Title: The Sexagenarian; or, the recollections of a literary life (Volume 1 of 2)
Author: Beloe, William
Language: English
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The Sexagenarian; or, the recollections of a literary life, in two
volumes. Vol. I.



                                   THE
                              SEXAGENARIAN;

                              RECOLLECTIONS
                                   OF A
                              LITERARY LIFE.

                             IN TWO VOLUMES.

                                 VOL. I.

                                 London:
                   PRINTED FOR F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON,
                     NO. 62, ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD;
          _By R. and R. Gilbert, St. John’s Square, Clerkenwell_
                                  1817.



INTRODUCTION.


Among various other particularities which marked the whimsicality of our
Sexagenarian’s character, there were discovered in his manuscript, a
great many specimens of DEDICATIONS, ready cut and dried.

Of these, some were inscribed with due solemnity to very great men,
to Ministers, Prelates, Court Favourites, and so forth; others were
written in a less formal style to individuals of known genius, talents,
and learning; one or two were of a playful kind, and addressed to
old college friends and acquaintance; one more particularly was of a
facetious tendency in the character of Satan to Bonaparte. Oh! that the
Sexagenarian had but lived to witness the catastrophe of that miscreant
adventurer!

But of all these pieces, some composed with more and some with less
care and circumspection, one more immediately forced itself upon the
attention, inscribed

                             TO AN OLD WOMAN.

Something of an introduction seems indispensable on the present occasion,
and perhaps nothing more to the purpose could easily be met with; so it
is inserted _verbatim et literatim_ from the original document.

    “My dear old Woman,

    “Those were good old times for poor authors, when the usual
    accompaniment of an adulatory Dedication to some great
    personage, was ten pounds. Alas! there is no such thing
    _now-a-days_. It is well if when dismissed from the audience
    of the patron, you are bowed out with a little faint praise,
    and a civil leer. Yet such is the effect of habit, and so
    inconsistent is the character of man, that there are no authors
    of equal celebrity with myself, (hem!) who will condescend to
    place their works before the public, without a Dedication, or
    Inscription of one kind or other.

    “But as ill luck would have it, my literary pilgrimage has been
    so long and so extended, that I have exhausted my catalogue
    of illustrious names, numerous as it was. I am compelled, as
    the French term it, “_jouer à coupe un_,” in other words, to
    play alone. I am reduced to the necessity of looking about for
    somebody who cannot in reason refuse the honour intended; from
    whom nothing is to be expected but a good-humoured acquiescence
    in whatever I may choose to say; whose vanity expects no
    flattery, whose pride can receive no wound.

    “Where then can I look with more complacency, comfort, and
    confidence, than to

                          “MY DEAR OLD WOMAN?

    “Here I may expatiate without fear of interruption, and
    what is more, without suspicion of my sincerity upon those
    intellectual qualities, which I have witnessed for almost half
    a century, growing as it were from a grain of mustard-seed
    to a tree, beneath whose spreading branches children and
    grand-children have reposed in security and peace. I might
    enlarge upon the sagacity which foresaw the approach of human
    ill, on the discretion which encountered, and on the fortitude
    which endured it. Yes! the imagination might indulge itself in
    remembering the delight with which we traversed together, the
    gay and enlivening fields of youth, and the cheerfulness and
    composure with which the chilling winds of age were opposed.

    “But on this subject it is time to pause, difficult as it is
    to forego the last opportunity of expatiating upon these fairy
    visions, the remembrance of which is still so dear.

        Mirror of Life, the glories thus depart
          Of all that Love, and Youth, and Fancy frame,
        When painful Anguish speeds the piercing dart,
          Or Envy blasts the blooming flowers of Fame.

    “To conclude in plain prose. Mayst thou with whom the various
    incidents of a perturbed life have been participated, the
    pressure of which has again and again been alleviated by thy
    sympathy, accept, in no adulatory terms of praise, but in those
    of sober gratitude and truth, my heartfelt acknowledgments of
    thy goodness.

    “Well can I remember that when thou wast an object of
    admiration, not to the gay and thoughtless alone, but to the
    grave, the sedate, and the wise, that no external allurement
    could ever divert thee from the obligations of duty.

    “Nor can I forget, that when our earlier career was obstructed
    by briars and thorns, thy sagacity found means to lessen
    their asperity, and thy unwearied exertions never failed to
    facilitate their removal. Surely too, amidst the sufferings and
    sorrows of repeated sickness, did thy tenderness assuage the
    pain, and impart the most delightful and salutary balm.

    “The first vigour of my warm and youthful fancy was employed
    in representing the emotions excited by thy presence. The last
    occupation of my trembling pen, is to offer, with an unfeigned
    devotion, the solemn prayer, that thy decline of life may be as
    little rugged and disturbed as the condition of humanity will
    permit; and so Farewell.”



    Scilicet hæc stultos mortales fallit inanis
    Spes vitæ, doctis eadem indoctisque minatur
    Mors tamen, et magno finem impositura labori,
    Desidiæ et magnæ.—Nunc si sapis ergo Viator
    Vive tibi.

                       _Theodori Bezæ, Juvenilia._

CHAPTER I.


It is not always that the manuscripts of authors fall into good and
faithful hands. He, the substance of whose history is now about to be
given, would frequently make this observation, but he little thought
what would be the ultimate destination of his own. Our friend was
of a character somewhat singular; yet, like most other men, he had
very mixed qualities. The world gave him credit for learning and
talents; many of his productions were very favourably received, and
extensively circulated. He did not, however, so much pride himself
upon his reputation, as on the means by which he acquired it. From an
humble origin and obscure situation, with many obstructions to remove,
and great difficulties to overcome, he contrived to raise himself to
honourable distinction, and might reckon among his acquaintance, at
least, a large proportion of those individuals, who in the last fifty
years excited curiosity and respect, from their station, their learning,
and their abilities. He had substantial reasons to believe that Mr.
Pitt thought favourably of him; he was patronized by Lord Chancellor
Roslyn; he received kindness from the venerable Archbishop Moore. He
expressed himself with emotions of the warmest gratitude towards Bishops
Porteus, Barrington, Tomline, and Bathurst. He had frequent and familiar
intercourse with the most learned men of his time; with Porson much, much
with Burney, not a little with Dr. Parr, some with Dean Vincent, Dr.
Maltby, Bishop Burgess, Professor Marsh, Professor Vince. The catalogue
indeed might be far, though perhaps uselessly, extended.

Of some of the advantages which such connections promised, he did not
avail himself as far as he might; others he turned to the best of
purposes. He had always a weak and delicate constitution, which, aided
by a sedentary life, excited a morbid sensibility, and occasioned an
improper and timid distrust of himself, at times, and on occasions, when
he most wanted self-confidence. This nervous weakness, which he often
and deeply lamented, materially obstructed his elevation to situations
of honour and of rank, to which certain of his qualifications seemed
naturally to point the way, and the avenues to which, might eventually
have been facilitated to him, by some at least of his high connections.

Notwithstanding these and other infirmities, a few friends loved him
well. Among some of his better qualities, he possessed good conversation
talents, talents he used to say not so much cultivated in this country as
they ought, since they never fail to produce a powerful impression, and
often outweigh more substantial and important endowments. Every man, he
would assert, of the commonest observation, if he has lived at all in the
world, must have much to remember which deserves communication. He was
once urging this in his careless way, when he was reminded by a friend,
whose judgment he much valued, that few were better qualified than
himself, to produce from what he must have remembered, and was certainly
able to communicate, a pleasing and a useful memorial of himself and his
contemporaries; their entrance into and progress in life; their pursuits,
successes, and disappointments. He promised to think of it, and it
appears that he did so.

It is to be apprehended that some untoward circumstances, some
mortifications or disappointments, clouds of duskier hue, attended him
in the decline of life. He disappeared rather abruptly from among his
friends.

    One morn we missed him on the ’customed hill,
    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
    Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

The circumstances of his death are but imperfectly known. No one was
more likely to fall a premature victim to too great anxiety, and it was
conjectured that too large a share of it, accelerated his withdrawing
himself from the society he loved. Be this as it may: a few months
since, was advertised to be sold by auction, at the rooms of a popular
auctioneer, under a fictitious name, his well chosen library. Among the
books were some manuscripts, which it was thought the family ought to
have preserved. One in particular, was a very large Common-place-book,
from the examination of which it was evident, that at some period of
his life or other, he had meditated the composition of Memoirs of his
literary life, with anecdotes of all the distinguished personages, with
whom he had lived on terms of greater or less familiarity. But all was
confusion; there was nothing like arrangement. In one place, “Anecdotes
of Bishop ⸺,” in another, “Particulars of my Interview with the Lord
Chancellor.” In the very middle of the volume, “A Narrative of my Boyish
Days till I went to the University.” This last, as far as it goes, seems
the only portion of the manuscript, in which any thing like chronological
order was observed.

In the hurry of the sale, by some accident or other, this
Common-place-book was disregarded, which may in some degree be accounted
for from the following circumstance:—Our friend wrote a miserable hand;
the rapidity to which he accustomed himself, made his manuscript almost
illegible. On this subject he would often tell many facetious stories of
himself and his printer. On one occasion he was grievously tormented by a
_devil_, at the moment of his being helped to a second slice of venison,
(for he loved good eating) who came with two large sheets of copy to beg
that he would put dots to his i’s. At another time, he was seriously
remonstrated with by his printer, a very worthy and primitive sort of
man, for being the cause of more profane swearing in the printing-office,
than is usually heard at Billingsgate.—“Sir,” exclaimed the honest
printer, “the moment copy from you is divided among the compositors,
volley succeeds volley, as rapidly and as loudly as in one of Lord
Nelson’s victories.” Our friend shook his head, but he was incorrigible.
To return to the auction. Several of the company took this said
Common-place-book into their hands, but as instantly laid it down again
in despair. One person indeed rather maliciously asked if it was Arabic.
At length it was put up; nobody bade a sixpence, till a sly old man from
one corner of the room who having known the author, recognized his hand
writing exclaimed, “I will give a dollar for the chance of making out
something.” It is superfluous to say, that there was no competition. The
old gentleman carried off his bargain without molestation or envy. It
was a long time before he could make an iota of his purchase, nor would
he perhaps at all, if accident had not thrown him in the way of our
friend the printer. This good man recollected, with no small delight, the
_Shibboleth_ (if such a term may be used to an autograph) of his old but
tormenting acquaintance. They accordingly put their heads together, and
the Reader is here presented with the result of their joint but continued
labour. Labour indeed it might be called, for Porson would sooner have
unravelled an Ethiopic inscription, than they were by much exertion, able
to decypher a sheet of this abominable manuscript. They succeeded at
length.

It is by no means intended on their parts to vouch for the entire
authenticity of every fact, and anecdote, and circumstance, which these
pages unfold. They however profess, and the printer more particularly,
such a general confidence in the veracity of their old acquaintance,
as to believe that there is no intentional misrepresentation, nor any
thing set down in malice. Above all, the most remote idea of inflicting
a wound on any person, who may survive to see some slight designation of
themselves, is earnestly and emphatically disclaimed.



    Exultat levitate puer.

CHAPTER II.


The only part of the manuscript, at all Egotistical, is the narrative of
boyish days, which has the appearance of being drawn up for the amusement
of some intimate friend. It commences thus:—

“I will give the earliest information of myself, that I can remember; and
as I have no motive for misrepresentation, the accuracy of my narrative
need not be questioned.

One of the earliest things I recollect of myself is, that I had a certain
pruriency of parts, which induced my friends to suppose, that there was
something in me, beyond the ordinary level of boys of my age. I fear,
however, that the harvest did not correspond with the promise of the
spring; or rather, perhaps, that the partiality of parents and relatives,
was in the first instance delusive. This, however, was not their fault,
for they certainly bestowed upon me the best education, which their means
and opportunities afforded. Of the first schools to which I was put, I
remember very little; I fear that I did not learn much: at length I was
told that I was to go to a Latin school. I retain the strong impression,
that this intelligence electrified my whole frame. A train was laid to my
ambition, and I already conceived myself at the very summit of literary
honour and distinction. But I was bitterly disappointed; my instructor
knew nothing of the matter: he began at the wrong end, and I was
plunged into the midst of a crabbed Latin author, without even knowing
my accidence, for a time, however, I kept blundering on; conscious to
myself, that I was making no progress, and having credit with my master
for a large portion of dulness. How long this misuse of valuable hours
might have continued, I cannot say; not improbably till I had arrived at
the dignity of pounding a mortar, spreading plasters, and compounding
medicines. Accident at length removed me to a wider, a fairer, and more
promising field. I must however do myself the justice of declaring, that
on since looking round me, in a circle not extremely limited, I have
never been able to recognize any of the individuals, in whose society
I dogs-eared the Colloquies of Corderius, and bewildered myself in the
Fables of Phædrus.

An opportunity presented itself of removing me to a remote province,
where good education, good air, and kind treatment, came recommended
under the sanction of a desireable economy. My hopes expanded, and my
ardour increased. I loved my parents, dearly loved them; but I had a
certain portion of ambition, which stimulated me to the attempt of rising
above the situation in which circumstances had placed me, and I had
discernment enough to see, that this could not be done by remaining where
I was. I left home therefore with many golden and flattering dreams, and
I arrived at the place of my destination, when the Midsummer vacation
was about half expended. I had an imposing sprightliness of manner, and
a conciliating good humour. The first obtained me a credit which I did
not deserve, the latter procured the kindness which as a stranger, I
wanted. On being questioned as to what I had read, it appeared that I
was seemingly familiar with various books, which intimate a considerable
advancement in knowledge. The master predicted that I should be a feather
in his cap; my dame was certain that I should cut a figure.

Black Monday at length arrived—the boys assembled. From what they had
heard, some were jealous of me, others viewed me askance, and all kept
at a distance. I at length stood forth. Alas! it was found that I knew
nothing. My master was at first angry, and thought me wilfully perverse.
He left me for a while; then came to me again—soothed and cheered me.
It was all in vain. I knew nothing. What was to be done? Instead of
being placed in one of the higher classes, the master most judiciously
determined, that I should begin again, from the very first rudiments.
This was hitting the right nail on the head. Every thing went on
smoothly. At first I proceeded slowly—perhaps with a little sullenness;
but I soon found that I was progressively getting that which I had
not—knowledge.

I look back to these enchanting scenes with no ordinary satisfaction.
A momentary bliss is imparted by the recollection. Ah! why should
they return no more! Then it was, that the heart, untainted by vice,
and uncorrupted by the world, expanded itself to the impression of
nature’s beauties; when the mind, full of hope and ardour, thirsting
for improvement, which was every day obtained, indulged in lovely
golden dreams of fancy, and constructed imaginary castles, with all
the accompaniments of Sylph and Fairy creation. I very soon imbibed
a love for reading, which almost instantaneously became a passion. I
was voracious. The difficulty of satisfying my appetite in an obscure
village of a distant province, remote from any market-town, served but
to increase it. The first beginnings of a literary life do not always
constitute the least interesting part of it. Memory delights to retrace
a few incidents at this period, the narration of which will at least
amuse myself.

I hoarded my scanty allowance to subscribe to a circulating library,
which I had heard was to be found at some four miles distance. It was
occasionally expedient to send hither, to supply the domestic exigencies
of the family. I offered myself as volunteer for all messages, errands,
and parcels, and I returned laden with the produce of this contaminated
and contaminating receptacle of trash. I had however a friend, whose
kindness and judgment preserved me from any mighty mischief. My master
had a daughter. It is not impossible that she may yet live, nor is it
utterly improbable that she may peruse this narrative. Be it so. I do not
less willingly pay the debt of gratitude. This young lady distinguished
me above my fellows, cheered me, encouraged my desire for books, directed
me in the choice of them, nor did I venture to read any without the
sanction of her awful fiat.



    Qui semel imbuerit rugas nutricis amabat.

CHAPTER III.


Shall I say which was the first book that most strongly excited my
curiosity, and interested my sensibility? It was Tom Jones. My female
Mentor tantalized me without mercy. She would let me have but one volume
at a time; and not only would not afford me any clue to the concluding
catastrophe, but rather put me upon a wrong scent. Sometimes too when
my impatience of expectation was at the very highest point possible,
the succeeding volume was mislaid, was lent, was not impossibly lost.
However, after a long and most severe trial, after hating Blifil with no
common hatred, forming a most friendly intimacy with Partridge, loving
Sophia with rapturous extravagance, I complacently accompanied dear
wicked Tom to the nuptial altar. I endeavoured of course to procure
the other productions of this popular author, but I well remember that
I did not peruse any of them, no not within a hundred degrees of the
satisfaction, which the Foundling communicated.

The next book which chance threw in my way rendered me important service.
It enlarged my mind, multiplied my ideas, inflamed my ambition, and gave
my curiosity and desire of knowledge, a proper direction. I by accident
picked up in a closet, little frequented, the first volume of Pope’s
translation of the Iliad. It was a mean edition, which I do not remember
to have since seen; but it had notes and illustrations, which were to
me extremely necessary. It is not possible to express the enthusiasm,
with which I hurried through it, nor the anxious impatience with which I
hastened to my female adviser to supply the continuation.—Alas! no more
volumes were to be found in the house. What was to be done? I could not
endure the idea of beginning any other book. I made the attempt, indeed,
but it was impossible. My mind was too elevated, to descend from gods and
heroes, (from goddesses more particularly, for I adored Pallas) to the
humdrum of common authors, and the incidents of ordinary life.

At length my fair friend sent for me, to communicate the joyful and
momentous intelligence, that a gentleman, whose residence was a few
miles distant from our own, compassionated my distress, and had promised
to lend me a volume at a time, if I would take the trouble to walk and
fetch them. I hardly stayed to express my thanks: it was asking a very
hungry wretch, to feed on the dish most delightful to his palate. I was
at the appointed place as expeditiously as youthful speed could carry
me. The gentleman was pleased with my ardour, and kindly encouraged
it. He conceived a friendship for me, and under certain very proper
restrictions, accommodated me with the use of his library.

These were truly Halcyon days, for my friend was a man of taste and
talents, and his collection of books proved him to be so. Under such
auspices, I essentially increased my store of knowledge. I remember (and
the remembrance at this very distant period is still painful) that he was
absent once for an interval, to me an eternity, of almost two months.
What a dreadful void, and how was I to fill it up? I had exhausted the
circulating library above-mentioned, long since. I had read again and
again the little library of my Mentor, when in the corner of a village
shop, I discovered an odd volume of the Town and Country Magazine. Might
I be permitted to borrow it? The nod of assent was a signal to me to
hurry home with it as fast as possible. I did not exactly know what to
make of it, but it had the charm of novelty, and occasionally at the
end of each month’s magazine I found some tolerable poetry. By the way,
this incident induces me to mention a circumstance for which I could
never satisfactorily account. I was, from the first moment of having
ability to read, exceedingly fond of poetry, and almost as soon as I
could write, made a compilation of those pieces which most suited my
taste, and best pleased my fancy. I had subsequently read many popular
authors, various admired specimens had been pointed out to me, many of
them were indelibly engraved upon my memory. I have since composed a
great deal in this branch of literature, and some of my compositions
have been very favourably received. I attained afterwards a facility of
versification, which seems hardly credible. I once in the course of a
short day translated an heroic epistle from Ovid. It was printed, and
has been approved by scholars. But at the period of which I am speaking,
my repeated efforts to write any thing in verse, were ineffectual. My
head was stored with poetical images. I had all the ardour of poetical
feeling. I had scenes before me calculated to awaken and inspire any
spark of genius, however latent; nay more, I fancied myself in love: but
still it would not do. I could not succeed. What I wrote, wanted strength
and nerves, wanted rithm, wanted harmony, wanted every thing. How is this
to be explained? I must suppose that I had too great an abundance of
ideas, and had not the skill and judgment to arrange them.

The scenes of Elysium which I have been describing, were not doomed to
last. What would I not give, once more to see the fields, and woods,
and streams, through and near which, with romantic and unwearied step,
I so often wandered, with no companions but my desultory thoughts
and unsubstantial visions. Accept, beloved village, this tribute of
unaffected gratitude. I left your plains with anguish—I remember them
with extacy.

A representation was made by my master, that he saw in me, indications of
qualities and talents which pointed to some better station, than that of
a village apothecary, and he recommended the sphere of my education to
be enlarged; that I should be removed to a great school, and finally to
the university. Whether I should have been more useful to the world, or
intrinsically more happy in myself, if the humbler path had been pursued
which was first chalked out for me, He only knows from whom no secrets
are hid. Flattering representations in favour of a beloved and only son,
are seldom listened to by parents with a deaf ear; they were cordially
welcomed by mine. In the shortest interval possible, the plan recommended
for my future instruction, was executed.



    Inde iræ et lacrymæ.

CHAPTER IV.


