Frederick Marryat, one of the most brilliant, and the least fairly recognized, of English novelists, was born in Westminster, on the 10th July, 1792, some seven months before the outbreak of the Great War. He was the second son of Joseph Marryat, M.P. for Sandwich, chairman of the committee of Lloyds, and Colonial Agent for the island of Grenada. His mother was a Bostonian, of a loyalist family. Her maiden name was Geyer—or according to Mrs. Ross Church’s life of her father, Von Geyer—and the family is said to have been of Hessian origin. The Marryats themselves were a Suffolk stock. In Marshall’s “Naval Biography,” which appeared during Marryat’s own life, the novelist is said to have descended from one of the numerous Huguenot refugees who settled in the Eastern Counties during the persecutions of the sixteenth century. The family version of its history, as given by Mrs. Ross Church, contains a longer and more splendid pedigree, going back even to knights who came over with “Richard Conqueror.” These things, though set forth with faith no doubt, are to be received with polite reserve by the judicious reader. For the rest, whatever the remote origin of the Marryats may have been, they were during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries very distinctly middle-class people—dissenting ministers, doctors, or business men—manifestly of good parts and industry. Some of them wrote sermons and printed them. Thomas Marryat, the novelist’s grandfather, was a doctor and the author of a medical book. His father was, as the places he held show, a prosperous man; and the future novelist entered the world under fairly favourable circumstances. There was, it is clear, no want of money, and the family were active people with a marked tendency to use their pens.

As no detailed life of Marryat was written until long after his death, when no witnesses were left who could speak with knowledge, there is an almost absolute want of evidence as to the character and probable influence of his family life. If we are to argue from his stories, it was hardly to be called happy. These guides may not be entirely safe, and yet they afford evidence of a kind not to be lightly dismissed. A writer whose pictures of home and school life are habitually disagreeable, cannot have had many pleasant memories of his own to look back on. With Marryat this was the case. In all his earlier stories, and until he became decidedly didactic, and religious, in his later years, he described the relations of parents and children, of schoolboy and schoolmaster, as either indifferent or hostile, or as contemptuous even when affection is not absent. Peter Simple, Mr. Midshipman Easy, and Newton Foster are the sons of men whom they may like, but cannot respect, of whom two are maniacs, and one is a harmless imbecile. Their mothers are either utterly shadowy or repulsive. “Frank Mildmay,” the first and the most autobiographical of his stories, is also the most destitute of kindliness. Something may be allowed for rawness in the author, and something for direct imitation of the earlier Smollettian model. Marryat, too, publicly protested that he was not the “Naval Officer” of this first story. But, by his own confession, he put many of the incidents of his own life into it, and we may safely conclude that what is wholly wanting in the story was not prominent in his own experience. Now what is wanting is any trace that Frank Mildmay had the smallest filial regard for his father, or was conscious of any maternal influence, or thought of his home life with affection, or of his school as other than a place of torment. That is not how men write when they look back kindly on their first years. If Thackeray and Dickens drew such different pictures of boy and school life, we know why. It is not necessary to rack the scanty evidence about Marryat’s early years, to find reason for believing that his father was probably a hard and dry man of business, whose prosperity never melted the provincial dissenter quite out of him. Of his mother there is nothing to be supposed at all.

It is to be noted that although Mr. Joseph Marryat was a prosperous man, he did not send his sons to a public school. Frederick and his elder brother (Joseph also, and not unknown as a collector of, and writer on, porcelain) were sent to some sort of academy kept by a Mr. Freeman, at Ponders End. It is an almost universal experience that the boy who has been at a private school may remember an individual master with kindness, but never has any degree of respect or affection for the place itself. He is not one of an ancient body like the public-school man, and has nothing in his memory to set off against the restraint—or in the old hard days the floggings and hardships of school life. The Wykamite might laugh at the wash pot of Moab, but what private-school boy would forgive his master for turning him out to wash in a back yard? What is inflicted by a public school is inflicted by the school itself; in a private establishment it is inflicted by the master, and is a personal wrong. Marryat was no exception to the rule. His memories of Ponders End were not of a kind to make him draw cheerful pictures of school life. That he was far from a model pupil, and had his share of the cane, has nothing to do with it. He scamped his work, and forgot it, as many other boys have done and will do. Not only that, but he was the cause of scamping in others. Mr. Babbage, who was for a time his schoolfellow, is the authority for a story which shows that Marryat was indeed a model young scamp. Babbage wished to work (it does not appear whether they called it “sweating” or “greasing” at Ponders End), and to get up for that purpose with another “swot” at the absurd hour of three. With intentions which were only too obvious, Marryat, who was his room fellow, proposed to join the party. Babbage objected, and thought to escape the intrusion by the easy method of not waking Marryat. This answered until the creator of Mr. Midshipman Easy first bethought himself of drawing his bed across the door, and then when even the moving of his bed did not rouse him, of tying his hand to the handle. For some nights Babbage got over the difficulty by cutting the fastening, until Marryat found a chain which could not be cut. Babbage had his revenge. He invented an ingenious machine for jerking the chain, and went on waking his chum repeatedly for no purpose. At last a compromise was made. Marryat joined the good boys for early study, and of course it was not long before others joined too, and then the letting off of fireworks and various noises betrayed the secret. How many of the party were flogged does not appear. Before long Marryat had to be up at six bells in the middle watch on duty too often to leave him much inclination to turn out voluntarily, even for mischief, when he could by any chance get a night in.

It is also recorded of Marryat that he ran away to sea three times, that is, he ran away with the intention of getting to sea, but the end of the adventure was always capture, return to school, and more cane. His great grievance is reported to have been the obligation to wear the clothes which his elder brother had outgrown. The detail seems to indicate a certain narrowness, not to say sordidness, in so prosperous a household as the Marryats’, and the aggravation was certainly gross enough to justify the protest. On one of these occasions Mr. J. Marryat showed a remarkable weakness. He gave the truant money and sent him in a carriage back to school. This error of judgment had a very natural consequence. Marryat slipped out of the carriage, found his way quietly home, and took his younger brothers to the theatre. At last his father came to the very sensible conclusion that the sea was the best place for such a boy. Being a man of some influence and position, he was able to start his son well, on board a crack frigate, and under a distinguished captain. In September, 1806, Marryat entered the ImpÉrieuse, captain Lord Cochrane, and sailed for the Mediterranean.