Abraham Schultetus, the celebrated professor at
Heidelberg; of the learned Fuetius; of Basompierre, the celebrated
marshal of France; of the ever-amusing and garrulous Montaigne; or of our
own Richard Baxter, or of Edmund Calamy himself. The fact is, it has
ever been the fashion with men who have handled the pen freely to write
more or less about themselves and the times in which they lived, and
there is no pleasanter reading than such biographical recollections; and
really it matters little whether on the world's stage the actor acted
high tragedy or low comedy so that he writes truthfully as far as he can
about himself and his times. If old Montaigne is to be believed there is
nothing like writing about oneself. "I dare," he writes, "not only speak
of myself, but of myself alone," and never man handled better the very
satisfactory theme. If I follow in the steps of my betters I can do no
harm, and I may do good if I can show how the England of to-day is
changed for the better since I first began to observe that working men
and women are better off, that our middle and upper classes have clearer
views of duty and responsibility, that we are the better for the
political and social and religious reforms that have been achieved of
late, that, in fact,

. . . through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.

The one great complaint I have to make with respect to my father and
mother, to whom I owe so much, and whose memory I shall ever revere, was
that they brought me into the world forty or fifty years too soon. In
1820, when I first saw the light of day, England was in a very poor way.
It was what the late Earl of Derby used to call the pre-scientific era.
Gross darkness covered the land. The excitement of war was over, and the
lavish outlay it occasioned being stopped, life was stagnant, farmers and
manufacturers alike were at low-water mark, and the social and religious
and political reforms required by the times were as yet undreamed of.
However, one good thing my parents did for me. They lived in a country
village in the extreme east of Suffolk, not far from the sea, where I
could lead a natural life, where I could grow healthy, if not wise, and
be familiar with all the impulses which spring up in the heart under the
influences of rural life. "Boyhood in the country," writes William
Howitt in his autobiography--"Paradise of opening existe