I was now placed under the care of a great dragon of learning. My
sensations, on my first arrival, at a scene so novel and so strange,
cannot easily be expressed. I was long and seriously unhappy. I had
so much to learn, to arrive at the level of those who were now my
associates, so much to unlearn, to avoid derision and contempt, that my
situation was for a time truly pitiable. I was humble, retired, and, as
they thought, vulgar; whilst to me, they all appeared insolent, rude,
intolerable. I had not been taught, or taught imperfectly, to make Latin
verses. This was my first labour, and arduous it was. I conquered,
however, the difficulty by perseverance, and became progressively
reconciled to my situation. I cannot say more, for perhaps the period of
my life, which I look back upon with the smallest degree of satisfaction,
is the time consumed in this seminary. Perhaps I should qualify the term,
consumed. I became a good scholar, in the ordinary acceptation of the
word, but I by no means passed my time to my satisfaction, and lost, as
I then thought, and still believe, no unimportant portion of time, in
learning to unravel the complicated perplexities of Greek metre, which
after all I very imperfectly understood. I could, however, at the time
of my departure, compose in Latin with tolerable ease, read any Latin
author without difficulty, and Greek with no great degree of labour.
At this place and time, when probably the foundation of my literary
character was laid, I have not half so much to remember, at all deserving
commemoration, as I have of the hours spent at my remote but beloved
village. Two incidents present themselves.

My difficulty in making verses long pursued me. The pains I took
to conquer this inaptitude, this stupidity, if you please, were
inconceivable; many a severe rebuke, and far worse than rebuke, had I to
sustain from my Orbilius. At length my luckier stars beamed upon me all
at once, in a manner beyond my comprehension. After being tossed about
in a tumultuous ocean, the storm subsided, the clouds dispersed, and I
saw land. We had always a double portion of verses for our Saturday’s
exercise. I am not quite certain that the subject on this occasion was
not “Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac.” I always went to this task with a
heavy heart, but some how or other, for I cannot explain the process,
words seemed to present themselves suitable, and in their proper places,
and with little or no exertion I completed my number, with an equal
mixture of self-complacency and self-astonishment. On the Monday _I
showed up_, with greater confidence than I had ever before experienced.
The master read my verses, sneered, which he was wont to do, and said
nothing. I well knew what he meant, but was not discouraged. I felt
within myself, that I had crossed the asses’ bridge, and I determined
to persevere. I did so, and in the course of the week showed up another
and a still better copy of verses. My master, when he had proceeded
about half way through them, paused, and looking at me significantly,
exclaimed in a half angry tone, Are these verses your own? I replied in
a tone which satisfied him of the truth, Yes. I had in consequence, the
appellation of good boy, a term very sparingly and reluctantly bestowed.

The other incident was this. I had not yet conquered the difficulty
of writing English verse. Indeed I had long given it up in despair. I
determined to make another effort. At a certain part of the school we
were allowed occasionally to make English verses, instead of hexameters
and pentameters; but it was an act of hardihood to do so, for the
failure was attended with inevitable disgrace and punishment, derision
from the boys, flagellation from the master. I resolved, however, to
flesh my maiden sword in the enterprize. I succeeded with one single
exception. I had my head full of old English poetry, of which I was
exceedingly fond, and I unluckily transferred an obsolete epithet from
Spenser, to a version of an ode from Horace. It was not unaptly applied,
but it marks the extreme shrewdness and felicity with which boys catch
the opportunity of conferring a cognomen. It gave me a nick-name, and I
could not complain, that it was either absurd or unjust.

I know not whether it be worth the mention, but here it was that I first
had lessons in the French language, from a raw-boned Scotchman, whose
dialect was as much like the Parisian, as the barbarous vocabulary of
Oonalashka resembles the polished language of Moscow.

I would now give the character of my instructor, but as I wish my secret
not to be disclosed, I am aware that I must use no common circumspection.
I do not now indeed dread the lightning of his eye, the thunder of
his voice, or the weight of his arm; but I do not wish the bonds of
complacency and civility, so long established between us, to be broken.
If any one therefore shall think he can individually apply what follows,
be it at his peril, not mine.

My master then, be it known, was a most extraordinary personage; not
less distinguished in literature than in politics. Indeed they who know
him best, and do not love him least, have constantly been of opinion,
that if he had consecrated more of his time to the first pursuit, and
much less to the latter, he would have enjoyed a far larger portion both
of public esteem and of public honours. As a master, he was severe,
wayward, and irregular. What he imposed in the form of exercise, was not
always consistent with the time and capacities to be employed. He would,
in solemnity of tone and manner, declare from his awful tribunal, that
henceforth he should be in the school at six, and punish those who were
absent with the utmost severity. He would observe this for two or three
mornings, when it passed away like a dream, and was heard of no more.

Prejudice against individual boys, and strong partiality in favour of
others, is perhaps in some degree unavoidable, but he did not always
take the trouble to conceal or disguise it. I was not in his favour;
but at this distance of time, and at a period when no foolish self-love
predominates, I verily believe that he had no justifiable motive for
his dislike. An anecdote here occurs, not much worth relating, perhaps,
except to demonstrate, that confusion and perplexity of countenance and
demeanour, on being accused of an offence, do not always demonstrate
guilt.

A very reprehensible act of indelicacy had been perpetrated in the
apartment of one of the upper boys, such as it might be reasonably
supposed no gentleman would commit. It could only have been done by one
in the higher part of the school, or by a servant; the lower school was
denied the opportunity of access. The upper boys were assembled by the
master in his library, a place which none of us ever approached without
dismay. After a long preparatory discourse, each was called upon to
declare his innocence upon his honour. Why he suspected me, I never could
imagine, but he from time to time cast such terror-striking looks on me,
that they were irresistible. I declared myself innocent upon my honour,
but I was so perplexed and agitated, that I must have appeared guilty to
every one but the real culprit himself.

It requires at this moment no ordinary effort of charity and forbearance,
entirely to forgive so great an act of cruelty and injustice. The
injury done to me was incalculable. It inflicted a deep wound upon my
mind; it debased and depreciated me in the eyes of my peers; it checked
every ingenuous ardour, and drove me almost to despondency. Every thing
unseemly which occurred afterwards, was imputed to my agency, and my
situation became intolerable. I could specify many instances of similar
undeserved personalities, but I had justice rendered me afterwards.
My Orbilius, at a subsequent period, whether he discovered his error,
or found that I was not cast in the mould which he had imagined, made
honourable atonement. I accepted it, and peace was made.

And now for the other side of the picture, for the person of whom I am
speaking had very contradictory qualities. His taste was exquisite,
acute, accurate, elegant, and this he seemed to communicate and inspire.
It was really delightful to hear him read, and I do not think that this
accomplishment, which is never sufficiently cultivated, can possibly
be carried to a greater degree of perfection, than it was by him. He
possessed also extraordinary powers of eloquence; his easy flow of words
could only be equalled by his nervous, appropriate, and happy disposition
of them. He was proud of this talent, and somewhat ostentatious in the
display of it. When he gave the upper boys a subject for a theme, he
would descant upon the subject in all its ramifications, for the best
part of an hour. Very amusing indeed, and instructive also, but somewhat
superfluous as to the immediate object, of enabling boys to compose an
essay of twenty lines. This gift, delightful as it was, was accompanied
by one evil; when not among boys, it disposed him to disputation, and
in disputation no small portion of his life was passed. I cannot say
that he was ill-humoured, but when touched, no minister could be more
sore. With great powers and great learning, much opportunity and earnest
invitation, he has done but little to secure a posthumous reputation. A
few disputative tracts, originating in personal and local altercation,
some scattered volumes, manifesting his political creed, attachments, and
speculations, and a few sermons on particular subjects and occasions,
form the entire works of an individual, who might have enlightened,
instructed, and adorned society. I know not whether he yet lives. If he
shall be removed to a better world—_Requiescat in pace_.



                Medioque ut limine curras
    Icare, ait, moneo.

CHAPTER V.


In some interval which preceded my removal to the university, I came
in contact with Porson. At a succeeding period of life, I lived for a
continued series of years in considerable intimacy with him, but it so
happened, that after this our first interview, we did not for a very long
time, meet again. It was at the house of a clergyman, whose kindness
encouraged, and whose judgment often directed my studious pursuits. I
was informed by him that I was to meet an extraordinary boy, one from
whom the greatest things were expected, he having already excited both
surprize and admiration. I proceeded to the house with emotions of
respect and awe, prepared to listen and admire. I was alone with him for
an hour: he discovered the greatest talents for silence; I could not
get a word from him. After dinner, as I had the prerogative of being
older, I tried again; it would not do; he was invincibly reserved, and
we parted with little, or rather with no colloquial communication—I,
with the impression that he was sullen, which I do not think he was,
and he probably with the idea that I was a great chatterer; in which,
perhaps, he was not much mistaken. I had, however, sufficient sagacity
to discover that he was “no vulgar boy,” and I retained this impression
so forcibly, that not long afterwards, finding myself in the village
where he was born, I visited the schoolmaster who was his first teacher,
and made enquiries concerning him. The old gentleman, who joined to his
occupation of schoolmaster, those also of exciseman and shopkeeper, was
not displeased with my curiosity. “There,” says he, “is where Dick used
to sit, and this is his slate, but he soon got beyond me.” I have more
than once mentioned this circumstance to Porson, and he assented to its
truth, though I have seen statements of his earlier life, which seemingly
contradict it.

At length the momentous period arrived, big with my future fate, when
I was to be fixed at the university. I entered upon this career, with
all the ardour of hope and expectation, with the resolution to acquire
both knowledge and reputation. Alas! a very short interval convinced me
how vain and unsubstantial were the dreams I had indulged. Reputation,
it appeared, was only to be obtained by the acquisition of a branch
of knowledge, of which I at present possessed very little, and for
which I had rather repugnance than inclination. However, there was no
alternative, and I set doggedly about it. I so far succeeded, that at my
departure, I did no discredit to the society of which I was a member.
At this point, let me be allowed to digress a little on the subject of
our universities. They do indeed seem to require a strong and powerful
reforming hand.

When an East Indiaman first arrives off the Hoogly river, in Bengal, a
crowd of black merchants, and other orientals of various descriptions,
hurry on board, as if to seek whom they may devour. One of these gentry
will go up to a young Englishman on the quarter-deck, and accost him
with—“Massa, what appointment are you come out with?” “I am a cadet.”
“Oh, Massa, very bad—no gold mohurs—no pagodas—very bad.” To another he
will say, “Well, Massa, what appointment have you got?” “A writership.”
“Oh, Massa, excellent good—plenty of mohurs, pagodas, rupees—make me
Massa’s debash, head-man—Massa want no money—no nothing—Massa pay one
time or other.”

Well would it be, if when young men first entered at the university, even
such a distinction was made, that the poor cadet was left to himself to
make his way as he can, and that only the Massa writer (alias the known
inheritor of wealth and distinction) was encouraged in the career of
sensuality and extravagance. But this is far from being the case; and
lamentable it is to say, that every young man, without distinction, on
shaking off the trammels of school, at his very first appearance in the
character of a man, at Oxford or Cambridge, has every facility afforded
him to pursue a career of thoughtless expence; nor does he recover
himself, if he does recover at all, till remorse harasses his spirits,
and fetters every better propensity by the compunctious recollection,
that he has involved himself in debts and difficulties, which it must
require the exertion and the labour of years to remove.

Surely this ought not to be possible. But where is the remedy, or rather,
where the preventive? It is beyond doubt a matter of considerable
difficulty; but still something might be done. Something like sumptuary
laws might be established to prevent the sons of peers, and the sons of
honest commercial persons, of private gentlemen, or of clergymen, from
being confounded and immersed in one common vortex of dissipation and
expence. I have a letter before me from Oxford, dated Baliol college,
1766, in which a person of considerable experience in that university
states, that fourscore pounds a year is a sufficient allowance for a
commoner, but that a gentleman commoner should be allowed two hundred.
I had personal knowledge of an individual at Cambridge, the whole of
whose college expences did not exceed forty pounds. This perhaps would
hardly now be practicable, but surely the heads of the universities, and
the tutors of colleges, might, by their firm and salutary interference,
prevent such extraordinary and extravagant excesses, as now pollute their
discipline, and disgrace their establishment.

Might not parents be protected by a fiat from the caput, from enormous
bills incurred at taverns, livery-stables, and confectioners? Might not
tutors, without invidiousness, quietly communicate with the tradesmen
of their respective colleges, on the subject of the present means and
future expectations of the young men under their protection, and thus
prevent any great accumulation of credit on one side, and of debts on the
other? Might not private dinners in private rooms be strictly prohibited,
and the possibility of making foolish, expensive, and pernicious jaunts
to London, and elsewhere, be prevented? I am satisfied that something
might be done, and I am certain that something ought to be done. I speak
feelingly, smarting as I do in the persons of near and dear connections,
and knowing no inconsiderable number of parents and guardians who
sympathize with me. Formerly, and at the period which I am about to
describe more at length, I verily believe that, except in the rooms of
noblemen, and of a very few young men of great and known hereditary
property, the more expensive wines were utterly unknown; whereas, at
present, most of the young men have, occasionally at least, their claret
and champagne; and a friend of mine shewed me the other day a bill for
three months only, amounting to a hundred pounds, for these articles,
incurred by a jackanapes, dependent upon the liberality of distant
relatives, without a sixpence of his own.

Formerly an occasional excursion to Gogmagog Hills, or on some gaudy
day to Huntingdon or Newmarket, satisfied the Cantab’s ambition, with
the addition of but a few pounds to his annual expences; but now fifty,
sixty, eighty pounds a year, run up at a livery-stable, is thought no
mighty matter; and sorry am I to say, that the fellows who keep these
places, encourage the young men in their extravagance, with the delusive
expectation that they will be paid some time or other.

Formerly the collegians met sociably, after dinner in the hall, to drink
wine in each other’s apartments, and expended two shillings, or perhaps
half a crown, on something like a desert, which usually consisted of a
few biscuits, apples, and walnuts. Now forsooth, two pounds will hardly
suffice for this indulgence, which is carried to a most pernicious
and culpable excess: now there must be ices, the most costly fruits,
sweetmeats, and the like. The expence of a desert was formerly so
trifling, that it hardly came into the calculation of expences. Now it
forms a very serious part of a young man’s items of incumbrances; and I
have seen a bill for this unnecessary luxury, incurred in the period of a
year, by a youth whose parents were obliged to practise much self-denial
and forbearance to maintain him at college, exceeding fifty pounds. Now
ought this to be? And may it not, with a little exertion on the part of
the superiors at the universities, in part at least be remedied? I could
say much more on this subject, for a thousand abuses, absurdities, and
irregularities, press upon my mind, but it is time that I should return
to myself, and the _good old time_.



                    Flagrantior æquo
    Non debet dolor esse viri nec vulnere major.

CHAPTER VI.


On my first arrival at the university, I felt myself on the wide sea,
out of sight of land, with little knowledge of the compass, and in a
vessel by no means sea-worthy. Ere long, however, I learned to take
an observation; became better acquainted with my real situation, and
steered along with tolerable steadiness. I had not, however, been a
great while at college, when my bark in a squall struck against a sunken
rock, and had well nigh foundered. Two young men of the college, of
much higher pretensions than myself as to worldly prospects, of much
humbler, perhaps, as to intellectual endowment, offended me by their
neglect, and disgusted me by their arrogance. In a thoughtless moment,
I inscribed an epigram in one of the chapel prayer-books, so apposite,
that it could be applied to nobody else, and so severe, as unavoidably to
provoke their indignation and resentment. They were of some standing,
I a raw freshman. The consequence was, that they formed a party against
me, and, from the plausible argument that no one was safe from such
a talent, so exercised, I was avoided as a dangerous malignant. This
affliction (and a great one it was for a time) might easily have been
averted, but for the insincerity of a young man, to whom I was more
particularly recommended, and who called himself my friend. He was the
first, who discovered this specimen of rashness and folly, and instead of
erasing it, and remonstrating with me on the danger and impropriety of my
conduct, he carried it to the parties concerned, induced, as I am rather
inclined to suspect, by some secret jealousy of my supposed superiority
in learning, which threatened to interrupt his views. This false friend,
for such he was, at least in this instance, has long since been called to
the settlement of his last awful account. May he there receive the same
unqualified forgiveness for all errors, which he has long since had from
me on this account.

The mischief, however, was but temporary, and the advantage was great and
permanent. Left in a great measure to myself, I avoided many provocations
to expence and dissipation, many scenes of youthful thoughtlessness and
folly, and compelled, as it were, to fly for refuge to my books, my mind
was soothed, enlightened, and improved. I had at length the triumph, and
a grateful one it was, to see my acquaintance solicited by those who had
disdainfully rejected it, and the tables were so far turned, that the
notice was obviously considered as a favour on my part, which would once
on their’s, have been deemed the extreme of condescension.

Here let me indulge an emotion, pardonable, I hope, of self-complacency.
They who from long observation and experience are best qualified to
judge of the scope and extent of my talents, (if I may be said to have
any) have invariably affirmed that my excellence was satire; that if I
had exercised myself in this unlovely branch of writing, I should have
obtained reputation. If I really had this quality within me, it was
kept where it ought to be—in a napkin. I never gave way to it but in
the circumstance above detailed, and in a very few other instances. One
was to expose the imbecility of an otherwise truly amiable man. He had
considerable talents, some learning, an exquisite taste for music, and
most agreeable powers of conversation; but he permitted himself to be
hen-pecked by a crabbed old landlady, with whom he boarded, and made
himself ridiculous, by the obsequiousness with which he submitted to
her caprices. I introduced them in an Amœbæan Eclogue, in which their
characters, peculiarities, and foibles, were so strongly and happily
delineated, that every hearer was impressed with the truth of the
resemblance, and delighted with the vivacity of the composition.

The other essay was far more important, was studied with care, artfully
contrived, and elaborately finished. A man who was my senior in years,
and superior in station, had treated me ill, had provoked my resentment,
not by one solitary act of oppression, but by numerous marks of enmity
and persecution. He had some strong and striking peculiarities and
foibles; he had made himself obnoxious in various places of residence,
by his insolence of temper, by engaging in personal animosities and
squabbles, and by various demonstrations of an arbitrary and tyrannical
disposition. To this person I addressed a letter from his Satanic
Majesty, thanking him for the services he had rendered the diabolical
empire, as exemplified in various overt acts at different places, which I
circumstantially detailed and described.

When finished, I invited a confidential friend to hear me read it, and I
am, at this very distant period, strongly impressed with his continued
exclamations on its force, truth, severity, and humour. He compared it to
the best things of the kind in our language, and indeed said every thing
which could soothe and satisfy my vanity. When he left me, I began to
reflect on what I had done, and its probable consequences. I examined
myself with some severity, and the result was much self-reproach. I had
indulged many unamiable propensities—anger, revenge, and every duality
which was in opposition to candour and to charity. I threw my satire
into the fire, and since that time, though I have had abundance of
temptations, I never wrote severe satire.

But to return.—The period of my first appearance at the university was
marked by one circumstance unfavourable to my literary ambition. The
number of students of my own standing was great, beyond all ordinary
precedent, and no small proportion of them were distinguished as well by
their literary diligence, as by superior abilities. Many of those who yet
remain, are at this moment of the highest reputation, and are displaying
their great talents in the senate, and in the highest situations of the
bar, and the church; so that my tutor immediately told me, that in any
other year I might have expected an exalted situation, but as things were
circumstanced, I must moderate my ambition.



    Sic neque Peliden terrebat Achillea Chiron
    Thessalico permixtus equo, nec pennifer Atlas
    Amphitryoniadem puerum, sed blandus uterque.

CHAPTER VII.


With the above chapter, Egotism nearly terminates. The remainder of
the manuscript consists chiefly of unconnected scraps and memorandums,
written with less or greater care, as the subject prompted, or as
opportunity presented itself, but obviously with the determination of
forming the whole into one connected series, at some future period. The
reader will unite, as he thinks proper, what follows with what precedes.


MY TUTOR.

“Of Professor ⸺ there is not any biographical sketch. He was the son of
a village blacksmith, nor is he, I verily believe, though now arrived at
eminence, at all ashamed of his humble origin. He discovered, when a
very boy, such an aptitude for figures, such acuteness and skill in the
combination of numbers, that he was soon recommended to the notice of the
clergyman, who, fortunately for my friend, was a man of learning himself,
and a zealous encourager of it in others. He assisted in the education
of the youth, liberally and effectually, and in due time procured
his admission at college. His progress was uniform and auspicious.
He distinguished himself far above his fellows, by his mathematical
attainments and philosophical pursuits, and received in due time the
reward of his diligence and his merits. He enjoyed the highest honours in
the power of the university to bestow; he assisted the studies of many
of the most eminent men who have adorned, first the seat of Alma Mater,
and afterwards, their country; he has enriched the branch of learning
which he so successfully cultivated, with some of the most valuable
publications of modern times; and he yet lives[1], and long may he live,
with professional dignity and honourable ease. A word ought to be said of
his patron, for I also, in some degree, experienced his kindness.

