That uncle of mine, William Clarke, whom I never saw but in the back room on the first floor of 72, Gracechurch Street, had a proud temper. His father went into business in King Street, Guildhall, and was cut by the father before him for so doing, which father was a general, and paymaster to Queen Anne’s forces, with a residence in Kew Palace. My mother’s immediate uncle was introduced into his father’s business, that of a whalebone merchant, but quitted it suddenly on being asked by a customer to abate a price; his reply being, “Do you think it was stolen?” He played a part in life which still influences posterity, and will do so more and more, if only through one act of his life, that of giving a presentation to the first Sir Frederick Pollock for St. Paul’s School. Proud as he was, he had a good heart, though a churl; he was careful even to meanness; he was charitable towards those who needed it most, preferring the poor to such of his own kith and kin as were not well off. Indeed he left thousands to charitable institutions, and very little to any of his relations except one, the only nephew who preserved his name, though his intentions were ultimately frustrated by the death of his heir, and that, at a period of his life when he was no longer competent to design a will. But he did a great thing in sending the young Pollock to St. Paul’s School, whence the boy proceeded to Cambridge, and became one of the hundred senior wranglers of his own century. The genius of the Pollock family was ripe for breaking out; the brother of the future Chief Baron, Sir George Pollock, became a distinguished general, and, I think, died a field-marshal, a rank borne for a long time by the Duke of Wellington alone, who could tolerate no rival. Sir Frederick Pollock was facile princeps in his profession, and from him have sprung lawyers of mark for three generations, not the least promising of these, as report goes, the present or third baronet, son of a good, great, and noble-minded sire, lately lost to the world; and it must not be forgotten that the name is great in medicine, that profession which is more enlightening than all the others put together, involving, as it does, an adequate knowledge of every science. It is not to be forgotten, either, that one of the most cultivated men of the day, a true poet and the possessor of a unique literary talent in fantastic caricature, is to be found in Walter Herries Pollock, a younger brother of the present baronet.

Either William Clarke or his brother Henry, who were both governors of Christ’s Hospital, supplied me with my early education by nominating me to that remarkable school. They might have put me also to St. Paul’s, though I might not, certainly, have done them the credit they must have enjoyed from giving a presentation to the young Pollock. What the elder did for my mother was always with a high hand; if he sent her money it was with covert insult, nevertheless circumstances compelled her to be grateful and to say as much in return, and she certainly had the best of it in so doing. I must acquit all who act in like manner of wanting spirit, in accepting needful favours done with an ill grace. None of us feel resentful towards Nature for giving us our carrots, our turnips, our potatoes, covered with dirt!

I was given in charge of a clergyman from Exeter to London, the Rev. Mr. Back, who took his own son to the school at the same time. I remember absolutely nothing of my journey, over 173 miles, except that on the road the coach met a drove of cows, and that I said to myself, “This will be something to tell my mother.” This occurrence has stuck to my memory ineradicably, like a daub of paint. But I remember the date without ever having refreshed it: the 20th of June, 1816.

In those days the journey occupied twenty-four hours; as I started in the morning I must have reached town in the morning, and being destined for Hertford, where the younger boys of my tender age were sent, I must have been conveyed there the same day, but I recollect nothing that happened till in bed at No. 1 ward, under Nurse Merenith.

But the almost regal school and oblong gravelled ground, with buildings in front and on each side, faced with trees, and enclosed in lofty iron railings, I see still; as I saw on being turned loose the next day.

When at home in the enjoyment of freedom, I was riotous; when at school, in the hands of strangers, I was meek. I feared my writing and cyphering master, Mr. Whittle. The usher, who took a dislike to me, never missed an opportunity of striking me a blow. Less I feared my classical master, Dr. Franklin, a tall man of noble deportment, with a florid complexion, and a face that never relaxed during school hours, but was full of play the moment school was over. I recollect well my astonishment at seeing the boys following him in crowds as he marched to his house in his doctor’s gown, while they tugged at his robes, seized on his hands, and made free with him as if he were their father; he enjoying these liberties not less than the boys themselves.

I was at once put into Greek and Latin grammar, with delectuses; and then into Æsop. But while on those amusing fables I sickened of measles; from this I had scarcely convalesced when I was down with scarlet fever. This burnt itself out of my blood, but left me prostrate, and, as I learned, I was sent home to my mother to die; all of which seemed to me very natural.

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