. 5th, 1745) to my father. The books are before me: from
them the pupil may judge the preceptor; and, upon the whole, his
judgment will not be unfavourable. The grammar is executed with
accuracy and skill, and I know not whether any better existed at the

time in our language: but the Life of Automathes aspires to the honours
of a philosophical fiction. It is the story of a youth, the son of a
ship-wrecked exile, who lives alone on a desert island from infancy to
the age of manhood. A hind is his nurse; he inherits a cottage, with
many useful and curious instruments; some ideas remain of the
education of his two first years; some arts are borrowed from the
beavers of a neighbouring lake; some truths are revealed in
supernatural visions. With these helps, and his own industry,
Automathes becomes a self- taught though speechless philosopher, who
had investigated with success his own mind, the natural world, the
abstract sciences, and the great principles of morality and religion. The
author is not entitled to the merit of invention, since he has blended the
English story of Robinson Crusoe with the Arabian romance of Hai
Ebn Yokhdan, which he might have read in the Latin version of Pocock.
In the Automathes I cannot praise either the depth of thought or
elegance of style; but the book is not devoid of entertainment or
instruction; and among several interesting passages, I would select the
discovery of fire, which produces by accidental mischief the discovery
of conscience. A man who