Dr. C. was a man of no ordinary talents, of extensive reading, and deep
reflection. He unfortunately bewildered himself in the subtleties
of metaphysics, and he had formed some peculiar opinions as to his
theological creed; but he was an amiable, excellent, and accomplished
man, and was father to a gentleman who now enjoys the very highest
reputation in a branch of the medical profession, and who, with his
parent, is equally entitled to this tribute of respect. Mrs. C. also, was
eminent for her abilities, and, amidst the anxiety of rearing a large
family, contrived to amuse herself, and others, by producing some of the
best novels in the English language.

Here let us relate an honourable anecdote of this worthy personage. A
most singular and eccentric character, who got a very scanty livelihood
by teaching the classics and mathematics, (both, it may be apprehended,
very imperfectly) used to go to the doctor’s house, at the distance of
about five miles, every Saturday, and stay till Monday. For what he
did, whatever that might be, probably teaching the younger children
arithmetic, he professed himself to be perfectly satisfied with the
hospitable welcome with which he was received. He abruptly, for some
cause or other, discontinued his visits. After an interval, he determined
to apply to the doctor for the present of a guinea. Strange to say,
(yet many can vouch for the truth of the tale) though he had written a
great deal, and read more, he had never had occasion, even at the age
of fifty, to write a letter, and actually he had never written one.
With the assistance of a friend, a letter was sent, entreating the gift
of a guinea. Some days elapsed without an answer, and the silence was
construed to be a refusal. The silence was however accidental, and a
letter soon arrived, enclosing not a guinea, but five pounds, with many
expressions of kindness, and assurances of esteem. The object of this
bounty was one, who, whatever might be his merits, never made more by his
employment than about eighteen shillings a week. A volume might easily be
filled with anecdotes of this extraordinary personage, personally known
and well remembered by him who records this fact.

But to return to Mrs. C. The titles of her works were, “Fanny Meadows,”
“The Daughter,” “The School for Wives,” and “The Exemplary Mother.”
All these books were written with the ardent desire of promoting
the influence of Christian morality; and whoever has perused these
productions of her pen, and was acquainted with the virtues of her heart,
must readily acknowledge that she exemplified, in every station of life,
those characters of ideal excellence which her fancy painted. She will
again be mentioned in the progress of this work.


COLLEGE LIFE CONTINUED.

Under the Professor’s guidance and instruction, considerable progress was
made in mathematical and philosophical studies; and that this must have
been done, appeared from his always speaking of his pupil’s advancement
in terms of strong approbation, and with the assurance on his part, that
he entertained no doubt of his arriving at the highest honours. This,
however, did not actually happen. His heart was not in these studies; he
had a constant hankering after the classics and belles lettres, and again
and again detected himself in the depth of old English literature, when
he should have been preparing himself for the Professor’s lectures. The
book which first gave him a taste for old English writers, the poets more
particularly, was “Percy’s Reliques,” which he read over and over again
with inconceivable satisfaction.

He was proceeding quietly and happily in this path, when an incident
occurred, which disturbed him not a little. He was called upon in his
turn, to compose and repeat a declamation in the chapel, and a prize
of books was at this precise period, bequeathed by a former master of
the college, to the best declamation of the year. This was a great
stimulus, and roused all his energies. But his mortification was
undescribable, when sitting down to compose on the given subject, he
found he could make nothing of it. The mind, it is true, was crowded
with ideas, illustrations, characters, anecdotes, but he was unable
to combine and arrange them. It was still worse when he attempted to
express them in Latin. He could make Latin verse readily, and with some
degree of elegance. He had indeed written themes, made translations
from various English authors; but the thing was totally different: a
regular composition of several pages first to be digested, and afterwards
recited, seemed to present difficulties invincible. To make bad worse,
he had brought with him to college something of a reputation for
classical attainment, and at examination first, and afterwards at the
ordinary college lectures, he certainly did not lose the footing he had
gained. But original composition was a very distinct matter, and more
particularly in Latin. The time was limited, the last day came, and he
had made very little progress. He however put something together, and
with the help of a little self-command, and a tolerably good manner and
modulation of voice, he got through better than he expected. He was,
however, abashed and ashamed to put the composition into the hands of the
tutor, which it was customary to do. It was very indifferent, and at best
but English Latin. It must be unnecessary to say, that the declamation
prize was not gained this year, but it was the next.

“Here let me speak the truth.—(_Loquitur protempore Sexagenarius._)—I
never encountered any literary difficulty in the whole course of my
studies greater than that of a proficiency in writing Latin, properly
so called. For alas! though I did obtain the prize in the subsequent
competition of my brother under-graduates, I think that at this time I
should be afraid and ashamed to peruse the successful essay. It must
have been from a mere relative superiority, and from no intrinsic merit
in the composition itself. It is very singular, but very true, I could
read the language with sufficient facility; I could speak it with a
sort of fluency, and in my Act, and other exercises of the School, was
complimented for this very talent by the Moderator, who was an approved
scholar, and was afterwards the author of a popular tract on Greek and
Latin metres. Yet I could not catch the idiom—the rhythm was English. At
a subsequent period I was more successful, and at length I could write
it habitually, with correct and real Latinity. But in the interval, a
circumstance occurred which I will candidly relate.

I have written more than one Harveian Oration for different members
of the college, who were my friends. I was present at the delivery of
the first which I wrote, and so, unluckily, was Sir William Fordyce, a
most excellent scholar. When it was finished, several of the members
complimented my friend on the composition; but I had the mortification of
hearing Sir William whisper a stander-by, that it was good English Latin.
What he said was perfectly true. My next essay was better.”

Perhaps it should in strict propriety have been related, that the writer
of these memoranda concerning himself, did not proceed to the university
wholly unacquainted with mathematical learning, and in justice a tribute
of respect should have been paid to one who well deserved it.

There were a number of tradesmen of the middle rank, or rather somewhat
below it, who formed a society for their mutual improvement and
assistance in knowledge. The very idea implies them to be what they
actually were, men of considerable talents; indeed, as well as can be
remembered, there was not one among them, who does not deserve a separate
memoir. Humble and limited as their education must have necessarily
been, the very meanest of them had some knowledge of the classics, or
had made some proficiency in mathematics and philosophy. It were to be
wished, that more particulars could be obtained concerning them. One
was the most extraordinary and eccentric character that ever lived, to
whom some slight allusion has been made before. He had been apprentice
to a cooper, a private soldier, a journey-man-weaver, and a writer to
an attorney; yet he was a very good Latin scholar, and had attained no
contemptible proficiency in Greek; but he was an excellent mathematician,
and of no mean acquirements in philosophical knowledge. As his income
was of course exceedingly scanty, he made the experiment upon how little
he could actually subsist, in case of necessity; and strange as it may
seem, he made something less than a halfpenny a day suffice. He bought
a farthing’s worth of potatoes, and a farthing’s worth of salt, and he
saved from each day of both, what proved sufficient for his dinner on
Sunday.

This, however, was not the person who assisted the Sexagenarian. The
name of his friend was Peter B⸺y. He was what is called a Throwster, of
which no further explanation can here be given, than by saying that his
occupation was, to prepare the yarn for the weaver. His situation was
of the humblest kind, but never was there a more acute, intelligent,
or able man. His knowledge of mathematics was surprizing; but how he
obtained it, nobody could imagine. He was perfectly self-taught, or at
least had no better instruction than a common charity-school supplied;
and what he might have obtained both of acquirements and celebrity, with
the advantages of education, and under more favourable circumstances of
local situation, it is not easy to ascertain. Be this as it may, it was
impossible not to admire the precision and clearness of his mode of
instructing; and the Sexagenarian left him, after spending an hour in
the day with him for two or three months, as well acquainted with Euclid
and simple equations as it was necessary to be. No mention would have
been made of this person, whose memory much deserves respect, but for his
mental endowments. He had, however, even after he had passed the middle
age of life, most extraordinary agility. He could do, what few other
persons would ever attempt. He used to take a few steps, and putting one
of his feet against the wall, would turn the other over it, so as to make
a complete revolution of his body. He performed many similar feats of
activity.

It is not known that any specimens of his talents were printed, except in
the Ladies’ Diary, to which he was a frequent contributor; and to which,
if the reader will refer, if he shall have the opportunity, he will,
from about the years 1768 to 1780, have sufficient demonstration, that
this venerable and early instructor of our friend, merits the tribute of
respect which is here paid him.



    Parce venturis, tibi mors paramur,
    Sis licet segnis, properamus ipsi.

CHAPTER VIII.


In this place also, as far as these Recollections can avail, let us
rescue from the oblivion it by no means merits, the memory of a man
somewhat, as appears from the dates, our friend’s junior in standing, but
of extraordinary talents, the greatest simplicity of mind and manners;
and though of no mean proficiency in classical and mathematical learning,
artless, modest, and entirely unassuming. Alas! he died prematurely;
and, from the unfortunate bias which he subsequently took, he might
probably not have entirely fulfilled the promise of his talents, and
the expectations of his friends. His name was G⸺; he was the son of a
pork-butcher, but he discovered when a child such acuteness of remark,
and powers of reflection, that his parents determined to give him the
best education which their humble means afforded.

He was unlucky in imbibing his first rudiments. He was placed under the
tuition of the eccentric character introduced in one or two preceding
passages of this narrative, and to be mentioned again hereafter,
who boldly and openly professed not to be a christian, for the most
preposterous of all reasons, namely, that the lives of the professors of
christianity, did not correspond with its precepts. He did indeed allow
a final cause, but his ideas even on this head, were rude, perplexed and
confused; they bewildered himself, and confounded others. But the quality
by which he was most strongly and peculiarly characterized, and which
from principle he communicated to others, was a universal scepticism. His
first and last maxim to his pupils was believe nothing but on proof. The
effects of this injunction on a mind so constituted as was that of this
young man, may be easily anticipated. He doubted of every thing, extended
his suspicions to whatever came within the sphere of his observation,
and, as far as recollection goes, the impression remains strongly
fixed, that he ultimately fell a victim to the gloomy sentiments, which
ill-founded notions and prejudices on the subject of religion inspired.

He was recommended to the Sexagenarian by a common friend, an amiable
clergyman, and excellent scholar, who for a time directed the course
of his studies, and assisted the young man’s literary views. The writer
of these memoranda, as appears from his notes, undertook to read with
him certain parts of Homer, Horace, and Virgil. It was his custom to
interrupt him with perpetual questions, which were sometimes answered to
his satisfaction, but often far otherwise; but what was most surprizing,
the most animated and beautiful passages excited no emotions of
gratification or delight; and on being asked whether he did not admire
such and such descriptions, as characteristic of superior genius, he
would say, they are very pretty, but what is the use of them? I learn
nothing from them; they prove nothing.

With mathematics it was far otherwise. Euclid in particular was the
constant theme of his praise and admiration, and his progress accordingly
kept pace with his partiality, in this branch of study. In progress of
time, he was admitted a member of Pembroke-hall, in Cambridge, where he
studied so intensely, that his health was materially injured. Our friend,
it seems, saw him but once afterwards; he then retained all his early
peculiarities, with a proportionable increase of scepticism, and more
particularly so, in what regarded religion. When next enquired after, he
was no more. Having an opportunity of visiting the place of his nativity,
the friend who writes this record of him, was anxious to obtain some
further anecdotes concerning him. But alas! no one was found who had even
the remembrance of his name; gladly therefore do we render this imperfect
tribute to his talents, his attainments, and his truly amiable manners,
bating the waywardness which the extreme singularity of his opinions
threw around him, and which to strangers made him appear in a less
acceptable point of view.

But it is time to return to the university. According to the manuscript,
our friend’s studies appear to have proceeded in the even and ordinary
course. He got progressively some addition to his stock of knowledge, and
his tutor and fellow-collegians anticipated for him higher honours and
distinctions than he afterwards attained. He affirms that he was much
captivated with the simple but energetic manner of the celebrated Dr.
Ogden’s preaching; he also occasionally frequented a chapel, where a Mr.
Robertson preached, who was a very popular teacher among the dissenters,
and who afterwards published various works which were well received:
he, however, decidedly gave the preference to Dr. Ogden. He also makes
repeated mention of Michael Lort, of bibliographical memory, old Cole
of Milton, Masters, the historian of Corpus Christi College. Concerning
these individuals, we could relate many particulars from our friend’s
papers; but the subject has been so ably handled by Mr. Nichols, in his
Anecdotes of Bowyer and his Press, that it seems less necessary. The
great antiquarian Gough, the very accomplished Michael Tyson, Wale,
the artist, &c. &c. came frequently within the sphere of his personal
knowledge; but for the reason adduced in the preceding paragraph, we
forbear any particular details concerning them. Old Masters, it seems,
had a son of singular character, person, and demeanour. He affected, on
all occasions, the greatest parsimony as to dress, and other expences;
his suit of clothes was made of what the young men of that day called
Ditto, as we believe they do still; he knew that his fortune would
be considerable, but he preferred living in a garret, to one of the
better rooms to which he was entitled; his spoons were of pewter; his
tea apparatus the meanest that could be procured; but he was sharp and
sensible, and alledged, in vindication of his whimsicality, that he
wanted things for their use, and not for show. He would certainly have
been distinguished in life by many great eccentricities, but he died
prematurely of a consumption.

There was another contemporary of a singularity of character, which
seems worthy of being recorded. He was educated at a public school,
was a very good scholar, of agreeable manners, and of rigid accuracy
as to his moral conduct; but he had the infirmity, amounting almost to
disease, of the most invincible indolence. There was no rousing him to
exertion of any kind; he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to stir
from the precincts of the college; with still greater difficulty it
was, that he could be induced to rise in the morning to chapel. He had
been expostulated with, threatened by his superiors, and at length was
unequivocally assured, that if he did not appear at chapel some morning
in the following week, he should certainly be rusticated. Every morning
but one had passed away, and he was still not visible. As our friend had
an esteem for him, he undertook to call him himself, on the only morning
remaining for his probation; he determined to see him dress, and conduct
him to chapel. He accordingly went to his apartment in due time; woke,
and so far roused him, that he sate up, and began to dress, but very
reluctantly. To prevent, as was imagined, the possibility of his lying
down again, he took the pitcher of water standing by his washing-stand,
and emptied it into his bed. He then went to chapel, expecting him every
moment. Alas! he came not.

The writer of these notes afterwards went up to his room, and found him
fast asleep upon the wet bed-clothes. The result was, that he was sent
from college. On subsequent enquiry after him, it was found that he
had got into orders, but that the same unaccountable perverseness and
indolence still accompanied him. He would keep the parishioners waiting
in the church-yard, till they went away in disgust. It is feared that he
was afterwards reduced to great inconveniences, and we believe that he is
now dead.

About the same period, the college was electrified by an occurrence
which fortunately does not very frequently happen. A young man, of good
family and connections, had been admitted from one of the great public
schools; but when the day fixed for his leaving his parental house
for the university arrived, he suddenly disappeared, to the extreme
consternation of his friends. After a diligent enquiry, it appeared that
he had been seduced by a notorious beldam of high rank and fashion, with
whom he was residing in some remote and obscure place. He was rescued
from her temporary grasp, and brought to his destined abode; but his mind
was vitiated, and he constantly longed for the gardens of his Armida. No
great time elapsed before the sorceress pursued him, and once more caught
him in her toils. It is supposed she was tired of him at last, for after
a while he returned to his duty, and continued in it without further
molestation and interruption; but he had incurred a habit of profuse
expence, incompatible with his situation, with an aversion to any thing
like study or confinement. He obtained, however, by his connections
considerable preferment; but we understand that he died at no advanced
period. His paramour, we are inclined to think, yet lives, the victim,
it may be reasonably supposed, of the bitterest remorse. If her mind
should ever wander to the person alluded to above, her sensations of
self-reproach will not be greatly palliated.



                        Qui pectore magno
    Spemque, metumque domas vitio sublimior omni.

CHAPTER IX.


It looks perhaps something like story-telling, but one incident leads
to the remembrance of another, and this seems no improper place to
relate from our manuscript, a fact, or rather a series of facts, which
in hands accustomed to the manufacture of such articles, would make no
uninteresting novel.

Among the Sexagenarian’s college acquaintance, was a young man of elegant
person, manners, and accomplishments. He distinguished himself on every
occasion, and left the university with the highest character. As he was
our friend’s senior, they were not at that period very intimate, but they
met, it seems, afterwards in life, and for many years continued upon
terms of cordial friendship. He was invited to an honourable situation
in a very illustrious family, and it is hardly necessary to add, after
what has been premised, that he discharged the duties of it, to the
entire satisfaction of his employers. He was thus in the progress to
all that rank and fortune could bestow, when one of the daughters of
the family became susceptible of the very strongest impressions in his
favour. What was to be done? To remain in his situation was imprudent; to
encourage the too apparent partiality was dishonourable, for marriage was
impossible. The matter in a very short interval became so palpable, that
it was proposed to him to travel for three years, with the assurance that
if he married on his return, a very handsome provision should be made for
him. He accordingly went abroad, and was absent for the time specified.
Immediately on his return, he formed a connection, in which the heart
had not so much to do, as the desire of being honourably settled, and of
placing himself beyond the reach of danger and suspicion, from a quarter,
to which he still looked with a kind of lingering regret, and from which
also he reasonably expected the promised mark of favour and distinction.

In the interval, he and the writer of our MS. encountered one another and
renewed their college acquaintance. He visited our friend, and became
almost an inmate of his family. They had at this time with them a young
lady, of the most captivating manners, great mental endowments, elegant
in her person, and of very considerable fortune. Unfortunately, she also
had entangled herself in a connection, in which her principal view was
a regular establishment. Her parents were dead, and she boarded, not
very comfortably to her views and feelings, in one of those houses where
some respectable female receives and protects young ladies of fortune.
These ill starred parties, forgetful of their mutual engagements,
conceived the strongest attachment to one another, thus placing the
Sexagenarian and his family in a situation of the greatest perplexity
and distress.—Incidents occurred, and scenes were frequently repeated,
which it is not consistent with the object of this narrative to detail
and describe; but which would be allowed their full share of pathos and
interest in any of the better works of imagination.

After an interval, perhaps somewhat too long protracted, the streams
returned to their proper channels.—Their sentiments of delicacy and
honour led each of them, to the honourable performance of their first
engagements.—The gentleman received the distinctions which had been
promised him, but whether from the causes which have been recited above,
whether from infirmity of health, or from worldly vexations, it cannot
be said, but true it is, that his mind became soured, and his manners
captious and irritable. In contradiction to his former character of
courtesy and kindness, he was always involved in controversy and dispute,
and at length died at a premature age, unpopular and unbeloved. Of the
lady it is only necessary to say, that she became the amiable mother
of numerous children, and for any thing known to the contrary, may yet
be alive to peruse this narrative; if she does, she will bear willing
testimony to its accuracy.

During his residence in the university, our friend appears to have
constantly frequented the divinity schools whenever Dr. Watson presided
as Regius Professor. He expresses with great warmth how much he was
charmed with the grace of his manner, the dignity of his deportment, the
elegance of his latinity, and the fluency of his diction. He seems to
have regarded him with awe and reverence, yet he certainly had a certain
solemn pompousness of demeanour, which rendered him less acceptable to
many.—He was not at the time of which we are speaking elevated to the
Episcopacy, but he was soon afterwards. An honest publican, who was
his neighbour, in order to testify his great respect for Dr. Watson,
took down his long established sign of Bishop Blaize and substituted
for it the head of Dr. Watson; a wicked wag of the university, saving
his presence, we believe he is now a Bishop, wrote an epigram on the
occasion.

    Two of a trade can ne’er agree,
      No proverb e’er was juster,
    They’ve ta’en down Bishop Blaize do you see,
      And put up Bishop Bluster.

At this period also Dr. Hallifax presided in the law schools with great
dignity and effect. He was an admirable scholar, and spoke Latin with
peculiar facility and elegance. About the period of our friend’s leaving
the university, he also was made a Bishop, and the edition which he
subsequently published of Butler’s Analogy, sufficiently demonstrates
that those honours were not improperly bestowed. Bishop Watson yet
survives; but it is a matter of some regret that none of his friends
have undertaken to give a more extended biographical sketch of Bishop
Hallifax. He was a very considerable man, of great abilities and of
profound learning. He also filled highly dignified and important offices,
and it seems unjust that one so circumstanced and conditioned, should
be suffered to pass away, without some more substantial memorial of his
worth and usefulness, than has yet appeared.

