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.

My mother had a dream the night before, and saw in it her father lying on a bed, pale as ashes, which she interpreted as meaning something terrible would happen to him. When, at breakfast time, she was told by a gentleman of what had occurred, she coupled it with what she had seen in her sleep.

We were living at the time in a very old house with diamond-paned windows, a brick-paved entrance hall, and some rambling passages. I well remember the little bedroom in which I slept. There resided with us an old lady, widow of a Norwich gentleman, who had been a friend of the famous George Whitefield. She used to tell anecdotes of the popular preacher—how he called himself Dr. Squintum, and, when supping off cowheel, a dish he liked, would say, he wondered what people would think of his being so employed.

My mother had a strong verbal memory which her son has not inherited; and it enabled her to instruct and entertain me by reciting long extracts in prose and poetry. She was a great reader and did much to instruct and cultivate my mind by her frequent recitations. My education owes more to this, and other circumstances, than to schoolmasters under whom I was placed. However, of course, rudiments of knowledge fell to my lot in the usual way; but my culture in chief resulted from devouring books, from instructive conversation, and from the delight I felt in observing nature, and looking on what was ancient. When other boys were at play, I liked to get by myself and read; biography and history having for me pre-eminent charms. Lord Nelson had been dead only a few years at the time I speak of, and what I learnt about him as a Norfolk man immensely gratified my curiosity. His aunt was a friend of my grandmother, and great was my delight to see and hear such a distinguished lady; the gratification being enhanced by a bright shilling she slipped into my hand. The river Wensum, old trees by the water-side, the picturesque village of Thorpe, Whitlingham White House and woods, the uplands of Mousehold, walled-in gardens all over the city, wild hedgerows, sheltered nooks and corners under weeping willows, cattle feeding in green meadows, and swans swimming on the river—these objects afforded me an Æsthetic education.

From a child I took an interest in historical tales, and felt delight in listening to my mother’s memories of early days. She recollected the American war, and spoke of a family dispute amongst her elders, which lasted just as long—ten years. Excitement in William Pitt’s day she brought vividly before me; and she told how Thelwall, the orator, delivered revolutionary harangues, and being attacked by a mob, he was glad to escape by clambering over the roofs of houses. The trials of Horne Tooke, Hardy, and others, and Erskine’s famous speeches in their defence, were in my boyhood modern incidents. Objects in the city excited archÆological tastes. The Norman keep, Herbert de Lozinga’s Cathedral, Erpingham Gate, the Grammar School, the Bishop’s palace, with ruins in the garden, dilapidated towers on the edge of the river, Guild Hall, St. Andrew’s Hall, and the Old Men’s Hospital—these had for me a mighty charm, creating fancies by day and dreams by night. The East Anglian city had not old houses such as Prout found on the Continent, but it contained picturesque, tumble-down tenements, and other “bits,” sketched in “Highways and Byeways of Old Norwich.” The sight of these created a habit of looking after ancient quaint remains, which has never forsaken me.

Guild day, with its triumphal arches, carpets and flags hung out of windows, Darby and Joan sitting in a green arbour, the Mayor’s coach attended by “Snap,” and the “whifflers”; the rush-strewn cathedral pavement, as the Corporation marched up the nave—all this gave birth to boyish enthusiasm for the picturesque. Every Guild day, on a green baize platform near the west door of the cathedral, the head boy of the Grammar School delivered a Latin oration before his Worship. What envy that boy aroused in my bosom! Elections, too, were objects of intense interest to me as a childish politician, when Whig candidates were carried in blue-and-white satin chairs, on the shoulders of men who tossed them up, as the Goths did their heroes upon battle shields.As to another part of my education, I loved to read the lives of eminent people, and devoured a good many memoirs of men and women in religious magazines. Norwich was at that time distinguished for literary, artistic, and benevolent celebrities; and I felt proud as a boy to think of them as pertaining to my own birthplace. The appearance of several amongst them I have still, after the lapse of seventy years, vividly before me—Mrs. Opie, the Taylors, the Martineaus, Joseph John Gurney, and Bishop Bathurst, with several beside.

May I add, the first sight of the sea at Yarmouth I can never forget. It was a November morning in my ninth year. The sky looked angry; the wind-swept waters and tall billows broke furiously on the beach; the hulk of a stranded vessel lay on the sands—emblem of life’s shattered hopes.

Public excitements prevailed in my boyish days beyond what the present generation has witnessed. After the battle of Waterloo, and the consequent peace, which was coupled with an idea of plenty, large loaves were paraded on poles as symbols of abundant food, mistakenly supposed to come as a natural consequence now that Buonaparte was conquered. There arose, instead of this, much distress amongst the lower class, greatly owing to corn-laws enacted for the protection of agricultural interests. Bread riots followed, and I now catch glimpses of a mob in 1816 marching to the New Mills to sack a granary, and shoot into the flushes of the river Wensum, loads of grain and flour. Such tumults were surpassed in breadth and depth of feeling, amongst the upper class, by the excitement attending the return to England of Queen Caroline after the accession of George IV. in 1820. Never have I known such agitation in private circles, as when society split from top to bottom on the question of her Majesty’s character and wrongs. For months there were almost incessant processions from London to Hammersmith in honour of the lady, who was sojourning at Brandenburgh House. Unnumbered addresses were presented to her, and whenever her carriage appeared, it evoked rapturous shouts. During her trial things were done and said startling beyond parallel. Documents full of abominable details were deposited in a “green bag,” which called to mind the words in Job xiv. 17; and when filthy evidence was furnished on the king’s side against his wife, counsel on her side attacked him as a second Nero, and compared him to the infernal shadow in Milton, which “the likeness of a kingly crown had on.” Round the hearthstone families and friends were divided on this absorbing subject; and such word battles as Home Rule now occasions were then far surpassed.

