That uncle of mine, William Clarke, whom I never saw but in the back
room on the first floor of 72, Gracechurch Street, had a proud temper.
His father went into business in King Street, Guildhall, and was cut
by the father before him for so doing, which father was a general, and
paymaster to Queen Anne’s forces, with a residence in Kew Palace. My
mother’s immediate uncle was introduced into his father’s business, that
of a whalebone merchant, but quitted it suddenly on being asked by a
customer to abate a price; his reply being, “Do you think it was stolen?”
He played a part in life which still influences posterity, and will do
so more and more, if only through one act of his life, that of giving a
presentation to the first Sir Frederick Pollock for St. Paul’s School.
Proud as he was, he had a good heart, though a churl; he was careful
even to meanness; he was charitable towards those who needed it most,
preferring the poor to such of his own kith and kin as were not well off.
Indeed he left thousands to charitable institutions, and very little to
any of his relations except one, the only nephew who preserved his name,
though his intentions were ultimately frustrated by the death of his
heir, and that, at a period of his life when he was no longer competent
to design a will. But he did a great thing in sending the young Pollock
to St. Paul’s School, whence the boy proceeded to Cambridge, and became
one of the hundred senior wranglers of his own century. The genius of
the Pollock family was ripe for breaking out; the brother of the future
Chief Baron, Sir George Pollock, became a distinguished general, and, I
think, died a field-marshal, a rank borne for a long time by the Duke of
Wellington alone, who could tolerate no rival. Sir Frederick Pollock was
_facile princeps_ in his profession, and from him have sprung lawyers
of mark for three generations, not the least promising of these, as
report goes, the present or third baronet, son of a good, great, and
noble-minded sire, lately lost to the world; and it must not be forgotten
that the name is great in medicine, that profession which is more
enlightening than all the others put together, involving, as it does, an
adequate knowledge of every science. It is not to be forgotten, either,
that one of the most cultivated men of the day, a true poet and the
possessor of a unique literary talent in fantastic caricature, is to be
found in Walter Herries Pollock, a younger brother of the present baronet.
Either William Clarke or his brother Henry, who were both governors of
Christ’s Hospital, supplied me with my early education by nominating me
to that remarkable school. They might have put me also to St. Paul’s,
though I might not, certainly, have done them the credit they must have
enjoyed from giving a presentation to the young Pollock. What the elder
did for my mother was always with a high hand; if he sent her money it
was with covert insult, nevertheless circumstances compelled her to be
grateful and to say as much in return, and she certainly had the best
of it in so doing. I must acquit all who act in like manner of wanting
spirit, in accepting needful favours done with an ill grace. None of us
feel resentful towards Nature for giving us our carrots, our turnips, our
potatoes, covered with dirt!
I was given in charge of a clergyman from Exeter to London, the Rev. Mr.
Back, who took his own son to the school at the same time. I remember
absolutely nothing of my journey, over 173 miles, except that on the road
the coach met a drove of cows, and that I said to myself, “This will be
something to tell my mother.” This occurrence has stuck to my memory
ineradicably, like a daub of paint. But I remember the date without ever
having refreshed it: the 20th of June, 1816.
In those days the journey occupied twenty-four hours; as I started in the
morning I must have reached town in the morning, and being destined for
Hertford, where the younger boys of my tender age were sent, I must have
been conveyed there the same day, but I recollect nothing that happened
till in bed at No. 1 ward, under Nurse Merenith.
But the almost regal school and oblong gravelled ground, with buildings
in front and on each side, faced with trees, and enclosed in lofty iron
railings, I see still; as I saw on being turned loose the next day.
When at home in the enjoyment of freedom, I was riotous; when at school,
in the hands of strangers, I was meek. I feared my writing and cyphering
master, Mr. Whittle. The usher, who took a dislike to me, never missed an
opportunity of striking me a blow. Less I feared my classical master, Dr.
Franklin, a tall man of noble deportment, with a florid complexion, and
a face that never relaxed during school hours, but was full of play the
moment school was over. I recollect well my astonishment at seeing the
boys following him in crowds as he marched to his house in his doctor’s
gown, while they tugged at his robes, seized on his hands, and made free
with him as if he were their father; he enjoying these liberties not less
than the boys themselves.
I was at once put into Greek and Latin grammar, with delectuses; and then
into Æsop. But while on those amusing fables I sickened of measles; from
this I had scarcely convalesced when I was down with scarlet fever. This
burnt itself out of my blood, but left me prostrate, and, as I learned,
I was sent home to my mother to die; all of which seemed to me very
natural.