When about half the period of residence at the university had been
fulfilled, Mr. Pitt appeared among the students. The great and
illustrious Pitt, whose talents, patriotism, and firmness saved his
country, and handed down a lesson to Europe, which in the event,
preserved that also. But let us forbear to anticipate events and
circumstances to which the narrative will in due course lead. Let us be
satisfied with saying here, that the Sexagenarian well remembered his
first appearance at the university. He excited no interest or curiosity
from his person or manners. He had even at that early period a certain
austerity of aspect, and stiffness of manner, by no means calculated to
conciliate on a first introduction. He was characterised by an air of
much deeper thoughtfulness than is usually to be discerned in persons so
young, and he was very seldom seen in the society of young men of similar
rank and situation with himself. His most usual companion was his tutor,
upon whose arm he generally leaned. He was remarkable for the plainness
of his dress and was, it is known, particularly correct in his attention
to the local rules of his college, and to the general regulations of
the university. It is also on record, that he lived at inconsiderable
expence, an expence which some of the young pert coxcombs of the present
day would contemplate with a disdainful sneer.—Poor creatures!—They
are generally satisfied with the voluptuous pleasures of to-day; his
great mind was probably expanding into future times, and anticipating
the period when his genius and talents might have their due and proper
exercise upon nations.

Our friend very frequently saw Mr. Pitt subsequently in life, and
observed that his external carriage and demeanour remained unaltered.
Yet he had opportunity of knowing from those who lived with Pitt in the
greatest familiarity and intimacy, that in the privacy of retirement, he
was condescending and affable, even to playfulness, and would read with
glee the lighter kinds of poetry to the ladies.—One expression can never
be forgotten, which was used by the man who knew him best, namely, his
private secretary.—“Mr. Pitt was so very amiable in private and domestic
life, that it was like living with an angel.”

So much has been said and written on the subject of Mr. Pitt, that it
seems at first superfluous to discuss it further. But these are the
Sexagenarian’s opinions on this great man.

“My own fortunes were too deeply implicated in his, to pass the æra of
his memorable life with very slight mention.—I always admired, and as far
as I could, supported his principles.—I exerted all my powers in behalf
of the great and anxious questions, which exercised his firm and lofty
mind, at the most momentous crisis which, perhaps, this country ever
saw; when the acknowledgment of being the advocate of Pitt, and of the
measures prompted, guided, and matured by him, was attended with personal
risk, or at least with menaces and with alarms. I boast of being one of
these same alarmists; but I had noble support and honourable associates,
whose genius, talents, virtue, and integrity, might well endure to be
weighed in the opposite scale with those who, perhaps, whilst they felt
alarm themselves, from a far different source, affected the language of
ridicule, disdain, and security. Their alarm was, lest Mr. Pitt and his
band of real patriots, should frustrate the attempts of his adversaries,
and save his country. But he did save it; and I humbly and gratefully
thank the Supreme Disposer of human events, that I have been permitted to
see the successful, the glorious termination, of that wise and sagacious
system of politics, contrived by his wisdom, prosecuted by his firmness,
and sanctioned by the wise and good of every nation in Europe. With
respect to myself I was, indeed, but a very humble instrument, but I
played the best part I could, and had the gratification, the happiness of
knowing, that Mr. Pitt thought my labours effectual.—That he did think so
appeared in the event.—I had substantial marks of his good opinion and
friendship.”



    Multiplicat tamen hunc, gravitas autoris, honorem,
    Et majestatem, res data, dantis habet.

CHAPTER X.


Mr. Pitt’s tutor was so intimately connected with every thing relating to
his illustrious friend, that we cannot any where more properly introduce
what appears in our manuscript about him. This eminent person’s mind is
of far too high a stamp to experience any thing like mortification or
chagrin at the mention of his origin, and the rank of his forefathers.
It has, indeed, been said, that some remoter branch of the family had
been of the rank of baronet. Be this as it may, when our friend first
went to the university, he spent a part of the day where he remembered
seeing the name, connected with some lucrative mercantile concern. This
he afterwards found was the father, who, on his son’s elevation, retired
from business to a very respectable and comfortable residence in the
place where he had lived so long and so reputably; and died not long
since, full of years and peace. On our friend’s arrival at Cambridge Dr.
P. was soon pointed out to him, and he was at first very unfavourably
impressed with his forbidding appearance. His countenance was, to his
apprehension, strongly marked with harshness and austerity. This idea
weighed so deeply upon his mind that afterwards, when in the Senate House
under examination for his degree, Professor ⸺ thought he was not likely
to have justice done him, and desired Dr. ⸺ to see what he could do, he
was so much under the influence of prejudice against him that he declined
it, to his most obvious disadvantage.

He felt himself, however, bound in duty and gratitude, to acknowledge
that never were first impressions more fallacious.—He was afterwards
admitted to the Bishop on terms of familiarity, indeed we may say
friendship, and a more amiable, courteous, excellent man never lived.
But to expatiate on these qualities here, would be wandering from the
course. Fortunately for Dr. ⸺, Pembroke was the college selected for
Mr. Pitt’s place of education.—The society could then boast of no other
person equally qualified to superintend the studies of a youth, so
circumstanced, and so endowed. It was perfectly natural, that a great
intimacy should be progressively formed and cemented between the
instructor and the pupil, and it is alike honourable to both, that this
attachment continued without interruption, to the very last moment of Mr.
Pitt’s too abbreviated life.

Among his other qualities and accomplishments Dr. ⸺ had one, by the
exercise of which he had attained the highest distinctions in the power
of the university to bestow; and which could not fail of being peculiarly
useful and important to Mr. Pitt in his situation of Chancellor of the
Exchequer. This was a remarkable acuteness and knowledge with respect
to every thing connected with numerical computations.—This talent was
of course exercised to good account.—Mr. Pitt was not at all backward
in acknowledging the merits of his early instructor, and the claims of
his friend. If we mistake not, his first preferment was a Prebend in
Westminster; this was not held long, before in quick succession it was
followed by a Canon Residentiaryship, a Deanery, and a Bishopric.

In all these situations Dr. ⸺ proved himself no indolent consumer of
the emoluments of his high offices: a more vigilant, active, useful
Prelate never adorned the bench. The able works which he has produced in
succession, are to be classed among the most valuable publications of
modern times. Not alone useful to students in theology, to the rights of
the church, and the general interests of literature, they form standard
books of reference and authority for all writers on theological subjects,
now and hereafter. Perhaps the Refutation of Calvinism is that which
displays most effectually the Bishop’s powers of argument, extensive
reading, and controversial skill. This work has been repeatedly attacked,
but never will be answered. They who shall have the charge of pupils
intended for the Ecclesiastical profession, never can be said to have
discharged their duty, unless they enforce the most familiar acquaintance
with, and the repeated contemplation of the Elements of Theology. But
we can only touch on these subjects, for having much to say of many, it
appears necessary to curtail our friend’s memorandums, and be satisfied
with giving their substance, even when speaking of those who, like the
Bishop of ⸺, would justify long and circumstantial detail.

It has been understood that Mr. Pitt took much and anxious pains to
elevate his tutor and friend to the see of Canterbury, and that he would
have succeeded, but that the King considered himself as pledged to Bishop
⸺. Nobody entertains the smallest doubt that the Archbishopric of York
was intended for him, if Lord Grenville had continued in office. It is
equally notorious that at the decease of Bishop Randolph, the Bishopric
of London was pressed upon him, which, however, for various reasons,
important to himself and his family, he declined. There is one more fact
to mention concerning this distinguished prelate, and we must have done.

A whimsical old gentleman of Lincolnshire, whose name was T⸺, conceived
a great partiality for the Bishop, and principally from his punctual and
conscientious discharge of the Episcopal duty. After a few interviews
this attachment increased, and he openly avowed his determination to make
Dr. P⸺ his sole heir and residuary legatee. But the matter was supposed
to be suspended but on a slight thread, for Mr. T⸺ had done the same by
others, and made similar promises again and again. Indeed, if our friend
was rightly informed, the circumstance of his tea not being made one
evening in a manner perfectly agreeable to the old gentleman’s palate,
was very near overturning the baseless fabric. He went home exceedingly
chagrined and out of humour; but on the suggestion that it was another’s
fault; and that the Bishop could not possibly help it, he recovered his
temper and suffered things to remain as they were. He died, and the
property to a very great amount came into the Bishop’s possession: the
whole could not be estimated at so little as two thousand a-year. One
pleasing circumstance attended it: on felicitating the Bishop on an
event so highly flattering in itself, and beneficial to his family, his
lordship assured our friend, as appears from the manuscript, that there
were no poor relations who could justly complain of being injured. This
estate, with its appurtenances, has since been settled on the Bishop’s
eldest son.

The bishop had a brother, of Pembroke college also, who was nearly our
friend’s contemporary. He had the reputation of talents which had the
same bias as those of the Bishop, but he was of infirm health; and at
the usual time of examination for degree, he was not able to encounter
the fatigues and anxieties of the Senate House, and was accordingly put
to his probation, privately in his room. It must have been a vexatious
circumstance, for he had so distinguished himself in the schools, that
it was generally imagined he would have been the senior wrangler of
his year. This honour was, however, well bestowed on a Mr. Oldishaw,
a gentleman of Emanuel college, who was afterwards domestic chaplain
to Bishop Sutton, and now, if we mistake not, resides on preferment
in Norfolk, given him by his patron, where also he has the rank of
Archdeacon.

Mr. ⸺, as might naturally be expected, was a participator of his
brother’s good fortune. He obtained the chancellorship of L⸺, and a
prebend in the cathedral of N⸺. He was to have been Canon Residentiary of
St. Paul’s, but this, if our information be correct, was objected to by
the king himself, who learning that it might by possibility happen, that
the Dean with his brother might form a majority in the chapter, for this,
and for this reason only, refused his consent.



    Bene ubi quod dicimus consilium, accidisse, hominem cautum eum
    Esse declaramus, stultum autem illum quoi vortit male.

CHAPTER XI.


Closely connected with Mr. Pitt and the Bishop, was another gentleman
whom, as appears from the manuscript, our friend knew at college, and
afterwards with more familiarity on the great theatre of the world. He
cannot be more properly introduced than in this place: more particularly
as he held a very distinguished situation for a long series of years,
and rose finally to worldly prosperity, exceeding that of both his
illustrious friends. Mr. ⸺ was a native of Norfolk. There have been
contradictory reports of his parentage; but he was the son of a reputable
coal and corn merchant at Colteshall, and who, dying young, left his
widow and four small children in very indifferent circumstances. The
Rev. Dr. ⸺, uncle to the subject of this article, was at the time of his
brother’s death, master of ⸺ college, and in him, the widow and orphans
found a most kind and benevolent protector, for he took them all to
reside entirely with him.

Mr. ⸺ received part of his education at the Free School of Norwich, but
was afterwards removed to Harrow. He took his degree with considerable
reputation, and afterwards, if our friend’s recollection did not fail
him, had a travelling fellowship. The time, however, came when it was
necessary to determine on his ultimate destination in life. It was fixed
that he should take orders: this he by no means liked; but he had,
however, proceeded so far towards the accomplishment of the proposed
object, as to cut off his hair. In this interval he was offered by Mr. ⸺
of the treasury, a temporary situation as clerk in that establishment.

The moment was peculiarly auspicious: Dr. P. who was then private and
confidential secretary to Mr. Pitt, wanted some assistance, and Mr. ⸺ was
recommended for the purpose. When the Bishop retired, Mr. ⸺ succeeded
to his situation about Mr. Pitt’s person, and remained in it as long
as Mr. Pitt continued to discharge the functions of prime minister.
The inference in favour of his abilities, integrity, and other merits,
must be sufficiently obvious. Mr. Pitt, though it must reluctantly be
confessed that he was never very forward in encouraging the labours, or
promoting the interests of literary men, was never backward in conferring
marks of his liberality and esteem on the individuals to whom he was
attached, and whose abilities he exercised. Mr. ⸺ had various places of
honour and emolument bestowed upon him: he was secretary to Mr. Pitt as
Governor of Walmer castle; he was Receiver General of Stamps; he enjoyed
a lucrative appointment in one of the West India islands, we believe
Jamaica; he was pay-master of the out-pensioners of Chelsea, which
appointment was subsequently extended and improved, by being made to
comprehend the Irish Pensioners resident in this country. Mr. ⸺’s flow of
worldly prosperity did not, however, terminate here: by his first wife,
he obtained very considerable property. On her decease he married Miss
C⸺, a relation of Lord S⸺; with her, it should seem, he has not succeeded
to less than one hundred thousand pounds. He purchased at Newport, in
Essex, the splendid seat of the Hon. Percy Wyndham, formerly belonging to
the Marquis Thomond. Here he enjoys, with an amiable wife and a numerous
family, the real _otium cum dignitate_.

In different conversations which the Sexagenarian had with him on the
subject of Mr. Pitt, he uniformly had occasion to conclude, that this
truly great man was as amiable in private and domestic life, as he was
wise, magnanimous, and sagacious in the conduct of public affairs. He was
exceedingly attached to every individual of his family, and to the last
hour demonstrated the most dutiful and pious reverence to his mother.
Our papers contain one anecdote of him, in which his temper must in some
degree have been put to the test. Mr. ⸺ lived in a street remote from
the treasury, and used to go every day at ten o’clock to the Minister’s
house in Downing-street: one morning the Secretary unfortunately lost,
as he supposed from his pocket, on Constitution Hill, Mr. Pitt’s bunch
of private keys. The consequence was, that all business was suspended
till every lock was forced, and new locks and keys provided. Mr. Pitt,
however, did not demonstrate the least ill humour or chagrin.



    Tout ce qui luit n’est pas or.

CHAPTER XII.


Intimately connected with the above distinguished personages, but more
particularly with the Bishop of ⸺, was ⸺ ⸺, the first and present Bishop
of ⸺. He, I should think, will not feel a false shame in being classed
among those who, having nothing to boast on the score of their birth,
make their way to a situation of eminence and honour, by the exercise of
laudable industry, and no inconsiderable abilities. What his father was,
does not appear, nor is it of consequence. He was, when young, dependent
upon an uncle, who was a respectable attorney. His first destination was
for trade, and he was bound apprentice to a grocer, in which situation
the Sexagenarian had seen him employed; but he had a taste and talent
for more exalted things than weighing plums, and breaking sugar, and had
also the good fortune to have his wishes seconded and promoted by his
kind relative. He was admitted of ⸺ college where he took his degrees
with much credit. After taking orders, he returned to the Provincial
town, where his friends resided, and from whence he discharged the humble
duty of a curate in various neighbouring churches. He was at length a
candidate for a preferment, the appointment to which was vested in the
parish, and after a strenuous opposition he succeeded. There was a decent
house, and an income perhaps of two hundred pounds a year, and probably
at that period, the utmost of his ambition did not soar to any thing much
more elevated. At this crisis, most fortunately for him, his friend Dr.
P. was placed on the bench of Bishops, and immediately nominated Mr. ⸺ to
be his domestic chaplain.

The brightest prospects now opened to his view, nor was he disappointed.
His first preferments were two good livings in ⸺, in the vicinity
of the bishop’s residence, to which was afterwards added a Stall in
the Cathedral. It appeared about this period to government, to be
expedient to fix an ecclesiastical establishment in the province of ⸺,
of which a Bishop was to be the head. The intimacy between the Bishop
of L. and the Prime Minister still, indeed always, continued, and his
recommendation of his friend and chaplain, to fill this eminent office,
was accordingly accepted. Dr. ⸺ was consecrated Lord Bishop of ⸺, with
a noble salary, afterwards increased to 3000_l._, a year. Here perhaps
he still continues, in the useful and honourable discharge of his high
functions. It has been doubted, by those who knew him best, whether
this splendid banishment was exactly in consonance with the Bishop’s
natural propensities. He was, as a young man, of an elegant taste, fond
of society, and particularly of female society; attached to the belles
lettres, and no contemptible poet. It was a strong contrast to these
habits and propensities, to assist in the illumination of Esquimaux,
Cheroquees, and their Squaws.

Dr. ⸺ has appeared before the public as an author, but principally as a
writer of poetry. Whilst resident at Cambridge, he published a quarto
tract of poems, sufficiently elegant, but somewhat of too amatory a cast.
He had a peculiar turn for epigrammatic writing, and there are preserved
in our manuscript, one or two which probably never have been printed; the
insertion of them may tend to enliven our narrative.

About the period before alluded to, an ingenious blind man made his
appearance where the Bishop then resided, and, as he had done in various
other places, undertook to give philosophical lectures. His name was
Moyes, concerning whom, more particular accounts than we are able or
desirous to give, may be found, it is believed, in the Gentleman’s
Magazine, and other periodical publications of the day. It was a
very fashionable thing, and particularly among the ladies, to attend
his lectures. Their tender sympathy was excited towards him, from the
circumstance of his blindness; but he was also of a goodly form and
countenance, lively in his manners, eloquent in his delivery of his
lectures, which he also contrived to season with surprizing narratives
and amusing anecdotes. One of the hypotheses upon which he chose to
dilate, was that of latent heat in bodies. Our lively friend, for such he
was then, and probably still continues, availed himself of the popular
malady, to produce the following epigram.

    Blind Cupid, tired with his celestial joys,
    Descends to earth in shape of Dr. Moyes,
    With ⸺ dames delights to take his seat,
    And fires each female breast with latent heat.

In the same provincial town was established a Catch Club, of which
the members were each and all of them, of great musical and vocal
accomplishments. Our Sexagenarian seems to have known them well, and had
often been delighted with the exertion of their talents. Unfortunately,
from some trifling cause or other, a violent schism took place among
them. Dr. then Mr. ⸺, did not lose the opportunity of exercising his
sarcastical weapons, and the following jeu d’esprit was circulated.

    Tis said that affected by fogs of November,
      The Catch Club is in a sad case,
    But by losing in time every mortified member,
      The body’s recovering apace.

Were the attempt to be made either by hunting among the loose pages of
our manuscript, or by local enquiry, it would be easy to get together
a great many of these trifles; but these may suffice. Some of the
venial levities of younger days, promulgated by another Bishop, will be
introduced elsewhere. But there seems to be here, somewhat of a deviation
from the regular path; and the manuscript appears in danger of entangling
our eccentric friend amid the wilds of Canadian forests, or bewildering
him in the crowd of his ecclesiastical superiors.

At the period, to which his notes have thus far conducted him, it must
be remembered that he merely is seen as an humble under-graduate of
Cambridge.



    Ridiculus sermo cui vita rebellis abhorret
      Ergo cave Doctor dissonus esse tibi.

CHAPTER XIII.


After some pages of erasure, and scraps not exactly intelligible, we
again meet with some connected paragraphs. What follows seems a detached
memorandum, relating principally to a character well known, and highly
respected, in his day; and we therefore give it in our friend’s own words.

“The interval between a young man’s earliest admission at the university,
and the taking of his first degree, can hardly be expected to involve
many matters of importance. At a remote period, and when we are far
advanced in life, so far, that its close becomes almost discernible
through the gathering clouds, memory delights to dwell on scenes that
are past, and meditation lingers on the different individuals with whom
we started in the race together, whose loss we deplore, or who yet fill
stations in the world within the reach of our observation. A Sexagenarian
must necessarily have many to lament, and others who, though they have
not prematurely disappeared, so far excited his attention, or interested
his feelings, that he looks back to them with a mingled regret and esteem.

“I had occasion, during my progress to my degree, to consult a physician,
and I was directed to Dr. Glynn. He was a most singular, eccentric
character, but had many amiable qualities, and was a learned and
accomplished man. Detached anecdotes of him may be found in various
publications, but I have often lamented that no authentic and more
circumstantial account of his life and manners has been given, by some
familiar and intimate acquaintance. He was not always disposed to admit
patients, and I well remember that when I first waited upon him, I
distinctly heard him pacing up and down his room, spouting Greek. I
knocked two or three times, but no notice was taken. I became impatient,
and fancying my case to be one which would not admit of delay, with a
venial eagerness I should hope, I repeated my knocks. Again no notice
was taken. At length, I ventured to open the door, and, to my great
consternation, found the old gentleman still traversing his apartment,
and spouting aloud. On my entrance he stopped, and somewhat harshly
demanded my business. I threw as much obsequiousness into my manner, and
as much of a supplicating tone into my voice, as I could, and he was so
far softened, that he asked me to sit down, and listened attentively
to my case. He was afterwards kind to me, and called at my rooms more
frequently than perhaps was necessary, as far as malady was concerned.
I learned also from my tutor, that he would accept of very little as a
compensation for his trouble, for physicians’ fees were then paid by
the tutor; of the present practice I know nothing. I remember that his
first and greatest favourite was Juvenal, the whole of whose writings
he appeared to have at his fingers ends. He certainly must have written
many things worth preserving, for the mind which could have composed so
beautiful an Essay as the lines on the Day of Judgment, to which the
name of Dr. Glynn is annexed in Seaton’s Prize Poems, must also and
successfully have been exercised on other subjects of literature.

