In the good old city of Norwich. I passed a year as an apprentice, in what was then known as London Lane. It was a time of real growth to me mentally. I had a bedroom to myself; in reality it was a closet. I had access to a cheap library, where I was enabled to take my fill, and did a good deal of miscellaneous study. I would have joined the Mechanics’ Institute, where they had debates, but the people with whom I lived were orthodox Dissenters, and were rather afraid of my embracing Unitarian principles. The fear was, I think, groundless. At any rate, one of the most distinguished debaters was Mr. Jacob Henry Tillett, afterwards M.P., then in a lawyer’s office; and another was his friend Joseph Pigg, who became a Congregational minister, but did not live to old age. Another of the lot—who was a great friend of Pigg’s—was Bolingbroke Woodward, who was, I think, in a bank, from which he went to Highbury, thence as a Congregational minister to Wortwell, near Harleston, and died librarian to the Queen. Evidently there was no necessary connection, as the people where I lived thought, between debating and embracing Unitarian principles.

Norwich seemed to me a wonderful city. I had already visited the place at the time when it celebrated the passing of the Reform Bill, when there was by day a grand procession, and a grand dinner in the open air; where a friend, who knew what boys liked, gave me a slice of plum pudding served up on the occasion; and then in the evening there were fireworks, the first I had ever seen, on the Castle Hill. It was a long ride from our village, and we had to travel by the carrier’s cart, drawn by two horses, and sit beneath the roof on the top of the luggage and baggage, for we stopped everywhere to pick up parcels. The passengers when seated endeavoured to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow. Norwich at that time had a literary reputation, and it seemed to me there were giants in the land in those days. One I remember was the Rev. John Kinghorn, a great light among the Baptists, and whom, with his spare figure and primitive costume, I always confounded with John the Baptist. Another distinguished personage was William Youngman, at whose house my father spent a good deal of time, engaged in the hot disputation in which that grand old Norwich worthy always delighted. As a boy, I remember I trembled as the discussion went on, for

Mr. MacWinter was apt to be hot,
And Mr. McKenzie a temper had got.

