I WAS born in the parish of St. Michaels-at-Plea, Norwich, November 18th, 1807. My father was in some respects a remarkable man. For his great integrity, he won the name of “the honest lawyer”; he would undertake no cause, if unconvinced of its justice, and declined the office of coroner because its duties would have shocked his feelings. Of strong understanding, and fond of reading, after living a thoughtless life, he became an earnest Christian, and worshipped with Methodists, chiefly from circumstances—still regarding himself as a member of the Established Church. Two elder sisters and an elder brother of mine were baptised by the parish clergyman; so was I, the Archdeacon of London being my godfather. I have been told that I “was intended for the Church,” and some Episcopalian friends have amused themselves with speculations as to what might have been the result.
My mother before she married was a Quakeress, and used to tell of eminent “Friends” she knew in her girlhood, especially Edmund Gurney, who preached “with great power” in the Gildencroft Meeting House. She was brought up a Quakeress by her mother, but her father was, at least in later life, a staunch Methodist. She remembered John Wesley, and used to tell how he took her up as a child and kissed her.
My father died in my fifth year. Of him I have but a faint recollection. My grandfather, at a distance now of seventy-five years, visibly stands before me—a tall old gentleman with flaxen wig, large spectacles, a long, blue, bright-buttoned coat, and big buckled shoes. He was Master of Bethel Hospital, an institution for the insane, in my native city; and, as I spent much time with him for a year before his death, I saw and heard a good deal of the patients under his care. “Master,” said one of them, “I want to propose a toast—may the devil never go abroad or receive visitors at home.” “What brought you here?” somebody asked an inmate. “The loss of what you never had, or you would not ask such a question,” was the prompt reply. A man who fancied himself King of England drew on his cell wall pictures of ships which he called his fleet, and would never speak unless he was addressed as “Your Majesty.” I once narrowly escaped severe injury from a woman, who seized me as her child and squeezed me so hard, that no violence could induce her to relax her grasp; but gentle words, and a promise that I should be taken care of, secured my release. Alternate severity and indulgence, at that time, in the treatment of patients led to a sad tragedy in the case of my grandfather, who was killed by a man employed as gardener. He was thought to be harmless, and used to mow the lawn. One morning he drew the scythe across his master’s body and nearly cut him in two.