“I think it was during my residence, that he took the name of Cloberry,
in consequence of the will of a relation, who left him his estate; but
I do not believe that he was ever so called by any resident member of
the university, all of whom seemed to recognize something of agreeable
and affectionate familiarity in the appellation of Dr. Glynn. It should
be added, that in contradiction to the distance and austerity, in some
degree necessary, perhaps, to the heads and seniors of a university,
Dr. Glynn was remarkably kind and obliging to his juniors, and would
often invite young men to his apartments. I wish I could remember more
particulars concerning him. I know that he assisted both Mr. Bryant
and Mr. Mathias in the Chattertonian controversy, but all my enquiries
have not enabled me to discover whether he was the author of any other
literary productions. Every person will remember the affectionate
tributes to his merit, which appeared in the Pursuits of Literature.”



                    Si duceris ira
    Servitii patiere jugum, tolerabis iniquas
    Interius leges, tunc omnia jure tenebis
    Cum poteris rex esse tui.

CHAPTER XIV.


GILBERT W.

The name of this personage occurs in various parts of our manuscript; but
the scrap which follows, did not seem unworthy of insertion, and appears
to have been drawn up with some care and pains.

The celebrated Gilbert W. was also a contemporary. He has written his
own life with some diffuseness, and he who writes this account is not
disposed to controvert any of his assertions, as they relate to himself.
With respect to others, the case is very different. He viewed every body,
who at all presumed to have opinions opposite to his own in matters of
religion, politics, or literature, with a jealous and a jaundiced eye;
nor could it be easy in the common intercourse of life, ever to meet
with a man in these instances so inflexibly pertinacious. Our friend,
it seems, and we use nearly his very words, knew him on his entrance
into life. He knew him in life’s progress, knew him till within a near
period to his dissolution. He was invariably the same; petulant, fond of
dispute, impatient of contradiction, and estimating every one’s talents
and merits merely as they harmonized with, or opposed his own prejudices
and propensities; yet, in his character and conduct, he involved this
singular contradiction—his demeanour in private society, was mild and
urbane, and certainly unprovoking; but the moment he took his pen in
hand, he appeared to divest himself of his customary garments, and to
clothe himself in storm and tempest, hurling his thunderbolts like
another Jupiter from Ida.

His first appearance in the schools at Cambridge can never be forgotten.
He had excited a general opinion of his superior abilities, and as his
waywardness of temper was also universally known, curiosity led numbers
to hear him when he had to sustain the character of Respondent against
three Opponents. All were surprized at his acuteness, and admired his
dexterity, but all were offended with his petulance, and indignant at the
asperity of manner, with which he seemed to browbeat the Moderator. Most
of the auditory in appearance had made up their minds, that he was a man
not to be beloved, but that he would certainly make some noise in the
world.

Our friend further writes, that in a very short interval after this
public exhibition of his talents, he met him at the rooms of a common
acquaintance. He warmly expresses the astonishment he felt at perceiving
the same man, whose external carriage and demeanour had in public
so excited displeasure, enter into conversation and argument with a
sort of mildness, which by the contrast looked like affectation. But
thus it always was, and this justice is willingly rendered him; that
however reprehensible his public principles, his asperity in political
animosities, his want both of temper and judgment in his criticisms, his
pertinacity of opinion, and the total absence of candour, nay, it may be
said, of charity, in his measuring all virtue and all knowledge by the
standard of his own prejudices—yet when seen in the bosom of his family,
he certainly appeared to conduct himself with the greatest mildness.
Nor did we ever hear of but one assertion to the contrary, but this is
of such authority, that it is impossible not to yield it our assent. A
learned and amiable judge, after the business of the assizes was over,
paid a visit to Dorchester jail, at the time when W. was there, most
justly suffering the penalty of an atrocious and abominable libel. He
had not proceeded far into the interior of the prison, when he was
annoyed by the loud complainings of a boy, apparently suffering from a
severe beating. Upon enquiry, he found that it was Mr. W. inflicting
parental and perhaps salutary chastisement, on his son. Allowance may,
however, be reasonably made for the circumstances in which he then was
placed, and which might have a tendency to sour the benignity of his
temper. The impression, however, upon the amiable judge was, that such
behaviour did not seem quite in character with the avowed principles of
this friend of human kind, this perpetual exclaimer against war, and of
every species of severity of man against man. The above anecdote was
communicated by the judge himself, who witnessed the incident, and the
gaoler said it was a daily occurrence.

His system of educating his children was certainly a little singular;
but as it is only in part detailed in our manuscript, it is
impossible to decide peremptorily upon its merits. One thing is thus
specified:—“Calling upon him one morning when he resided at Hackney, I
was shown into his library; I there found him standing over one of his
daughters, who was not more, apparently, than fourteen; she had a volume
of the octavo edition of Clark’s Homer before her. On my expressing
some surprise, he desired me to examine her in Greek. I did so; she
read a few lines very readily, construed them without hesitation, knew
the derivation of the more complicated words, and discovered a familiar
acquaintance with the Greek syntax.”

We have since heard that this young lady has invariably been of the most
amiable character and manners, and filled a very useful and honourable
station in society.

Our Sexagenarian had at different times intercourse by letter with W.
and though they were notoriously and avowedly at variance, upon many
essential and important matters, they lived for a time on terms of
remarkably good fellowship. It was at length violently broken asunder by
W. never to be renewed, and by the following occurrence. Our friend, as
he represents the fact, had been for some time engaged in a literary work
of considerable extent, and among other communications which he received
from different friends, Mr. W. accommodated him with a few memoranda. We
are willing to give any share of blame to our friend, which the severest
reader may think proper to impute to him; but on the publication of
this work, the few notes transmitted to him by Mr. W. did not appear of
sufficient importance to demand, or to warrant, specific acknowledgment.
He, however, thought far otherwise; and, in the first ebullition of his
indignation, wrote the following curious epistle:—

“Mr. W. has seen Mr. ⸺’s last publication, in which, among other
acknowledgments, there is no mention made of Mr. W.’s assistance. Mr. W.
therefore sets down Mr. ⸺ for a complete barbarian, as actuated by some
church and king motives, all of which, God be thanked, are coming to a
speedy issue in this country.”

It may be asked of those who undertake to be the advocates of G. W.’s
tenderness of heart, and benevolence of conduct, by what feelings he
could possibly be influenced, when he wrote the above note. What could he
intend by the sentence, “influenced by some church and king motives, all
of which, God be thanked, _are coming to a speedy issue in this country_.”

As Dr. Johnson observed of Andrew Millar, when told that on receiving
the last portion of the manuscript of the dictionary, he thanked God
he had done with him (Johnson); so it may be observed in the present
instance. But for what could W. thus piously thank his Maker, unless for
the hope which he enjoyed by anticipation, that he might see the church
overturned, and the king destroyed; which, as these things could not be
accomplished without many scenes of bloodshed and misery, must seem alike
creditable to the piety and humanity of him who prayed thus with himself.

A mutual friend, who had much influence with our Sexagenarian, and
apparently possessed the same with W., kindly undertook to heal the
breach; but it would not do—he was implacable—and the Philanthropist
never forgave or forgot the supposed injury.

Of Porson there will be occasion to say a great deal in another place,
but we are anxious to rescue his memory from an injurious and unjust
aspersion cast upon it, in W.’s Posthumous Letters to Mr. Fox. We shall
then have done with Mr. W.

In those letters W. undertakes to give a character of Porson, who, by
the way, had always a contempt, which he was at little pains to conceal,
for W.’s critical abilities. In this character, it is lamentable to
say, there is more truth than could be wished; but when it is affirmed
that Porson was dull in conversation, it may be maintained that W. knew
nothing of the man. If it be true, as perhaps it may, that Porson never
spent but one day at W.’s, it appears from his notes that our friend
spent that day with him, and accompanied him thither. He well knew
Porson’s sentiments of their host, and thought that he rather exerted
himself more than usual on that day, and that the conversation on all
sides was lively and interesting. Be that as it may, Porson could on no
account be represented as dull. If he did not like his company, he would
perhaps be silent; but whenever he did say any thing, they must have been
dull hearers, who did not immediately discern rays of intelligence,
acuteness, and information, whatever the subject introduced might be. It
is extremely difficult to account for W.’s thus committing himself on the
subject of Porson, and for his asserting what he must have been conscious
at the time, it was in the power of so many persons living, to contradict
and refute.

On the whole, perhaps, the biographical sketch which W. has given of
himself is agreeable enough, for it can hardly be expected that an
individual should exhibit a representation of his own infirmities and
defects. Our friend certainly retained no particle of enmity against
his memory, but there are memorandums before us, from which it appears
that the venerable Sylvanus Urban, Gent. has at different times received
letters from W. of which the spirit was to the full as harsh and
acrimonious, as that which has been transcribed above.



    Ω μῆτερ ικετευωσε μη πισειε μοι
    Τας αἱματωπους και δρακοντωδεις κορας.

CHAPTER XV.


With respect to what follows in the pages immediately succeeding, he who
undertook to select from, and place in something like order, the scraps
and memorandums of the Sexagenarian, confesses that to him the whole is
perfectly unintelligible.

But as it is not ill written, and certainly alludes both to some
extraordinary personage and very particular events, it is inserted for
the exercise of the sagacity of contemporaries, if any shall yet remain,
who can break the sphinx’s head.

“How can I entirely pass over, or in what terms shall I reveal one of the
most singular and extraordinary facts that ever occurred, but which in
my time excited an universal fermentation in our university. A thousand
feelings press upon my mind at the remembrance of it, each and all
tending to restrain my pen from diffuse or circumstantial description.
A star appeared in our horizon, brilliant as the sun of the morning;—in
a dire moment, when every eye was expecting its increasing splendour,
it suddenly sunk in night:—but the night was not eternal—the star rose
again—it still illuminates our extensive sphere. I myself have repeatedly
basked among its rays, and enjoyed its genial warmth.—The phænomenon
exhibits one of those very rare instances, where the steady exertions
of diligence, prudence, and circumspection, aided by talents, and
directed by genius, rise superior to the enormous pressure of disgrace
and contempt: where a secret and latent vitality lurks in the sap of the
blighted rose tree, which being transplanted to a genial soil, a balmy
air, duly watered and carefully watched, the principle of life slowly and
gradually circulates and ascends, and the senses are finally charmed and
delighted with fragrance and with beauty. I forbear to say more, but may
in this place not improperly introduce the following anecdote.

“A young man of the college remarkable rather for his knowledge of dogs
and horses, than for the brilliancy of his literary attainments, had
incurred the displeasure of his tutor. He was sent for to the tutor’s
apartment, and after much expostulation and remonstrance, a Spectator
was put into his hands, the longest paper selected, and he was ordered,
on pain of rustication, not to leave his rooms till he should have
rendered it into Latin. On his return, in no very cheerful mood, he
found in his rooms _a friend_. He immediately began his melancholy
tale. “Here,” said he, “am I to be confined till the vacation, for it
will take me at least till that time, to complete the abominable task
of translating this eternal paper into Latin.” His friend desired him
to compose himself, to sit down, take pen and paper, and write as he
dictated. He did so, and in an inconceiveably short space of time the
task was accomplished. He did not, however, venture to take it to the
tutor till the day following, and very great astonishment was even then
expressed at so early an execution of what had been imposed. The young
man departed in high glee; but he had not long been gone, before he was
hastily sent for again. “Young man,” said the tutor, “do not make bad
worse, by telling me a falsehood. I well know that this exercise is not
of your own composition; but I insist upon knowing who did it for you.”
Thus on compulsion the name of the real author was of necessity revealed.
The reader may guess the rest. It was an early effulgence of that same
brilliant star, which set for a time to rise again with renewed and
extended radiance.

“The remembrance of this tutor excites a sigh of deep regret. Nature on
the score of genius had done a great deal for him, study more. He was
a philosopher, a poet, well acquainted with the classics, an excellent
linguist, a truly accomplished man. Remarkable for his kindness to his
inferiors, more particularly so to those under-graduates whose means
did not allow them the opportunity and advantage of private tutors. To
such, even beyond the precincts of his own college, he would himself
supply the deficiency, without hope or prospect of any compensation
but their gratitude. How shall I relate the sequel. He has long ceased
to animate and enliven his friends, who loved him. He was, I fear, too
ardent a votary to that power, who of all the fabled divinities of Greece
and Rome, treats his followers with most unkindness, who repays their
libations with malady, their songs with degrading infirmities, their
triumphs with defeat.—Peace to his ashes.—If ever man deserved a tear of
sympathy, it was ⸺.”



    On peut trouver des femmes qui n’ont jamais en de galanterie;
    mais il est rare d’en trouver qui n’en aient jamais eu qu’une.

CHAPTER XVI.


A portion of the Manuscript now presented itself, not a little perplexing
from the frequent erasures and interlineations, whilst not seldom, these
were a second time crossed out with the pen, as if the writer could not
exactly make up his mind, whether the incidents noted should remain at
all, or in what terms they should be expressed. Thus, for example, by
holding up the paper to the light, the words “College Pranks” were with
some difficulty discernible. These had been erased, and for pranks, the
word “Vagaries” was substituted. This word also had been rejected, and,
as appeared from the ink at no great distance of time, “College Follies”
was inscribed in a larger hand, as if intended for the head of a chapter.

But of these “Pranks,” “Vagaries,” and “Follies,” there were not many
which seemed recorded for any other purpose than for the moralizing
sentiments and reflections which seemed to have accompanied the
recollection of them. The anecdote which follows, from the warmth and
earnestness which the partly pleasing and partly painful remembrance,
evidently excited in the writer, must long and sensibly have occupied his
mind. It is communicated in substance thus.

After about a year’s residence in the university, an accident introduced
him to the society of a lovely young widow, whose brother was a
respectable tradesman, but had occupations which occasioned him to be
much absent from home. His sister kept his house, and in her brother’s
absence had many lively parties, composed principally of females of the
better class in the mercantile line, and of young gownsmen. He frequented
her society, till a very strong attachment was mutually formed and
avowed. Marriage, as it would have been the utter ruin of both parties,
was never mentioned by either, but a tender and affectionate intercourse
took place, which had subsisted for many months,—[Here the manuscript
has such blots and erasures, that many lines are totally illegible.]—The
narrative is afterwards thus resumed:—In absence they corresponded for
a long time with the most unabated attachment, when at length, (for
tenderness is sharp-sighted) our hero fancied he perceived the style of
his widow to be somewhat colder. Her letters were less frequent; they
now contained excuses for their brevity, and after a while they were
altogether remitted.

What he suspected had actually taken place, as he had ample testimony on
his return, after the long vacation in October. A young man, somewhat
above his standing, who was remarkable for his personal confidence, for
his wit and humour, and above all, for his gallantries, had addressed
himself to the Fair Inconstant, even before she had known him who now
complained of her perfidy. He failed, however, in his attack at this
time, and better fortune hailed our friend. The connection upon whom
the new gallant was dependent, and with whom he lived, (a learned and
venerable clergyman) was compelled by circumstances to reside principally
in the university. He artfully availed himself of this opportunity, and
of her lover’s absence, to renew the siege, and after close and continued
assaults, he supplanted his rival.

After some desultory remarks on female vanity and fickleness, of no great
interest or importance, the subjoined words occur in the margin in the
form of a note, and evidently were written in a long interval of time
after the anecdote itself.

The sequel of the story of this my successful rival is not a little
whimsical, nor can a greater contrast be imagined between what he was,
when he contended with me in calling

    Eyes, which are the frailest softest things,
    Tyrants—Butchers—Murderers—

And what he is now; between the levity, facetiousness, and improvidence
of his youth, and his present severity, loftiness, and pride. That all
should acknowledge and lament youthful indiscretions, should exhibit
a contrary conduct, and, by example, encourage the young and the
thoughtless to decency and rectitude of demeanour, is expedient and wise;
but surely it is not amiable to be cited as an exemplar of rigorous
austerity, of inflexible tenacity, with respect to the obsequiousness of
inferiors; of a too severe exactor of penalties, inconsiderately incurred
by the want of reflection and experience. Such a transition, from
contemplating with delight “eyelids where many graces sate,” to minute
and aristarchical animadversions on youthful freaks, might, one should
suppose, have been somewhat checked by the knowledge and conviction,
that there are still in circulation, composed by this now greatly
exalted personage, Poetic Trifles and Levities, of which the mildest
representation that can be given is, that they are prodigiously amatory.
But let this pass; this man is now ⸺.

Here again is a considerable hiatus in our MS. but it is impossible not
to smile at the anecdote which succeeds, of which the substance is this:—

One of the tutors of the college was far from being popular, and the
principal reason seemed to be, that he was what was then denominated “a
Tuft hunter;” that is, one who prefers the society of a peer to that
of a commoner, a lord to a baronet, and proportions his obsequiousness
in an exactly graduated scale of rank and dignity. It was understood
that his Reverence was to dine with a young nobleman, more remarkable
for the quantity of claret he could exhaust, than for the brilliancy or
variety of his intellectual attainments. The opportunity was accordingly
taken to screw up his door so very securely, as to render admission by
it impossible till the morning. Let the reader judge of the sensations,
wrath, and indignation of a very pompous man, returning at a late hour of
the night, with perhaps as much wine as he could decently carry, in vain
attempting to procure entrance to his apartment. After some persevering
exertions, which were ineffectual, the porter was summoned, and with
due examination, aided by numerous lights, the mischief was discovered.
The conspirators, who affected to be roused from their beds by the
noise which the catastrophe occasioned, assembled, with well-feigned
commiseration, and with professed eagerness, to assist, and ultimately
enjoyed the wicked satisfaction of seeing their plot fully accomplished,
by assisting the unlucky and _ill-starred_ tutor to get admission to his
rooms, by means of a ladder placed against the window.

The above nobleman, by the way, ought not to be passed over without a
little further notice. He so far forgot in subsequent life the dignity of
his elevated station, as to play the part of Pandarus to one greater than
himself. The beauty, however, of the lovely object in question, proved so
irresistible, that he fell a victim to it himself, and betrayed the trust
reposed in him. The circumstances have since been partially related by
the lady herself, and the whole would involve sufficient materials for a
most curious novel.



    Vidi jam juvenem premeret cum serior ætas,
    Mœrentem stultos præteriisse dies.

CHAPTER XVII.


The good humoured manner in which our Friend relates a jest, successfully
practised upon himself, shows that he enjoyed it almost as much as
they who contrived it. He received a card from a young man, of higher
rank and connections than himself, from whom he had just reason to
expect such an act of civility, in return for some good office which he
had, before he arrived at the university, an opportunity of rendering
him. He accordingly accepted of the invitation to supper, which the
card conveyed, and went at the appointed time. On his arrival, he was
introduced to a large party, all of whom were perfect strangers to him,
and appeared to look so strangely and coldly upon him, that he began to
suspect what was really the case, that the invitation was a forgery, and
that it was intended to laugh at him. He made an effort to retire, but
was prevented, and after a short interval, joined heartily in the laugh
against himself.

It appears from a loose memorandum, that our friend, notwithstanding his
systematic regularity, and rigid attention and conformity to College
discipline, had once a very narrow escape from incurring the severest
censure of his superiors, from which accident alone preserved him. A
thoughtless young man, of very eccentric character, had most improperly
introduced a female of degraded fame and manners into his apartments,
and with equal indiscretion had supplied her with liquor till she became
ungovernably intoxicated, nor was he himself a great deal better. About
midnight, he so far recovered his recollection as to wish to get rid of
his unruly guest. This, however, was no very easy task. She refused to
depart; and when with some violence he had got her into the quadrangle,
she began with most vehement screams to utter the cry of murder. In this
dilemma, the young man went and called up our friend, who with more good
nature than considerateness, rose to assist him. The woman continued
screaming, and when the tutor and some of the fellows appeared to see
what was the matter, no other young man was visible but the subject
of this narrative, pulling the young woman with difficulty along to
the porter’s lodge. Here the advantage was experienced, of a previous
good character; nothing else could have preserved him from disgrace and
punishment. He had the address to secure his friend from detection, and
to save himself. His narrative was, that being disturbed by the cry of
murder, he left his rooms to see the cause, and finding a drunken woman
in the quadrangle alone, he thought that in propriety it became him to
conduct her to the porter. This, however improbable it might sound, was
credited, and no disagreeable consequences ensued.

The character and history of the young man, involved in the above foolish
act of profligate inconsiderateness, is so very singular, that many
remarks and anecdotes concerning him, subsequently occur. From these
collectively, the following concise narrative was deduced.