Yet their friendship continued in spite of difference of opinion, and well do I remember him in his square pew in the Old Meeting, as, with his gold-headed cane firmly grasped, the red-faced fat old man sat as solemn and passionless as a judge, while in the pulpit before him the Rev. Mr. Innes preached. But, alas! the parson had a pretty daughter, and I lost all his sermon watching the lovely figure in the pew just by. Another of the deacons, tall and stiff as a poker, Mr. Brightwell, had a pew just behind, father of a young lady known later as a successful authoress, while from the gallery opposite a worthy man, Mr. Blunderfield, gave out the hymn. Up in the galleries there were Spelmans and Jarrolds in abundance, while in a pew behind the latter was seated a lad who in after life attained, and still retains, some fame as a lecturer against Christianity, and later in its favour, well known as Dr. Sexton. To that Old Meeting I always went with indescribable awe; its square pews, its old walls with their memorial marbles, the severity of the aspect of the worshippers, the antique preacher in the antique pulpit all affected me. But I loved the place nevertheless. Even now I am thrilled as I recall the impressive way in which Mr. Blunderfield gave out the hymns, and I can still remember one of Mr. Innes’ texts, and it was always a matter of pride to me when Mr. Youngman took me home to dinner and to walk on his lawn, which sloped down to the river, and to view with wonder the peacock which adorned his grounds. The family with which I was apprenticed attended on the ministry of the Rev. John Alexander, a man deservedly esteemed by all and beloved by his people. He was a touching preacher, an inimitable companion, and was hailed all over East Anglia as its Congregational bishop, a position I fancy still held by his successor, the Rev. Dr. Barrett. Dissent in Norwich seemed to me much more respected than in my village home. Dr. Brock, then plain Mr. Brock, also came to Norwich when I was there, and had a fine congregation in St. Mary’s, which seemed to me a wonderfully fine chapel. I was always glad to go there. Once I made my way to the Octagon, a still nobler building, but my visit was found out by my master’s wife, and henceforth I was orthodox, that is as long as I was at Norwich. The Norwich of that time, though the old air of depression, in consequence of declining manufacture, has given place to a livelier tone, in its essential features remains the same. There are still the Castle and the old landmarks of the Cathedral and the Market Place. The great innovation has been the Great Eastern Railway, which has given to it a new and handsome quarter, and the Colman mustard mills. Outside the city, in the suburbs, of course, Norwich has much increased, and we have now crowded streets or trim semidetached villas, where in my time were green fields or rustic walks. London did not dominate the country as it does now, and Norwich was held to be in some quarters almost a second Athens. There lived there a learned man of the name of Wilkins, with whom I, alas! never came into contact, who had much to do with resuscitating the fame of the worthy Norwich physician, Sir Thomas Browne, immortal, by reason of his “Religio Medici” and “Urn Burial,” especially the latter. The Martineaus and the Taylors lived there. Johnson Fox—the far-famed Norwich weaver boy of the Anti-Corn League, and Unitarian minister, and subsequently M.P. for Oldham—had been a member of the Old Meeting, whence he had been sent to Homerton College to study for the ministry, and a sister and brother, if I remember aright, still attended at the Old Meeting. When I was a lad there still might be seen in the streets of Norwich the venerable figure of William Taylor, who had first opened up German literature to the intelligent public; and there had not long died Mrs. Taylor, the friend of Sir James Mackintosh and other distinguished personages. “She was the wife,” writes Basil Montagu, “of a shopkeeper in that city; mild and unassuming, quiet and meek, sitting amidst her large family, always occupied with her needle and domestic occupations, but always assisting, by her great knowledge, the advancement of kind and dignified sentiment. Manly wisdom and feminine gentleness were united in her with such attractive manners that she was universally loved and respected. In high thoughts and gentle deeds she greatly resembled the admirable Lucy Hutchinson, and in troubled times would have been specially distinguished for firmness in what she thought right.” Dr. Sayers was also one of the stars of the Norwich literary circle, and I recollect Mrs. Opie, who had given up the world of fashion and frivolity, had donned the Quaker dress, and at whose funeral in the Quaker Meeting-house I was present. The Quakers were at that time a power in Norwich, and John Joseph Gurney, of Earlham, close by, enjoyed quite a European reputation. It was not long that Harriet Martineau had turned her back on the Norwich of her youth. The house where she was born was in a court in Magdalen Street. But it never was her dwelling-place after her removal from it when she was three months old. Harriet was given to underrating everybody who had any sort of reputation, and she certainly underrated Norwich society, which, when I was a lad, was superior to most of our county towns. I caught now and then a few faint echoes of that world into which I was forbidden to enter. Norwich ministers were yet learned, and their people were studious. A dear old city was Norwich, with much to interest a raw lad from the country, with its Cathedral, which, as too often is the case, sadly interfered with the free life of all within its reach, with its grand Market Place filled on a Saturday with the country farmers’ wives, who had come to sell the produce of their dairy and orchard and chickenyard, and who returned laden with their purchases in the way of grocery and drapery; and its Castle set upon a hill. It was there that for the first time I saw judges in ermine and crimson, and learned to realise the majesty of the law. Then there was an immense dragon kept in St. Andrew’s Hall, and it was a wonder to all as he was dragged forth from his retirement, and made the rounds of the streets with his red eyes, his green scales, his awful tail. I know not whether that old dragon still survives. I fear the Reformers, who were needlessly active in such matters, abolished him. But the sight of sights I saw during my short residence at Norwich was that of the chairing of the M.P.’s. I forget who they were; I remember they had red faces, gorgeous dresses, and silk stockings. Norwich was a corrupt place, and a large number of electors were to be bought, and unless they were bought no M.P. had a chance of being returned. The consequence was party feeling ran very high, and the defeated party were usually angry, as they were sure to contend that they had been beaten not by honest voting, but by means of bribery and corruption, and thus when the chairing took place there was often not a little rioting, and voters inflamed with beer were always ready for a row. The fortunate M.P.’s thus on chairing days were exposed to not a little danger. The chairs in which they were seated, adorned with the colours of the party, were borne by strapping fellows quite able to defend themselves, and every now and then ready to give a heave somewhat dangerous to the seat-holder, who all the time had to preserve a smiling face and bow to the ladies who lined the windows of the street through which the procession passed, and to look as if he liked it rather than not. The sight, however, I fancy, afforded more amusement to the spectators than to the M.P.’s, who were glad when it was over, and who had indeed every right to be, for there was always the chance of a collision with a hostile mob, and a dÉnouement anything but agreeable. But, perhaps, the sight of sights was Norwich Market on Christmas Day, and the Norwich coaches starting for London crammed with turkeys outside and in, and only leaving room for the driver and the guard. At that time London was chiefly supplied with its turkeys from Norfolk, and it was only by means of stage coaches that the popular poultry could be conveyed. In this respect Norwich has suffered, for London now draws its Christmas supplies from all the Continent. It was not so when I was a lad, but from all I can hear Norwich Market Place the Saturday before Christmas is as largely patronised as ever, and they tell me, though, alas, I have no practical knowledge of the fact, the Norwich turkeys are as good as ever. As long as they remain so Norwich has little to fear. I have also at a later time a faint recollection of good port, but now I am suffering from gout, and we never mention it. In these teetotal days “our lips are now forbidden to speak that once familiar word.”