My school days over, I entered a lawyer’s office. He put into my hands “Blackstone’s Commentaries,” which interested me less in what was said about real and personal property, the rights of things and the rights of persons, with the law of descent and entail, than in what appeared touching legislation, and the principles of government. De Lolme on “The Constitution,” I read with avidity. Having to attend the Law Courts at times, I listened to forensic eloquence with great interest; a love for oratory being further gratified by hearing speeches at public meetings when Lord Suffield and Joseph John Gurney advocated negro emancipation and other reforms.

Theological discussions interested me immensely. The lawyer in whose office I was became a Roman Catholic, and, finding me an inquisitive youngster, talked on the subject, explaining the doctrines and ceremonies of his Church. Whilst the information he gave me was worth having, I determined to read Milner’s “End of Religious Controversy,” and other Catholic books; and beyond my interest respecting matters of an antiquarian flavour, I felt the importance of ascertaining true grounds for Protestant beliefs. My master took me once a week to North Walsham, and in cold winter nights, as the moon shone on the snow-sprinkled hedges, plied me with arguments for transubstantiation, purgatory, and the like. I ventured humbly to dispute his positions, and to contend for truths on the opposite side; though the match was unequal between a boy of fifteen and a man of forty, primed by the priest to whom he owed his conversion. Those night drives were useful, and led me to see some of the better aspects of Roman Catholic faith and character, whilst they aroused inquiry, and led to clearer convictions than I might otherwise have reached respecting principles in debate. Here let me observe that early intercourse with friends of different denominations has in the best sense broadened my habit of looking at questions, and inspired a tolerance, not of error itself, but of persons holding error, because they are often better than their creeds, and have in them a great deal that is good, as well as something of another quality. Quiet intercourse in early life with members of various denominations I find to have been a school for the culture of Christian charity.Removed when about sixteen to another office, with the idea of entering the legal profession, I met with fellow-clerks of education and taste, who proved very helpful; one in particular became an intimate friend. He had been a favourite pupil of an eminent classical schoolmaster, and was well up in Horace. We had much talk on subjects of common interest. His temperament had a melancholy tinge, owing to his state of health, for he was in a slow consumption, but behind dark clouds there lay a sky full of humour, and his conversation often sparkled with unaffected wit. He could be a little satirical at the expense of juvenile follies, in which he did not share; whilst amiability kept him from giving pain to the most sensitive. Our friendship continued until his early death, when he passed away “in the faith and hope of the Gospel.”

Amongst early educational influences which I enjoyed may be reckoned the opportunities I had of listening to public speakers of different kinds—lawyers at the bar, preachers in the pulpit, orators on the platform, and candidates during elections; for Norwich was contested most earnestly in my boyhood. Moreover, the city was remarkable for musical culture. It had weekly concerts. Festivals also occurred; these I attended again and again with much enjoyment. My friends who know my ignorance of music will smile at this.

It might be when I was about seventeen that on a Sunday morning I took a walk into the country with a volume of Chalmers’ sermons under my arm. I read one of them on Rom. v. 10. The perusal deeply affected me, and on the evening of the same day, I heard a Methodist minister preach upon John iii. 16. These two impressions commenced a lifelong change in my experience and character—a change so great, that it led to the abandonment of my former occupation, and issued in the consecration of my after-days to the Gospel ministry.

About that time a journey to London on legal business gave me an opportunity of hearing distinguished preachers, Dr. Adam Clarke and Dr. Collyer amongst the rest—a privilege which deepened my religious convictions. I may observe in passing, as regards my visit to London, that the first sight of it, on a dull morning after a night in the Norwich mail, I have never forgotten—Bishopsgate-street, the Old Post Office, and all round the Mansion House—how different the neighbourhood appeared in 1826 from what it does now! In Waterloo-place, Pall Mall, I spent more than a month, and I can now see George IV. descending the steps of Carlton House (where the Duke of York’s column stands), leaning on a page’s shoulder on the way to his carriage.

On returning to Norwich, my thoughts fixed on the subject which had previously engaged my attention. A few years ago, when conversing with a friend in the coffee-room of the House of Commons, a report was mentioned of a certain Dissenting minister’s intention to enter Parliament, if a seat could be obtained. My friend remarked emphatically, “That would be a come-down.” He himself at that time held office, and was on the way to become a Right Honourable; and when I expressed my surprise to hear him talk so, he rejoined that he considered the Gospel ministry as the highest employment on earth when a man really “was called to it.” I felt, sixty years ago, exactly in that way, and only wished to know that such a call awaited me. I spent some months in coming to a conclusion, and at length felt convinced that it was my duty and privilege to spend life in Christian preaching and pastoral work.