His father died when he was yet a child. He was left to the guardianship
of his mother, a very weak and foolish woman, at whose decease he was
to succeed to considerable personal property, and a clear unencumbered
estate of about a thousand pounds a year. Nothing could possibly be
better conditioned than this estate was; it was a freehold, and compactly
circumscribed by a ring fence. The youth’s education was totally
neglected, and he was suffered to do whatever he pleased. When about
sixteen, he expressed a great desire to go to college; but as he was
totally uninstructed, except in the commonest village school learning,
some consultation was necessary about the most practicable means of
extending his education, and improving his knowledge. It occurred that
there was a distant relation of the same name, established in a curacy at
the provincial town, who might be glad to undertake his introduction to
the rudiments of Greek and Latin.

This was accordingly done, and after remaining under his cousin’s care
for about two years, my gentleman was removed to college, and by way of
counsellor and guardian, his relation accompanied him. However, he soon
threw off all restraint, and dashed boldly and uncontrouled into all the
irregularities and extravagance of the place. Whether he waited or not
to take any degree, does not appear; but certain it is, that in a very
short period of time, his profuseness reduced his mother to the extremest
difficulty and distress, and materially lessened their common income.
In this dilemma, it was thought expedient that he should go abroad, and
accordingly he departed for the continent, and fortunately for his future
and declining days, with some young men of fortune, two of whom have
since made a distinguished figure in the political world. A short time
was sufficient to waste what remained of his property, and in a very
brief interval after his return to his native country, not an acre,
nor a single shilling remained, of all his valuable patrimony. That the
poor old mother died in the utmost penury, it can hardly be necessary to
state; the son, if he yet lives, subsists on an annuity allowed him by
his former gay companions, who in this instance assuredly did not verify
what is usually asserted about the desertion of friends in adversity. It
remains to exhibit a slight delineation of his character.

He was remarkably good-natured, even to excess. He would thoughtlessly
give away the guinea which was his last. With equal thoughtlessness he
would borrow whatever he could obtain from others, without the remotest
idea of returning it again. He once carried his mother to an inn in
a provincial town, where he ordered a sumptuous dinner, and the most
expensive wines. When the bill was produced, though they went in their
own carriage, it appeared that neither mother nor son had a sixpence in
their pocket. They were relieved from the awkwardness of their situation
by the writer of this narrative, who as he never expected, so did he
never see a shilling of his money again. When young, and the talent
was probably continued to him, the original of this portrait had an
extraordinary faculty of exciting mirth, by the most unaccountable and
unexpected sallies of humour and ridicule. To this he was probably
indebted for the protection which he subsequently received, when he
most wanted it. He had almost always an avowed disregard of what are
invariably respected as the decencies of life, and would, without
scruple, if asked by an old acquaintance where he was to be found, give
his card at a common brothel, or at the lodgings of some celebrated
courtezan. At the same time he could assume the mildest manners, and
conciliate the kindness of the most timid and the most modest of the
sex. His ruin was certainly to be imputed to a neglected education, and
the unpardonable indulgence which was shown him in his earliest years.
He doubtless had those qualities of heart, and those endowments of
intellect, which, if they had been directed, chastened, and disciplined,
by a skilful and experienced guide, would have rendered him as useful and
as amiable, as he certainly turned out unworthy of any virtuous esteem.



    Stet quicunque volet potens,
      Aulæ culmine lubrico,
    Me dulcis saturet quies
      Obscuro positum loco.

CHAPTER XVIII.


A notable contrast to the preceding was another singular and eccentric
character, a fellow-collegian of the same standing. He has been slightly
alluded to in a former part of this narrative, and deserves to be yet
further remembered. His father was a farmer of some respectability,
and he, as the eldest son, was allowed to choose his profession, which
he was originally induced to make that of a linen-weaver. He toiled on
year after year very inauspiciously; he contracted, however, a fondness
for reading, and at the age of at least thirty-six, took it into his
head that he would go to college, and be a clergyman. He accordingly
converted his stock and moveables into money, and with the assistance
of a neighbouring clergyman, got just Latin and Greek enough to pass
examination at college.

He had calculated his means with such extreme precision, that with
the advantages he was to receive from being a Sizer, the sum of forty
pounds was to cover the whole of his year’s expences at college, and he
never exceeded it. He was a man of mean abilities, but of indefatigable
industry, and with no other help than such as the college lectures
afforded, he obtained his degree reputably. He limited himself in every
particular as to time, occupation, dress, exercise, and the minutest
articles of expenditure. For example, once a week he would invite some
one to breakfast, once a fortnight to supper; whilst a hat, a coat, &c.
&c. would be made to last for two years each. He was much respected for
his inoffensive manners, his consistency of conduct, his regularity and
industry.

Although he must unavoidably have accustomed himself to great privations,
he was always cheerful; and often by the force, which greater experience
gave to his remonstrances, deterred his younger companions from acts
of inconsiderateness and folly. His great ambition was at length
satisfied to the full. He obtained orders, and a decent curacy.
Here for many years he conscientiously practised the duties of his
situation. Preferment he never sought, nor if he had, with his humble
pretensions, was he likely to have obtained it. But his public spirit
was constant and unwearied, and conceiving some local improvement of
great importance to the provincial town, near which he resided, he made
a very extensive circuit, principally on foot, to solicit contributions
for this purpose, from those who were able and disposed to bestow them.
Nor did he rest till he had accumulated several hundreds of pounds, for
the accomplishment of his favourite object, which he vested in the hands
of proper trustees. He died not long since, at an advanced period of
life, with the blessings of the poor, and the esteem of a respectable
neighbourhood.

Far, very far different, in fate and fortune, from the two individuals
above described, was a cotemporary of a different society, who (if any
man ever had) had most abundant cause to bow before the shrine of the
divinity, who with such seeming capriciousness, _sævo læta negotio_,
distributes her smiles and favours. His father was a respectable
clergyman in moderate circumstances; his education rather confined, but
certainly in some private seminary. He went to the university with no
particular pretensions of talent, learning, or application; but he had
a fine person, and conciliating manners, and it should almost seem that
he trusted to these with greater confidence than to any of his acquired
endowments. It was for a time doubtful which of the learned professions
he should assume, but he finally determined on the law. At this period,
he was mild, unassuming, and generally acceptable to his numerous
acquaintance. He lived on the fair give and take system of equality,
with those whose pretensions were not higher than his own, and partook
of his bread and cheese supper with men of his own standing, with a good
humoured cordiality. All at once he ceased to be seen among his quondam
friends.

On enquiry, it was found that his person and address had recommended
him to the partial notice of a lady of very large fortune, acquired
by industrious relations in commercial pursuits. The change had an
extraordinary effect upon his memory. He forgot his former and humbler
acquaintance. He acted the great man, at least in one part of the
character, and in fact he really became one as to rank and station.
All have their infirmities; prosperity is hard to bear, and minds,
even stronger than that which distinguished the object of these
animadversions, might be in some danger from so beautiful and splendid
a prospect opening all at once upon them; from being suddenly elevated
to the dignity of a senator, to large landed property, and a splendid
establishment, in exchange for a situation, relatively at least, humble
and insignificant.



                Tarpeium limen adora
    Pronus et auratam Junoni cæde juvencam,
    Si tibi contigerit capitis matrona pudici.

CHAPTER XIX.


Still different, and far, very far less auspicious, was the fate of
another of their cotemporaries. His father filled the situation of an
organist in a Provincial town, but had saved money enough to give his
son a decent education, and establish him at the university, with the
design of his taking orders. He passed through the ordinary course
with an unexceptionable character, in due time was admitted with some
credit to his degree, was ordained subsequently, and was elected fellow
of the college. Most unfortunately for him, his exertions to procure
what appeared to be an eligible curacy, in a very remote and retired
situation, were but too successful, and to this he owed his utter and
irretrievable ruin. He was a well made, handsome man, of great good
nature, and very agreeable manners.

There was, as ill luck would have it, another Potiphar’s wife in the
village; he was exposed to precisely the same temptations as the Joseph
of Scripture, but unhappily did not possess similar virtue. He too easily
fell into the snare. The connection was discovered, and a prosecution
was the consequence. It but little availed him, that there was no
pretence for the charge of seduction on his part, that the frail lady
was the mother of a numerous family, that the husband was much absent
from home, that opportunities to assail his firmness were studiously
sought, and that pretences to have him almost constantly in the house,
were ingeniously invented. Far heavier damages were awarded against him
than he was able to pay, and in consequence, he absconded. The society
of which he was a member, was but too well justified in withholding the
preferment, to which in his regular turn he would otherwise have been
entitled; and he had the mortification to live to see a generation almost
pass over him, and severally enjoying, what if he had but listened to the
voice of duty, or even of prudence, he would fully have participated. He
was however permitted, and this was no small indulgence, to retain the
emoluments of his Fellowship.

The catastrophe of his fortune and life was disastrous; he took to
drinking. It is more than apprehended, that notwithstanding his
collegiate oath, which was indispensable to the enjoyment of the
revenues of his fellowship, he married. The woman was content to live
with him, retaining her maiden name. He at length died prematurely, very
much the victim of remorse, arising from his accumulated irregularities.
The moralist, with tears of pity and regret, might here expatiate on
the destructive consequences of one false step, on the entrance into
life. Had this poor man been fortunately under the protection, or within
the sphere of the admonitions of some sincere friend and experienced
counsellor, he might have adorned the society which he disgraced, and
benefited the system which he injured.

“The subject of cotemporaries (such are our friend’s remarks) is at an
advanced period of life more painful than pleasing. Many of those whom we
most loved and esteemed, are separated from us to meet no more, but in
another scene of things. Of the majority, perhaps, of the rest, there is
so much to lament and to regret, in the failure of their views and hopes,
in their calamities, their follies, and their errors, that remembrance
presents the mind with a motley picture, where there is more gloom than
sunshine, more thorns than flowers.”

There was one fellow-collegian in particular, who appears to have excited
an extraordinary degree of interest in the writer of these remarks. He
was of a studious and somewhat indolent character, perpetually proposing
to his fancy the tranquillity and happiness, he flattered himself with
hereafter enjoying in the marriage state, and in domestic life. This was
the constant theme of his conversation, and the extremest limit of his
ambition.

He was connected with families who had ample means of satisfying his
wishes, as far as revenue was concerned, and accordingly, at no distant
period after he was qualified to receive them, Benefices were bestowed
upon him, equal to his warmest wishes. It is lamentable to detail the
final consequences. He married a woman without principle. His flattering
views of happiness in the domestic life, vanished in smoke, and if he yet
lives, he lives the scorn and ridicule of many, who were well warranted
in their prediction of what actually ensued.

Another individual, of very superior talents, and who had many and
various attainments, as well as the most pleasing and conciliating
manners, failed in his expectations of happiness, with still more
provoking perverseness. He had obtained considerable distinction at
the university, and might, if he had thought proper, have succeeded to
something far more substantial than mere University honours; but he
chose to marry, and unluckily he united himself to a person so inferior
to himself in education and acquirements, that when he retired to his
paternal inheritance, he found that he wanted a suitable companion. This
induced him to plunge into business, for which, perhaps, of all men, he
was the least qualified. He laid out the whole of his property in the
purchase of great tythes in different places.

The consequence was, that for the remainder of his life, he was
perpetually involved in law-suits; and though he was generally right, and
successful also, his spirits were harassed, his constitution gradually
impaired, and his means exhausted. This estranged him from his wife,
soured his temper, and finally shortened his days. He was imprisoned
in the Fleet, where a lingering disease carried him off, and in his
dying moments he had no other consolation than that which he received
from his medical friend, who, most fortunately for him, had known him
intimately at college, and who took care with great benevolence, that the
necessities of his miserable situation were duly supplied.



    Fortuna sævo læta negotio.

CHAPTER XX.


Another College anecdote presents itself in this portion of the
manuscript, which, though ludicrous at first sight, terminated in a
disastrous catastrophe. There was a very respectable fellow of one of
the minor colleges, who, in expectation of valuable preferment from his
society, had formed a connection with a lady of his own years. Unluckily,
the incumbent, whose decease was earnestly expected, was one of those
personages, of whom there are many, who exemplify the old proverb of
“creaking doors,” &c. The old gentleman thought proper to live a great
while, nor did he at length take his departure, till the engagement had
continued for so extended a period, that the season of youth and manhood
too, had passed away; till the infirmities of approaching age excited
discontent and murmurings on one side, and wrinkles produced deformity
on the other. The engagement, however, was now to be fulfilled, and the
day was appointed for the marriage; but on the morning of that day,
the bridegroom elect was found dead in his bed, the victim of his own
despondency, or perhaps reluctance from confirmed habit, to change his
ordinary modes of life.

It would appear expedient to close this melancholy catalogue, and revert
to other subjects, but that the catalogue itself changes its aspect, and
some examples, exhibiting a brighter contrast, assert a claim to notice.
Not all of those who entered the theatre of the great and bustling world
nearly about the same period, terminated the exertions of their youth and
manhood, under auspices so disastrous and afflicting as some of those
specified above.

“Memory brings back one in particular, who arrived at the most exalted
station to which the profession on which he entered could possibly
lead, whose titles (if he yet survives) would occupy a spacious page;
who basks in the sunshine of royal favour—patron of learning—protector
of indigence—rewarder of merit. How splendid, how enviable a
pre-eminence!...”

At this portion of the manuscript, so many erasures and substitutions
occur, that the most persevering diligence and investigation can
with difficulty make out, that there was some drawback to this
highly-coloured eulogium; some expectations excited by this same
illustrious personage, with respect to the writer, which never were
fulfilled; some promises made, which were neglected and forgotten.
At least, towards the conclusion of what seems to have been a sort
of chapter appropriated to the subject, these words are distinctly
visible:—“... Surely this was cruel—a very moderate portion of that which
was voluntarily placed within my view, almost within my touch, would have
satisfied the warmest wishes of my heart—would have diffused cheerfulness
and tranquillity around a large and numerous circle of dependants—would
have soothed the sufferings of disease, and animated the languor of
declining years. The purple light of hope, which beamed for a while with
a steady brightness, was suddenly, was abruptly withdrawn, nor could my
own activity, or the exertions of my friends, ever learn the cause.”

But let us descend a while from this lofty eminence, from this
perihelion, where we are overpowered, and in danger of being consumed
by excessive radiance. There are gradations of altitude to which those
beneath may look without being too much overawed, and from which those
above may contemplate inferior objects, without the risk of being
vertiginous. In preceding parts of this narrative many eminent men,
cotemporaries of the writer, have been introduced, as having arisen to
Episcopal dignity. It remains to speak of a few other individuals, in
their day well known and esteemed, and rewarded with consequent honours
in their several lines of life.

Of one in particular, it is with a sort of surprise remarked in our
manuscript, that “he is not yet a Judge.” There was a large family of
them, but the individual of whom mention is here made, was the only
son. The mother had formerly been in no higher a condition than that
of a mantua-maker; the father was a land-steward to different men of
fortune. In this situation he saved considerable wealth. The son was
sent to Eton, where he was contemporary with Porson, and the writer has
frequently heard him remark, that on his first going to Eton, Porson
by no means was distinguished above other boys, either for parts or
application. The subject of this article, however, made great advances
in classical learning, and left Eton for the university, with a very
high character as a sound scholar. His reputation was progressive at
college, and he eminently distinguished himself on taking his degree. He
chose the profession of the law, nor was it a great while, before he rose
to a considerable degree of practice. There was no professional honour
to which he might not have aspired, but that he took a perverse line
in politics, and contrived, as far as political interest and influence
were concerned, never to be on the right side. He has however invariably
preserved the most unimpeached character for integrity, abilities, and
professional knowledge, enjoys a most extensive and lucrative practice,
and is highly regarded and esteemed by all who know him.



    Jus est mari, nunc strato æquore blandiri, nunc procellis ac
    fluctibus inhorrescere.

CHAPTER XXI.


An insertion here occurs in the manuscript, which has the appearance of
having been written at a subsequent period, and introduced in this place,
as if to preserve something like chronological accuracy.

“The man of whom a concise account is now about to be given, in every
respect, whether we consider his talents, his virtues, or his fortunes,
merits a more circumstantial detail, and a better biographer. His
father was a very respectable tradesman in a provincial town, where he
arrived at honours, bestowed only on the most eminent and most opulent
citizens. However, from some cause or other, when he died, his property
was found inadequate to the maintenance of a son and a daughter. The son
was destined for the law, and placed with an eminent attorney, but soon
becoming tired of the drudgery of the desk, he went into the army; and
the daughter was taken under the protection of a wealthy family, from
which she afterwards happily married. The person of whom we are speaking
had a commission in the Marines, and was in all Lord Rodney’s celebrated
battles. He has been heard to describe with extraordinary pathos and
effect, as the sublimest spectacle, and at the same time the most
terrible, he ever witnessed, the blowing up of the seventy-four Spanish
ship in the battle with Don Langara, in the Bay of Gibraltar. He served
as Lieutenant under Captain Macbride, in the Bienfaisant. A detachment
from this ship was employed to take possession of the Spanish Admiral
Langara. Langara was pleased with the courtesy and gallantry of this
young man, and an acquaintance, indeed friendship, took place, of which
he reaped the advantage almost twenty years afterwards.

He was, when on some military service, taken prisoner in the
Mediterranean, and brought to Langara, who immediately recognized his
quondam acquaintance, and offered him every indulgence in his power. The
Englishman requested that his papers might be preserved without injury,
which his official situation rendered highly important The request was
not only complied with, but after treating him with the greatest kindness
and hospitality, Langara gave him his release.

Finding, that in spite of all his activity and exertions, promotion in
the department of the Marines was very tardy and very precarious, he
quitted this line of service. He afterwards went to the West Indies with
General Bruce, as his Secretary. His gentle and conciliating manners made
friends wherever he went, and he was recommended by General Bruce to
his relative Lord Elgin, who was then English Minister at the Court of
Brussels. On coming over to England with dispatches, he was, in an evil
hour to him, introduced to the patronage of a very great man; from which
patronage flowed all the troubled waters in which he was ever afterwards
immersed, and finally sunk.

He was much too honest and simple for a court. His talents were discerned
and acknowledged—his manners were admired; but his incorruptibility
was his ruin. He was appointed, with certain coadjutors, to a very
responsible situation in a foreign country. He had various accounts
of foreign Princes to check, and, in the simplicity of his heart,
conceived that his first duty was to watch the interests of his country.
In the accounts of one foreign Prince he detected a trifling error of
1200_l._ With great delicacy and respect, he ventured to communicate
the circumstance to his Highness. Sir, replied the Prince with great
indignation, did you think I was bred in a counting house? In short,
the evidence of his probity, and of the want of it in those with whom
he acted, is alike irrefragable: nor have the accounts in which he was
concerned with others, to the amount of more than half a million, ever
yet been duly balanced.

Whilst abroad, he was much noticed by Sir Charles Stuart, brother to
Lord Bute, who had the command in Portugal. This gentleman was so much
impressed with the accuracy and excellent precision in which his military
accounts were kept, that he wrote home in his favour, and recommended the
general adoption of his plan.

He embarked with the fleet under Lord Nelson, when he went to Egypt,
but separated from him at Marmora, and went to Constantinople. Here he
renewed his acquaintance with Lord Elgin, and travelled through Greece
with Mr. and Mrs. Nesbit, parents of Lady Elgin.

On his return to his native country, he gave a memorable example of the
most inflexible integrity, which nevertheless served to embitter the
remainder of his life. He was required by some individuals with whom he
was connected in service, to do that with his and their common accounts,
which it may be presumed they thought compatible with rectitude, but
which to him seemed disreputable and dishonest. Notwithstanding repeated
importunity of friends, the most flattering invitations, and splendid
promises, he continued firm and immoveable, and pertinaciously resisted
every effort and every offer. As his seeming obstinacy had a tendency
to implicate some individuals of high station, in what would have had
but an awkward appearance, if any parliamentary enquiry had been set on
foot, attempts were made to prevail upon him to accept of a lucrative
appointment abroad. But this also he constantly refused, from the manly
impression that it would look like shrinking from the investigation of
truth; and he also thought that artifice, fraud, and self-interest, might
be exerted in his absence, to do that with respect to his accounts, which
never could take place, when he was present to explain or refute.

But the continued vexation and chagrin arising from this perpetual
contest with eager and powerful opponents, added to the effects of
laborious service in hot climates, at length had a serious effect on
his strength and constitution. He retired from the noise and tumult of
the metropolis to his native place, where he flattered himself with the
hope of spending a few tranquil years with a daughter whom he loved,
and in the society of a few friends whom his spirit, his integrity,
and his accomplishments had conciliated. But it was unfortunately too
late—he died in the interval of a few months after the last object of
his wishes was placed within his view. Few lamented him more than he
who pays this affectionate, though fleeting tribute to his memory. His
mind, as has before been remarked, was uprightness itself; and though in
many hard fought contests, both by sea and land, he had given the most
unquestionable proofs of his bravery, he was particularly mild, gentle,
and unassuming. He had withal, a remarkably fine taste in the arts, and
for painting more particularly; and having preceded the great ravager
Bonaparte, and his myrmidons, in his excursion to Italy, he, by honest
means, though for perhaps little money, obtained some very choice and
valuable curiosities of art, both in sculpture and painting, from the
finest galleries at Rome, and the most splendid collections of Naples, as
well as in other places.

