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Introduction.

circle. I may say, however, that he is a kind and indulgent husband, and the father-love in his heart is deep and unfailing.

As a friend he is faithful, frank, and truehearted, as many of those who read the following pages will be reminded; and I trust that the day is very far distant when his genial company and hearty laugh will be no more heard in our social gatherings. I am sure I shall be borne out by the willing testimony of those who know him, in saying that he never grudges any amount of labour that his numerous friends exact from him. His correspondence is very voluminous; and since the introduction of the " penny postage " it must have cost him a small fortune for " Queen's heads." Few private men have a larger circle of correspondents; and this, combined with his every-day work, leaves him but little leisure for recreation. His kind and playful intercourse with children has made him a special favourite with them, while his natural gallantry always secures him a hearty welcome from the mothers and maidens. manly qualities have endeared him to the fathers and brothers, so that he is always greeted with a hearty welcome by his many friends.

His

In personal appearance the "Man of Kent" is rather above the average height, with brown hair, moustache, and ample beard. These latter appendages he adopted some years before they became

Introduction.

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so generally worn. He is of open visage, quick, penetrating dark eyes, and of highly nervous temperament.

In conclusion, I may say that the "Man of Kent has no pretensions to literary talent beyond throwing off an occasional letter or article for some of our London and provincial journals. It is, however, believed that these rough-and-ready reminiscences of what my friend has denominated "an ordinary every-day life," told as they are with freedom and faithfulness, will not be an unwelcome contribution to the light literature of the day.

I must regret that the failing health of my friend should have compelled him to retire from some of the more active duties of his busy life; and trust that, as he is relieved from these exacting labours, he may, in a well-earned and happy retirement, be spared to his family and friends for many years.

REGINALD FITZ-ROY STANLEY.

Maitland Park,

London, N.W.

Christmas, 1865.

AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF A

"MAN OF KENT."

INTRODUCTORY.

N sitting down to write some particulars of what may be termed an ordinary and everyday life and history, I have not the vanity to believe that I can record anything new

or startling, much less that which is deep and profound. Neither is it my intention to discuss the question whether a man should, or should not, be his own biographer, as that has already been done by far abler pens, and among others by no less a writer than the late John Foster, in his justly celebrated "Essays."

We all revert with an affectionate interest to our past life, "the days that are no more," and I am not without the hope that perhaps by committing to writing some of the incidents in my own history, and the mental and moral revolutions that have taken place in connection with them, I may influence some who are just entering the great arena of conflict. At all events it shall be my endeavour to point out, to our young men especially, a few of the shoals and quicksands that I have met with in my own career; and in recording these I may retrace

Biography has been aptly said to be "Philosophy teaching by example." A distinguished American writer tells us that "all things are engaged in writing their history. The planet, the pebble, goes attended by its shadow. The rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain; the river, its channel in the soil; the animal, its bones in the stratum; the fern and leaf, their modest epitaph in the coal; the falling drop makes its sculpture in the sand or the stone. Not a foot steps into the snow or along the ground, but prints, in characters more or less lasting, a map of its march. Every act of the man inscribes itself in the memory of his fellows, and in his own manners and face. The air is full of sounds, the sky of tokens, the ground is all memoranda and signatures, and every object covered over with hints which speak to the intelligent." Another equally distinguished man of our own time, and our fatherland, tells us, in words that I am glad to transfer to my humble page Think of living!' Thy life, wert thou the 'pitifulest of all the sons of earth,' is no idle dream, but a solemn reality. It is thy own; it is all thou hast to front eternity with. Work then, like a star, unhasting, yet unresting."

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