Then arose the question, In what ecclesiastical connexion? My relation to Methodism had arisen from circumstances, but now some study of ecclesiastical principles was necessary. I began to read what I could on the subject, acquainting myself with different sides, and being open to conviction one way or another. I had no predilections, and was ready to be either a clergyman or a Dissenting minister. I arrived at the conclusion that Congregationalism, on the whole, as far as I understood it, came nearest to New Testament teaching; but that probably no existing connexion corresponded exactly with Churches of the first century. What I thought then has been confirmed by studies in after-years, devoted largely to the New Testament and the history of Christendom. I have learned to distinguish between principles lying at the basis of religious beliefs and existing organisations through which they are worked out. The former may be true and sound, whilst the latter are defective, and in some points mistaken.

It is curious that at the time I first made up my mind I knew socially next to nothing of Congregationalists as a body; my chief associations having been with Methodists, Quakers, Church-people, and a few Roman Catholics. I joined the venerable society of Christians assembling in the Old Meeting House, Norwich; its fathers and founders having been gathered into Church fellowship, during the seventeenth century, under the teaching and influence of William Bridge, who resided in Yarmouth; some of the members being Norwich folk. When I expressed my desire for the ministry to two Dissenting ministers—the pastor of the Old Meeting House and his friend who occupied Princes-street pulpit—I met with different opinions, the former advising me to pursue the study of law, the latter encouraging my desire for the ministry. In the end these two friends concurred in advice, the consequence being my introduction to Highbury College, London.

I had from the beginning cautions against forsaking in after-life the pulpit for any other post. William Godwin, the famous author of “Political Justice” and other works, also W. J. Fox, the Anti-Corn-law lecturer, a distinguished public character at that time, had been intended for the Dissenting ministry, and, indeed, entered it. By a remarkable coincidence, both these distinguished men were connected with the Old Meeting House, where I then was accustomed to worship. Their abandonment of an early faith and a sacred calling for the sake of literature and politics, was held up to me as a beacon, to warn me off dangerous rocks.

Before noticing my entrance into college, I may be allowed to mention that the congregation which I joined contained some noteworthy people. Mr. William Youngman was a hard-headed, intelligent, and inquisitive man, much given to theological argument and incisive criticism of current opinions. He tried the patience of orthodox religionists, and was the terror of neophytes. Once, when I dined with him, he commenced talking about original sin as I was hanging up my hat, and went on in the same strain to the end of my visit. He found his match at book meetings in Mr. Thomas Brightwell, F.R.S., an eminent naturalist, whose name is perpetuated in a memoir of a plant called after him, to be found, if I correctly remember, in the Transactions of the Royal Society. He was a diligent student of the Bible, and published notes on the Old Testament, drawn chiefly from the Scholia of Rosenmuller and Michaelis.

In 1828 I entered Highbury College, afterwards merged in New College, St. John’s Wood; the professors—or tutors as they were called in my time—being Dr. Henderson, Dr. Burder, and Dr. Halley. Dr. Henderson had been engaged in foreign missionary and Bible work, spending much time in St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, and Stockholm, where he became acquainted with the languages of Northern Europe. He drilled us in the languages of the Old Testament, initiated some small study in Syriac, and delivered elaborate lectures on the evidences and doctrines of Christianity. He suggested essays to be written during the vacation on subjects demanding research, and he regularly required the careful preparation of comments on the original Scriptures, to be delivered viva voce in class. Dr. Burder was son of George Burder, once well known as the author of “Village Sermons.” He lectured on mental and moral philosophy, and employed as text-books the works of Reid, Stewart, and Brown having himself graduated in a Scotch university. Exceedingly careful, conscientious, and precise, he opposed all bold speculations, and was incapable of sympathy with mystical thinkers. He had a clear apprehension of whatever he taught, and used to lay down as a canon of composition. “Express yourselves, not so that you may, but so that you must be understood.” Dr. Halley was a good classical scholar, impulsive, unsystematic, and by no means a severe disciplinarian. He enthusiastically admired Demosthenes and Cicero, and to hear him give extempore versions of these orators was an immense treat. We read with him some Greek tragedians and Latin poets, and he delivered lectures on history and antiquities. Mathematics came within his department; but, certainly in my time, he never turned out a wrangler. His influence, however, was very stimulative, and he inspired when he did not instruct.

Defects in the Nonconformist educational system were apparent to me at that time, much more so have they become to me ever since; but, to a considerable extent, they arose from uncontrollable circumstances, so many students having had few advantages in their boyhood. I have lived to witness a great improvement in Nonconformist college methods.

It should not be omitted that during the latter part of our term a few of us attended the mental and moral philosophy class of Professor Hoppus in the London University College, Gower Street, that institution having been established by friends of unsectarian education, and numbering on its councils, and amongst its officers, several Nonconformists.