Several of these specimens adorn the best Collections in this country.
One of them in particular, strongly exemplifies the perverse fortune
which seemed invariably to accompany him. The picture he most valued
and esteemed, was one from the Villa Albani, at Rome. It was indeed
exquisite, and, as since acknowledged, the undoubted production of a
very great master. Unfortunately for its owner, circumstances required
a supply of ready money.—He trusted to the force of truth and nature,
and so confided in the intrinsic merit, and obvious excellence of the
composition, that he sent it without any sort of restriction or reserve,
to a celebrated auction-room. He was too proud and too honest, to resort
to the usual methods on such occasions, and left his picture to its
fate. On its exhibition, the dealers affected doubt and suspicion as
to its being a genuine picture of the master to whose pencil it was
assigned; and this so far prevailed, that an opulent tradesman, from the
pure emotion of feeling, and the impulse of natural taste, was allowed
to carry off the prize for the small sum of three hundred pounds. But
the picture had excited curiosity; and these same dealers, on its being
removed beyond their reach, went to visit and examine it again.—It is
not long since, that one of these gentlemen sent to offer twelve hundred
pounds for the picture, which was refused.

Not unworthy of recital with respect to this personage, is an accident
which once happened to him, and which nearly cost him his life:

He was on a shooting party with an old general officer, and in a spot,
access to which they mutually presumed could not properly be denied them,
in beating a small covert, our young friend (for such he then was) trod
upon a man-trap, which caught him in the leg. He was unable to extricate
himself, but luckily his friend was at no great distance. By their joint
efforts he was released, but he was most severely lacerated, and it was a
very long time before be effectually recovered. But let us now turn into
another path.



    Partes autem quibus eruditi homines censeri vel maxime solent,
    saltem ut e multis aliquas afferamus, sunt, acuta inventio,
    rei obscuræ explicatio, inveterati erroris depulsio, multijuga
    lectio, locorum in priscis scriptoribus corruptorum emendatio,
    dicendi elegantia et nitor, atque alia his cognata.

CHAPTER XXI.


There was another considerable person, of precisely the same standing,
in whose progressive reputation our Sexagenarian appears to have taken a
lively interest.

He was born of respectable parentage, in a provincial town, who, however,
bestowed no better education upon him, than the grammar school of this
same town afforded. He was accordingly transplanted to the university,
unaccompanied by that eclat, with which young men are often introduced
from public schools, with inferior pretensions both of learning and
abilities. He was soon, however, distinguished; and the progress to his
degree was marked by the general prediction, that he would attain the
highest honours. In this interval, and in the course of the university
exercises, the writer of this sketch became acquainted with him, and
was greatly impressed with his acuteness and ingenuity. The prediction
concerning him was verified to the fullest extent.—He was in the very
first class, and arrived at the summit of his literary ambition.

He did not wait a great while for the usual testimony of the approbation
of his college; but not long after he had obtained a Fellowship, partly
from infirm health, and partly from the desire of extending his literary
acquisitions, he went abroad. How successfully he obtained one at least
of his objects, literary reputation, has been demonstrated by some of the
most learned and valuable works which modern times have produced.

Learning, however, in the abstract, does not always lead to independence;
and the person of whom we are speaking, was perhaps principally indebted
for his subsequent elevation in life, to a political work, in which it
is far from easy to decide which is most entitled to admiration, the
force of its argument, or the auspicious period which was selected to
introduce it. The French Revolution had begun to circulate its venomous
and destructive poison through the different states of Europe, and
through Germany in particular. To effect this with greater certainty,
the powerful engine of the press was but too successfully employed. And
as this country was from the very beginning the firm, unshaken opponent
of French principles, all the powers of argument, of misrepresentation,
indeed of falsehood, were exercised, to debilitate the influence of
England, to assign undue motives to all its public acts, to shake its
alliances, and impair its credit.

Fortunately at this time—this momentous time, an Englishman was found
in Germany, who had the patriotism, the spirit, and the sagacity, to
vindicate his country from the hostile attacks of the mischievous
hireling writers, in the interest of France, and who exercised with
superior skill, in the cause of truth and justice, weapons which the
revolutionists and their crew had sharpened and employed for the basest
and worst of purposes. The work in question was published in German
at Leipsic, (since so memorable for the discomfiture and overthrow of
Bonaparte) in the year 1799, and not only vindicated Great Britain from
the foul slanders of the German Journalists, either in the absolute
pay of France, or meditating similar anarchy at home, but proved
incontestibly that a rupture with France, was a thing unavoidable on the
part of this country.

Such is the force of truth, and such was the power of the writer’s
arguments, that the first and most distinguished Reviews in Germany, the
Algemeine Literatur-Zeitung, the Gottingen Review, and even the famous
Mr. Genz, acknowledged that the point proposed, was fully established,
and Great Britain fairly vindicated from the calumnies directed against
its Ministers. That such a production would secure for its author a
favourable reception on his return to England, could hardly admit of a
doubt. Accordingly, on his revisiting his native country, he was without
delay introduced to Mr. Pitt, through the medium of the Bishop of L. He
had an immediate mark of ministerial favour conferred upon him, which he
is still permitted to retain, with a promise of succeeding in reversion
to a dignified and lucrative appointment, which he now fills with the
highest reputation.

The subject of politics, however, seems to have been forced upon him by
local and peculiar circumstances; the natural bias of his mind, and his
studies, had a very different direction. The most celebrated Theological
writers on the Continent had exercised his talents, and occupied his
time so effectually, that the result was the publication of a work,
which no scholar would choose, and no theological student ought, to be
without. Others, equally important and valuable, in the strict line
of his profession, have succeeded; and whether his profound erudition,
his sagacity in detecting error, his subtilty of disputation, or his
facility of writing, be considered, there are but few authors of modern
times who can submit to a competition with him. He bears, however, his
faculties meekly; and though in a very lofty situation, his manners are
extremely conciliating without the smallest symptoms of superciliousness
or arrogance, even towards his opponents.



    Illud magis vereor ne ignorans veram iter gloriæ, gloriosum
    putes, plus te unum posse quam omnes, et metui a civibus tuis
    quam diligi, malis.

CHAPTER XXII.


When the mind contemplates a number of young men assembled at the
University, with various talents, propensities, and pursuits, upon a
footing of local equality, and communicating with one another on terms
of greater or less familiarity; and again, after an interval of half a
century, makes enquiry into their relative condition and connections; how
wonderful a contrast is exhibited, and what food is administered for deep
and serious reflection!

These pages have already detailed some, it is to be hoped, not
uninteresting examples of unexpected elevation, as well as of
extraordinary and melancholy depression, to say nothing of the diminution
of the long, long catalogue, by the resistless ravages of death. One
splendid instance of success and temporal prosperity has already been
detailed. Here, however, was nothing to shock probability. The advantages
of birth and splendid connection accompany a man through life, and he
must be eminently deficient in talent, sagacity, or prudence, who does
not in his progress through the world, turn them to adequate account. One
favourite of fortune remains to be introduced to notice, who possessed no
hereditary advantages, but who, meeting with a ladder placed against the
Temple of Greatness, boldly ascended step by step, till he triumphantly
reached, and remained enthroned, at the summit.

It is sometimes exceedingly convenient to deal in the article of
“Supposes.” It is a very useful word to a lively fancy, and supplies many
a chasm in an imaginary structure, which would seem mutilated, imperfect,
and deformed, without it. It is adopted on the present occasion, because
it will appear to many the most suitable.—The facts are so contrary to
the ordinary chances of life, that they who are not in _the secret_, may
be inclined to believe them “suppositions” altogether.

_Suppose_, therefore, good and gentle reader, a schoolmaster, established
in a country town of no great celebrity, but which still furnished him
with so much employment, that attention to his business enabled him
to educate his two sons at a public school. Suppose this good man to
die, and his widow again to marry respectably, and settle finally in
the metropolis. Suppose the elder son, though of infirm health, to
marry a woman of large fortune, a valetudinarian like himself.—It is no
extravagant effort of imagination to conceive both of these personages to
pay the debt of nature, and the surviving brother to become the inheritor
of the possessions of them both. Here we appear to have advanced a few
steps up the ladder.

Now then, let us suppose the surviving brother called to the bar, and, by
abilities and assiduity to which the bar has affixed a jocular name, to
obtain progressively a considerable practice.—Are we not mounting still
higher? Now, then, let us picture to ourselves a great, a very great
man, possessing the disposal of seats in a certain assembly, usually
understood to display the most inviting avenues to fame and fortune.
Fancy this great man, in perplexity from some unexpected accident how
to supply the loss of a _friend_, vacating one of these seats, with
an individual, who by no means must be inferior to his predecessor in
obsequious attention to his patron’s political interests, his intentions,
and injunctions. Accident, the veriest accident, might introduce the
practitioner of the law to _huggery_ of another kind.—What think you now,
good people? are we not in a fair way to get to the top of the ladder?
Conceive us, then, permanently fixed in this same honourable assembly;
and a combination of talent and diligence, a proper degree of well-timed
flexibility, with a due proportion of smiles and bows, may easily be
supposed to accomplish all the rest.

But that which is to succeed can surely never be _supposed_. Can it
be _supposed_, that one so favoured by a concurrence of fortunate
events, should treat with neglect those to whose interposition and
recommendation, he immediately owed his greatness? Can it be _supposed_,
that he was detested by his dependants, for the most unrestrained
insolence and intolerable arrogance? Can it be believed, that the friends
and play-mates of his boyish days, equals to him in ability, far,
very far superior in merit, should be contumeliously kept at an awful
distance, sometimes oppressed with an assumed condescension, at others
disgusted at unconcealed haughtiness? Can it be imagined, that when local
circumstances assigned to him a division of influence and authority, in
conjunction with individuals of high hereditary rank, he should proudly
assume a pre-eminence; should direct, dictate, issue his imperial fiats,
mandates, and decrees, and make all bow before his golden image?

Will it be believed, that, as the Chinese ceremonial requires, the head
of him admitted to the Royal presence to be knocked nine times against
the floor, and were this obeisance once, and once only, omitted, it is
deemed high treason, and requires the utmost severity of punishment; so
from the lack of some such attentions to this high and mighty person,
there are many individuals who have reason to deplore, in bitterness
of sorrow, their unpardoned inconsiderateness; and can ascribe their
ruin to nothing, but the seeming want of reverence to his consequential
importance?

No, no, no, none of these things can possibly be within the reach of the
wildest suppositions; they can only have existence in the chimerical
dreams of the most extravagant fancy. Nor will it ever obtain a moment’s
credit, except indeed a similar representation should be made from ⸺.

But here prudence bids pause—

    Securus licet Æneam rutulumque ferocem
    Committas: nulli gravis est percussus Achilles.



    Tollimur in cœlum curvato gurgite, et idem
    Subducta ad manes imos desidimus unda.

CHAPTER XXIII.


From such princes of the people, let us once more descend to notice
an individual, whose fortunes indeed were very different, but whose
abilities, although exerted in contrary pursuits, were not at all
inferior, and whose peculiarities were of the most singular and striking
kind. His father followed the occupation of a sadler, in a town of
considerable eminence in a remote province. The family consisted of this
son and two daughters, who, on their father’s decease, found themselves
left with a very scanty provision. The young man had a taste and turn for
learning, to gratify which the more easily, he went for some years to the
continent, where, among other attainments, he so acquired the manners,
singularity, and even grimace of the people, among whom he sojourned,
that on his return the Agnomen of Abbé was spontaneously and universally
given him.

He subsequently became a member of the university, where he was
invariably respected for his talents, his diligence, and his learning,
and as constantly laughed at for his eccentricities and whimsicalities
of manners. He took orders with very little prospect of any preferment,
but by a rigid economy, added to some trifling literary employment,
he managed to make a respectable appearance. At a very early period,
he distinguished himself for his profound and accurate knowledge as a
Cambist, in matters of commerce, exchanges, and specie, and became an
avowed opponent of Dr. Price, and others of that class. A nephew of the
celebrated Dr. Price, who was a dissenting minister, and of considerable
abilities, resided in the neighbourhood of our Abbé, and similar pursuits
and propensities had introduced a familiar acquaintance between them.
At this period, Dr. Price’s nephew was well known to be a writer in the
Monthly Review, and in a country town, this was a circumstance which
conferred a sort of local dignity and importance.

The subject of this article had printed some Tract or other on his
favourite topic, in which Price and his friends were not mentioned in
the terms of respect, to which this relative of one of them thought they
were entitled; and the consequence was, that in a subsequent Review,
the publication above alluded to was handled with no common severity.
There was no difficulty in imagining the author, or if there had, this
was removed by the person attacked, who found an opportunity of seeing
the manuscript of the offensive article. This he thought was a grievous
and unpardonable violation of the laws of confidence and honour, and
the consequences which ensued, though somewhat serious, border on the
ludicrous.

The aggrieved person called as usual upon his quondam friend, and
requested his company to take a walk. This was complied with without
hesitation. When they had proceeded to some distance, and came to a
retired spot, the critic was not a little astonished, at seeing his
companion strip to his shirt, and with many and bitter reproaches, insist
upon satisfaction for the baseness and treachery with which he had been
treated.

Remonstrance and expostulation was in vain, and there was no alternative
between submitting to a hearty drubbing, or standing upon the defensive.
The result was, what not unfrequently happens in similar cases, the
offending person, who was the more athletic of the two, proved the
conqueror, and the mortified and discomfited author retired from the
content with one of his ribs broken. Another adventure in which he was
engaged, and from which he did not escape with much brighter laurels,
seems worthy of being recorded.

A family of rank and opulence had their villa at a short distance from
the Abbé’s residence. They had a taste for learning, and were remarkable
for the distinction which they paid to literary characters. They were
seldom without some more or less eminent individuals in their house, and
among others, they always treated the Abbé with particular kindness.
The lady, however, of the mansion had rather a propensity to what she
considered as innocent mischief, and would often amuse herself at the
expence of her guests.

One evening the party was kept up till a very late hour, by the recital
of ghost-stories, to which our hero had listened with extraordinary
attention. On returning to his apartment, and ruminating upon what he
had recently heard, he thought he perceived something like motion in
the countenance of an old family picture. He was a little startled, but
on looking more attentively, he evidently saw the eyes of the picture
open and shut, and at last a loud groan was uttered. He could bear it
no longer, but rang his bell, and running out of his room, made the old
staircase reverberate with the cries of thieves and murder. The family,
who were prepared for the event, all assembled, with well feigned
astonishment and sympathy, to hear the cause of his alarm, and to search
his apartment.

When an eclaircissement took place, it appeared that the head had been
taken out of an old picture, and a groom, properly instructed to act his
part, was placed behind the tapestry.

One of these jests was however carried rather too far, and threatened
a much more serious termination. A young lady, of somewhat masculine
appearance, and less polished manners, which induced the belief that she
had more courage than the event demonstrated, was upon a visit at the
house. On going one night to bed, she perceived the bolster and pillow
rise gradually, and elevate her to a considerable height. She gave a
loud scream, and fell into a fit, from which she was with difficulty
recovered. But to return to our Abbé.

After a tedious apprenticeship as a curate, he obtained at length a small
living, on which he proceeded to reside. What often happens in similar
circumstances, happened also in this. His establishment consisted of
one maid-servant, plain, ignorant, and of the very meanest extraction;
her, however, he thought proper to marry. The consequence was a numerous
family, and the most deplorable poverty. This latter evil, he attempted
in some degree to palliate, by the exercise of his pen in the particular
branch of science for which he had long been justly eminent. Nor was it
wholly without success. Fortunately for him, he had some connection
with the conductor of a literary journal of extensive circulation,
who knew his merits, and availed himself of his talents and industry.
The particular proofs in this way, and through this channel, which
were exhibited of his knowledge as a Cambist, attracted the notice of
a very distinguished individual, who had the disposition as well as
the opportunity, of encouraging and rewarding literary merit. He was
accordingly introduced to this personage, and at no great distance of
time, presented to a piece of preferment so considerable, that it held
out to him the hope of passing the remainder of his life in ease and
tranquillity. He died, however, if not prematurely, at least before he
effectually enjoyed the benefits of his new situation. For his wife
and family, there could be but a very scanty provision. The active
benevolence of a friend, promoted a subscription for them, but this could
not be of any great magnitude or importance.



    Non tu scis Bacchæ Bacchanti si velis adversarier
    Ex insana insaniorem facies, feriet sæpius,
    Si obsequere, una resolvas plaga.[2]

CHAPTER XXIV.


Mention has before been made of the Abbé’s two sisters. The character of
one of them was so very singular, and her fortunes so bordering on the
romantic, that they ought not entirely to be passed over.

The sisters at first kept a school for young ladies, and as they
were clever and accomplished, and promised something of refinement,
beyond the ordinary level of provincial schools, they were for a time
very successful. But it is more than probable that this success was
interrupted and finally destroyed by the wayward and very eccentric
character and conduct of the younger. She was of the Wolstoncraft
school, a great stickler for the dignity of the sex, and the rights of
women. She was an authoress, a poetess, and afterwards an actress. She
exhibited the remarkable phænomenon of representing on the stage, the
principal character in a tragedy written by herself, which nevertheless
was damned. She printed a volume of poems by subscription, and her
conduct with respect to the printer, brings to mind a story of a simple
clergyman, which may as well be told first.

A poor vicar, in a very remote province, had, on some popular occasion,
preached a sermon so exceedingly acceptable to his parishioners, that
they entreated him to print it, which, after due and solemn deliberation,
he promised to do. This was the most remarkable incident of his life,
and filled his mind with a thousand fancies. The conclusion, however,
of all his consultations with himself was, that he should obtain both
fame and money, and that a journey to the metropolis, to direct and
superintend the great concern, was indispensable. After taking a formal
leave of his friends and neighbours, he proceeded on his journey. On his
arrival in town, by great good fortune he was recommended to the worthy
and excellent Mr. Bowyer, to whom he triumphantly related the object of
his journey. The printer agreed to his proposals, and required to know
how many copies he would choose to have struck off. “Why, Sir,” returned
the clergyman, “I have calculated that there are in the kingdom so many
thousand parishes, and that each parish will at least take one, and
others more; so that I think we may venture to print about thirty-five or
thirty-six thousand copies.”

The printer bowed, the matter was settled, and the Reverend author
departed in high spirits to his home. With much difficulty and great
self-denial, a period of about two months was suffered to pass, when his
golden visions so tormented his imagination, that he could endure it no
longer, and accordingly wrote to Mr. Bowyer, desiring him to send the
debtor and creditor account, most liberally permitting the remittances
to be forwarded at Mr. B.’s convenience. Judge of the astonishment,
tribulation, and anguish, excited by the receipt of the following
account, or something very much resembling it.

    The Rev. ⸺
                                                           £. _s._ _d._
                            Cr.
    By the sale of 17 copies of sermon                      1   5   6

                            Dr.
    By printing and paper, 35,000 copies of said sermon   785   5   6
                                                         ------------
    By balance due to Mr. Bowyer                         £784   0   0

They who know the character of this most amiable and excellent printer,
will not be at all surprized to hear, that in a day or two, a letter to
the following purport was forwarded to the clergyman.

    Rev. Sir,

    I beg pardon for innocently amusing myself at your expence,
    but you need not give yourself uneasiness. I knew better than
    you could do, the extent of the sale of single sermons, and
    accordingly printed but 50 copies, to the expence of which you
    are heartily welcome, in return for the liberty I have taken
    with you, &c. &c.

Very similar to the conduct of this clergyman, was that of the young
lady of whom we have been speaking. She sent for the printer, and giving
him the manuscript, desired him to strike off a thousand copies. The
manuscript contained enough for a tolerably thick volume of royal octavo.
The printer himself represents the succeeding dialogue to have taken
place.

“Have you made any estimate of the expence?”

“No; but I _must_ have a thousand copies.”

“How many subscribers have you?”

“About two hundred; but I know, indeed I have no doubt, of an extensive
sale. I _must_ have a thousand copies.”

“Perhaps, Madam, you may not be aware, that of your two hundred
subscribers, all will not send for their copies, and of those who do,
some will not send the money; that the expence is immediate, as no long
credit can be given; so that, after the first advertisements, the poems
of an unknown author are generally considered as waste paper.”

“It does not signify, Sir, I _must_ and _will_ have a thousand copies.”

