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Excerpt from Memories of Sixty Years at Eton, Cambridge and Elsewhere, Vol. 5
On January 17, 1837, the day of my birth, there was one of the blackest fogs ever known in London. It was impossible to find your way about the streets. My birth was premature and unexpected, my mother lay insensible and nearly dying. The doctor had arrived but the nurse was absent, and my brother, an Eton boy of fifteen, was sent in a hackney coach to fetch her. Before she arrived my twin brother was born, and the doctor, occupied with my unconscious mother, and seeing no sign of life in the child, put it aside without attempting to revive it. When I appeared on the scene some time later the doctor was about to treat me in the same manner. But the nurse, who was then present, cried, "That child is not dead, give it to me," and with a hearty blow she made me squeal, and to this treatment I owe the fact that I am able to write these memoirs at the age of seventy-two.
I have heard many things about my infancy.
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