Lord Chichester—Mr. Cheetham, M.P.—Visits to Dr. Magee, Bishop of Peterborough—Lord Ebury and Moor Park—Friends in Norfolk—Increase of Roman Catholics in Kensington—Chapel openings at Hastings—Autumnal meeting in 1886 at Norwich—Bishop’s palace

338–360

CHAPTER XVI

I.  Church of England—II.  Presbyterians—III.  Baptists—IV.  The Friends—V.  Methodists—VI.  Congregationalists

361–391

CHAPTER I
1807–1828

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