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John Stoughton
Recollections of a Long Life
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2497169Recollections of a Long Lifehttps://www.gandhi.com.mx/recollections-of-a-long-life-9781465581693/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/2969474/7e786d98-3a1c-49df-b577-308e7bcec35e.jpg?v=638384701155730000117130MXNLibrary of AlexandriaInStock/Ebooks/<p>More than forty years ago I edited the autobiography of the Rev. W. Walford. This book, which fully answers to its name, is a remarkable production, entering into the secrets of the authors soul, unveiling the struggles and sorrows of a mysterious experience. The work now published is of a very different kind. It really relates to others more than to myself, and brings within view some incidents of religious history and aspects of personal character more interesting than any confined to my own experience. It presents associations during a long period spent in various work, in distant journeys, and in friendly intercourse with many distinguished persons. I enter into no theological discussion, or any relation of spiritual conflicts, the results of such introspection, as the autobiography of my departed friend describes. I only give recollections of what I have seen and heard, especially in relation to those whom it has been my privilege to regard as more or less intimate friends.</p>...2433144Recollections of a Long Life117130https://www.gandhi.com.mx/recollections-of-a-long-life-9781465581693/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/2969474/7e786d98-3a1c-49df-b577-308e7bcec35e.jpg?v=638384701155730000InStockMXN99999DIEbook20259781465581693_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_<p>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 circumstancesstill 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 mea 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 toastmay 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 masters 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.</p>(*_*)9781465581693_<p>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 circumstancesstill 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 mea 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 toastmay 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 masters 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.</p>...(*_*)9781465581693_<p>More than forty years ago I edited the autobiography of the Rev. W. Walford. This book, which fully answers to its name, is a remarkable production, entering into the secrets of the authors soul, unveiling the struggles and sorrows of a mysterious experience. The work now published is of a very different kind. It really relates to others more than to myself, and brings within view some incidents of religious history and aspects of personal character more interesting than any confined to my own experience. It presents associations during a long period spent in various work, in distant journeys, and in friendly intercourse with many distinguished persons. I enter into no theological discussion, or any relation of spiritual conflicts, the results of such introspection, as the autobiography of my departed friend describes. I only give recollections of what I have seen and heard, especially in relation to those whom it has been my privilege to regard as more or less intimate friends.</p>...9781465581693_Library of Alexandrialibro_electonico_06d119c1-3318-37aa-adb0-91f5db0eaf45_9781465581693;9781465581693_9781465581693John StoughtonInglésMéxicohttps://getbook.kobo.com/koboid-prod-public/markmoxford-epub-9d8a71d8-9991-441b-b6a9-d1189b88284e.epub2025-09-28T00:00:00+00:00Library of Alexandria