The result may be easily anticipated; a thousand copies were actually
printed, but after a lapse of several years, no less than seven hundred
and fifty still groaned upon the shelves of the printer’s warehouse.

This was a most extraordinary young lady. She certainly possessed
considerable talents, but she was vain, conceited, and pragmatical;
and, as was before observed, a worthy disciple of the Wolstoncraftian
school. Having failed as a teacher, as an authoress, and, above all, as
an actress, she offered herself and was accepted as a governess in the
family of a lady, who had formerly been brought up by her sister and
herself. The lady was of an old and considerable family, and heiress to a
large property; her husband was the elder son of a baronet, of no great
pretensions on the score of intellect, but a well meaning, good sort of a
man. Till the governess came among them, the family had lived tranquilly
together, with no other or greater interruptions than are found to occur
in all families. No sooner had the poetess entered upon her office, than
she took it into her head, that delicacy was offended by the familiarity
and unconcealed affection, with which her quondam pupil outwardly treated
her husband. She endeavoured to persuade the wife that this was highly
indecorous, and unhappily she but too well succeeded. Her familiarity
was turned into cold civility, her affection changed into a reserved
demeanour, and the whole character of her behaviour assumed a new form.

The husband was not insensible of the alteration, which at first excited
his astonishment, and afterwards his indignation. On discovering the
cause, he very naturally insisted that the governess should be dismissed.
The foolish wife, however, resisted this, and so implicated her own case
with that of her counsellor, that she declared one would not go without
the other. The husband was firm, and the result was, that the indiscreet
wife sacrificed three young children, and the society of her husband,
with whom she had hitherto lived happily, to share with her female friend
the disgrace, contempt, and privations, which accompanied their departure.

The husband instituted different suits in Doctors Commons, for the
establishment of his just rights, in every one of which, the decisions,
as might be expected, were in his favour. The fugitives at length
found it expedient to retire from Great Britain to a remote island in
its dependencies, where they lived, and may perhaps yet live, victims
of self-reproach, of the grossest folly, and most unjustifiable
perverseness. The name of this sage female counsellor, ought perhaps
to be published by way of punishment. It was, however, printed in the
proceedings of the Consistorial Court, where her conduct was most
severely animadverted upon, by the Judge who presided. It is withheld in
this place, merely from respect to the memory of her deceased brother.



    Si lucri quid detur rem divinam deseram.

CHAPTER XXV.


“Laud we the gods,” we are at length released from a narrative involving
so much extravagance and folly; proceed we to one somewhat motley indeed,
in its hue, but neither distressing in its progress, nor offensive in its
termination.

The subject of this sketch, when first known to the Sexagenarian, was
a dissenting minister; he had very respectable talents, but did not
shine much as a preacher. He had, however, an elegant mind, with which
he had taken considerable pains; and though no very profound scholar,
he was well acquainted with the modern languages, and was, in truth,
an accomplished gentleman. The career of a dissenting minister in a
provincial town, does not display a very wide field for ambition of any
denomination; it is not at all surprising, therefore, that our friend
became tired both of his situation and profession, and strenuously
entered upon the study of the law. If he was not splendidly successful
in this new career, it was soon manifest that he had changed for the
better. He married a woman of fortune.—The lady who perhaps would
have rejected his pretensions as an obscure dissenting parson, had no
objection to be designated as Counsellor ⸺’s wife. She did not, however,
live a great while, and he inherited her property.

He pursued his occupation diligently, and attended the circuit in that
part of the kingdom where his early connections were formed; and before
a great length of time had elapsed, married again.—As far as secular
matters are concerned, he was still more fortunate than before.—He now
was able to contemplate and enjoy the _otium cum dignitate_, and, from
local circumstances and connections, was elevated to a high official
situation, where he had formerly spent his youth. In the exercise of his
professional talents, he was occasionally apt to forget (a very venial
transgression) his origin and former occupation; but there were generally
some good natured friends at hand, to give a stimulus to his memory.

He was one day examining a witness who either did not, or was not
inclined to remember things so circumstantially as the cause in hand
required, when our Barrister became a little angry, and exclaimed, “Why,
Friend, you do not seem to remember any thing;” “Yes, I do,” replied the
witness, “I very well remember your being a Presbyterian Parson.” This
occasioned so much laughter, that the Barrister was greatly disconcerted.

One talent this gentleman possessed to an extraordinary degree of
perfection: he could retain the longest sermon from the pulpit, or speech
in the senate, or at the bar, with the most circumstantial minuteness,
and transcribe it almost verbatim.



    Noscenda est mensura sui, spectandaque rebus
    In summis minimisque; etiam cum piscis emetur
    Ne mullum cupias, cum sit tibi gobio tantum
    In loculis.

CHAPTER XXVI.


Far more singular and eventful was the history of a brother Barrister, a
cotemporary of the former, and of the writer.

His parents were of the very humblest situation and circumstances; his
education of the most confined limits; his views not extended beyond
that of a writer in an attorney’s office. With this prospect, he was
articled to a very respectable practitioner in a country town. After
a certain period of residence, he conciliated the good opinion of his
employer, by extraordinary diligence and attention to his duty, and
discovered progressively, evident marks of superior abilities. Here also
he contracted an insatiable thirst for reading, which he indulged to
such excess, that he would sit up the greater part of the night for this
purpose, to the neglect and injury of his health.

At the termination of his engagements, his conduct was so acceptable,
and his services so manifest, his influence withal among the clients was
found to be so extensive, that his principal was induced to receive him
into partnership; and the firm thus established, carried in its name
a degree of confidence, and obtained such an extent of business, as
perhaps was hardly ever exceeded in any of the provinces. The immediate
cause was never generally understood, but suddenly, when the prosperity
of the concern seemed at its height, a separation took place between
the partners, and each proceeded on his own bottom. It was indeed
whispered, that the taste for reading had proceeded to such an extent
with the younger partner, as to occasion the neglect of more important
business. Be this as it may, this propensity began to dilate itself into
Book Collecting; and within an interval of time of no great extent,
a library was formed, both in number and value, of very considerable
magnitude and importance. In a short time, the subject of this article
found it expedient to be called to the bar, by which, if he increased
his income, he lessened his consequence. His education and early habits
manifested their effects in his demeanour, which was slovenly, mean, and
unconciliating.

These also taught him to disregard certain forms and observances, which,
among professional men on the circuit, are considered as sacred and
indispensable; such, for example, as travelling from one assize town
to another in stage-coaches, the undisguised practice of _Huggery_,
which has before been mentioned, but without explanation. The meaning
of the term is,—the paying undue court and attention to attorneys,
metaphorically called _hugging_ them; but in reality, cajoling and
feasting them, by way of obtaining their recommendation to clients.

By these and similar arts, added to a considerable degree of acuteness,
and a popularity which he had long acquired among farmers, graziers, and
individuals of that description, in his former character of attorney,
he certainly obtained very extensive practice. He contrived also to
make himself so acceptable and so useful to an individual of high rank
and influence, that he obtained a responsible and extremely lucrative
appointment. At the same time, he undertook the conduct of a cause of
great intricacy and importance, for a pauper. The incident was this: an
extensive and valuable landed property, with a large mansion annexed,
had been for a long time in abeyance. The whole was not worth less than
30,000_l._ On failure of male issue, the descendants on the female side
put in their claim, among whom this pauper stood foremost. The Barrister,
however, was so convinced of the solidity of his title, which of course
he examined, and re-examined, and cross-examined, with indefatigable
assiduity, that he undertook to carry this man and his cause through
every court in the kingdom, upon certain conditions; and moreover, he
engaged to supply his client with a guinea per week for his support,
during the process.

The conditions were, that if the Barrister succeeded in gaining the
cause, in consideration of taking upon himself all the risk, expences,
and labour, he should enjoy the estate, whilst the claimant was to
receive an annuity for life of three hundred pounds.

In the mean time, the reign of taste extended itself beyond its ordinary
limits. Books were multiplied without end—duplicates, triplicates, and
quadruplicates. There was also a fine and extensive library in chambers
in one of the Inns of Court. Bronzes of great curiosity purchased—old
china of very great expence, procured without bounds—a pinery
cultivated—with such other pursuits, as indicated greater capacity of
mind, than of purse—of liberality, than discretion. Let it be remembered
also, and recorded to his honour, that in the interval of his greatest
prosperity, he was the avowed friend of literary men, and, as far as his
means and influence extended, was their patron also.—He was their liberal
and active friend; he accommodated them with his books; and conferred
upon many who needed aid, substantial marks of friendship.

A whimsical circumstance once occurred, which seems not altogether
unworthy of being recorded. A self-taught genius of very humble
situation, who, with great and strong natural talents, possessed but very
limited opportunities of cultivating them, had made considerable progress
in a particular branch of science. Having, however, access but to very
few books, he had adopted without reserve the system of his teachers,
with all their prejudices and all their errors, and had formed, which
is a common mistake in similar circumstances, the absurd idea, that
few, if any other books than those which he had seen, were necessary.
On being introduced into the library of our Barrister, his astonishment
was excessive, at the number of the books. He was informed that he was
welcome to the loan of any, which he might conceive to be useful or
essential to the prosecution of his immediate pursuits. He accordingly
commenced, after examination of the library, to transcribe the titles of
such as he should like to possess. At first the number was limited to
five or six. On a second visit, and after a second survey, the number was
more than doubled; after a third visit, they were yet more extended; till
at length, from repeated visits and examinations, the catalogue of this
self denying philosopher, who habitually exclaimed against all luxurious
indulgences, and particularly against the passion of collecting books,
exceeded in number two thousand; which he honestly confessed he thought
important and useful to the object of his own confined and particular
pursuit.

Now, mark the sequel of this Barrister’s most eventful history. Some
years since, the Sexagenarian being, by accidental circumstances, on the
spot which had been the scene of his varied and multiplied performances,
made enquiry after him. He had witnessed his progress from obscurity to
distinction—from ignorance to no inconsiderable knowledge—and felt both
curiosity and a portion of friendly interest concerning him: indeed, he
acknowledged obligations to him. Judge of his astonishment and regret, on
receiving the information that the Barrister was in prison—his lucrative
office filled by another—his library dispersed by a public auction—his
bronzes, drawings, antiques, scattered among collectors and amateurs.

That he subsequently found ways and means to extricate himself from his
bonds—to obtain a second time, under extraordinary difficulties, no
contemptible portion of employment in his profession; that he a second
time laid the foundation of a valuable library, and again got together
many curiosities of antiquity and specimens of art; is an evident
demonstration of no common abilities—of a mind, which, properly directed
and exercised, must, by an undeviating path, have conducted him to
affluence and honour.



    Adde repertores doctrinarum, atque leporum
    Adde Helicomadum comites, quorum unus Homerus
    Sceptra potitus, eâdem aliis sopitu, quiete est.

CHAPTER XXVII.


From this long list of contemporaries, our Manuscript once more changes
the scene, and turns back to college concerns. Here, the sameness of each
passing day may easily excuse our proceeding, almost at once, to the last
great catastrophe of—the taking the degree. It may just be related in
the interval, that a personage occurred, with whom the writer of these
notes formed an intimacy, and the recollection of whom, seems to have
excited a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy. It was again the turn
of our Sexagenarian to pronounce a declamation in the chapel; and having
been honourably distinguished with the prize, on a preceding occasion,
an anxiety was naturally induced not to appear altogether undeserving of
what had been conferred. In the interval of preparation for this great
event, for such it then appeared, chance brought him into the society of
a young Welch clergyman, from whose conversation so much satisfaction was
derived, that the subject of the proposed declamation was introduced,
and underwent much discussion. So many new ideas were in consequence
communicated on the subject, so much knowledge, and extensive reading
displayed, that the greatest advantages were experienced, and an intimacy
formed, which was only dissolved by that irresistible power, which
separates all human connections.

Grateful recollection (says our MS.) most willingly pays the tribute
which follows, to this same Welch clergyman.

“His birth and parentage were as obscure as any Welchman can be induced
to allow his genealogical table to be; but the opportunities of education
and learning were easy of access, and he availed himself of them to the
utmost. The means of going to the university were not afforded, but the
facility of obtaining orders was greater at that time than at present;
and even now, in that part of the kingdom, where benefices are at the
same time numerous and small, the circumstance of a periodical residence
at the university is often dispensed with.—Having procured ordination,
his ardour and ambition soon ascended beyond the summits of his native
mountains, and earnestly spread their wings towards the south. There is
an interval in his life, which memory at this time is not qualified to
supply; but at the time when accident formed the friendship which is here
commemorated, he was second master of a Foundation School, well endowed
and numerously filled. With the emoluments of this, added to a curacy, he
lived very respectably, and was well received in the first society of the
town and neighbourhood.

“He was remarkably accomplished—not indeed profound, or critically versed
in classic erudition; but he was a respectable scholar, and understood
familiarly all the modern languages. A very strong emotion is excited,
from the recollection that from this individual was received the FIRST
GUINEA, which the writer of these pages had, by way of compensation, for
literary labour. How very bright and golden it appeared, and how very
valuable it was esteemed, it is not in the power of common language to
express.

“The Welchman possessed all the lofty and irritable feelings of his
countrymen. He was correct in his demeanor, polite in his manners, warm
in his attachments, but captious, and extremely susceptible of any
violation of his dignity. It appears that the writer of this narrative,
wanting to consult him, recognized him at a distance, as he was
proceeding to call upon him. He hastened his step, and, perhaps somewhat
too eagerly, tapped him on the shoulder. He instantly turned round with
all the fierceness of offended pride, and in a tone of anger exclaimed,
“I hate such familiarity.” He knew, however, that he had not a sincerer
friend, and no alienation ensued. Still, this high-minded Welchman could
not, with all his attainments, and with most respectable connections,
obtain any preferment of importance in his profession.—A small vicarage,
of not more than fifty pounds a year in value, was the apex beyond which
he could never rise. His manners and attainments, however, conciliated
the esteem and affection of a very lovely woman, the daughter of a
tradesman of the higher order. With her he lived for some time in much
domestic felicity, and had some charming children. Things, however, at
length went wrong.—Disappointments, and perhaps the dread of poverty,
preyed upon his lofty spirit—his mind was unhinged—the intellectual
powers lost their balance—and he died prematurely in confinement.”



    Hic mihi servitium video dominamque paratam
    Jam mihi libertas illa paterna vale.

CHAPTER XXVIII.


But surely it is time that we should get our old friend from college,
and accompany him to the active scenes which we have been describing.
The awful period of examination for degree approached, and perhaps it
may be truly observed, that the youthful and ingenuous mind, ambitious
of distinction, but with the greatest industry and application,
conscious of various deficiencies, never subsequently experiences so
much perturbation. The personage immediately in question, had previously
distinguished himself in public disputations, and had established a
character for superior knowledge. This knowledge he really possessed, and
it was the opinion and belief of those who knew his attainments, that he
was very much superior in fact to many, who obtained precedence above
him. But his health was impaired; his spirits failed him; he shrunk from
vigorous competition; and although highly distinguished, and honourably
placed, his precise situation was neither equal to his own hopes, nor
to the expectation of his friends. His elasticity of mind soon however
returned, and he renewed his studious pursuits with increased ardour, and
at all events resolved on a retired and literary life.

A few months had passed without any temptation to deviate from those
paths, which familiarity and habit began to render delightful, when a
proposition was made which required very serious deliberation indeed.
The object was no less than to exchange a life of literary ease
and indolence, for one of certain labour and precarious emolument,
independence for subserviency, and subserviency to one individual in
particular, from whose severity and waywardness, much mortification and
uneasiness had formerly been experienced.

By the way of balance on the other side, the employment proposed was
literary; a path might be opened eventually to useful, perhaps to
splendid connection, and frequent communication was indispensably
necessary with one, to whom the greatest scholars of the day bowed their
heads, whose learning was alike various and profound, whose intellectual
powers of every kind were bounded by no ordinary limits, whose
conversation could not fail of being instructive, and whose friendship
was by many considered as synonymous with patronage. Pride co-operated
with certain other feelings, and the offer was accepted.

What follows in this and the succeeding chapter, is a literal transcript
from the Sexagenarian’s Common-Place-Book.

And what were these other feelings? How often and how unavailingly has
the question been discussed, whether individuals addicted to learned
pursuits should marry. Petrarch, and many other sage and celebrated
personages, have adduced some notable arguments on this subtle question,
which one single smile from Laura, one kind glance from youthful beauty,
one endearing emotion of avowed affection, would in a moment disperse
into the thinnest air.

Such was the case in the present instance—

    If lusty Love should go in quest of Beauty.

Where could he have more effectually found it, than in the object,
the hope of possessing whom, outweighed every other consideration. Oh
what a field is here opened! If fond recollection were to go back to
these early hours, to retrace the difficulties which were presented to
the accomplishment of mutual wishes, the ardour with which they were
overcome, the triumphant exultation with which, the Rose of Sharon
was conducted to the tent of Kedar, large volumes might easily be
written. A hard restraint must be exercised, for what has love to do
with literature? Yet if occasionally a few anecdotes should insinuate
themselves into the narrative, originating in this source, and tinging
with a brighter or a darker hue, many scenes in a protracted life, the
reader may pass them over, or peruse them as he shall think proper.

The situation, as before observed, was accepted, and its duties, however
irksome, were steadily performed. That which happens in the ordinary
course and contingencies of every human life, happened here also. Of
the inconveniences which were foreseen, some were greater and some less
in their pressure than was expected; so was it also with respect to the
advantages: on the whole, an equilibrium was preserved, with no important
variation, during the whole of the period which was thus occupied, in
the discharge of what was by no means an unimportant office. The place
of residence was remote from the more attractive scenes of learning,
taste, and refinement; but still “full many a gem of purest ray serene”
has beamed from its recesses; full many a blushing flower of delicious
sweetness has been transplanted from its bowers; many of the most
illustrious names of ancient and of modern times, derived their origin
from this our Bœotia.

Here let a tribute of the tenderest affection and regret be paid to the
memory of one of these bright gems, whose lustre was too soon, alas! how
soon obscured, in the dark unfathomed cave of death. He who employs the
pen now used in delineating the character before us, knew him in boyish
days, witnessed the earliest dawning of his genius, viewed his progress
with delight and astonishment, occasionally aided his literary labours,
remarked also with no common anguish the approach of that incurable
malady, which finally and abruptly hurried him to his grave.



    Nestoris annosi vixisses sæcula, si me
      Dispensata tibi stamina neta forent.
    Nunc ego quod possum. Tellus levis ossa teneto
      Pendula librato pondus et ipsa tuum,
    Semper serta tibi dabimus, tibi semper odores
      Non unquam sitiens florida semper eris.

CHAPTER XXIX.


Henry’s father was a clergyman, discharging humbly and meritoriously his
professional duties in a country village. He discerned early marks of
superior talents in his son, and placed him under a distinguished master,
whose instructions have produced many eminent men and accomplished
scholars.

The youth’s health was always delicate, which gave him a propensity
to retirement, to books, and particularly to poetry. There was a
characteristic taste, delicacy, and feeling, in his earliest productions,
which will at this distant period stand the test of the severest
criticism. Under the instructor above alluded to, he became a very good,
if not a very profound scholar; and he went to the university with
the greatest ardour for literary pursuits, still retaining his early
prepossessions in favour of poetry.

The bias which he took towards ancient English poetry, and the
perseverance and zeal with which he pursued and cultivated a knowledge
of the earliest English poets, probably arose from his introduction to
Thomas Warton, whose History of English Poetry, and other productions
in illustration of our ancient bards, were his great and constant
favourites. With the feelings which this kind of reading inspired, aided
by the delicate frame of his constitution, and the natural sensibility
of his temper, he at this period wrote some beautiful pieces of poetry,
which he was induced to print. They were soon disposed of, and were for
a long time enumerated among the scarce tracts of our language, but they
have since been reprinted.

It was not at all likely that such exquisite susceptibility of mind and
temper as characterized our friend, should be a long time without fixing
on one individual object, to share his tenderness and sympathy. This
accordingly happened, but “_hinc illæ lacrymæ_.” He surrendered himself
a willing captive to the charms of a lovely and accomplished woman, of
the same age and similar propensities with himself, and with respect to
whom, there was but one thing wanted to secure to a union between them,
as much of happiness as can be the lot of humanity. The attachment was
supposed to be reciprocal; this is to appearance implied by the following
fragment, written, as it should seem, on revision of some verses composed
by the lady in question.

    The time was once when oft the long day through,
    Far, far too busy for my present peace,
    O’er these the pensive fablings of your muse
    I hung enamoured, whilst with anxious glance
    The kindred feelings of my youthful years
    In visionary view full glad I found,
    And blissful dreams familiar to my heart,
    O’er which sweet Hope her gilding pall had flung.
    Such, oh! such scenes, with Myra to have shared,
    Was all my fruitless prayers ere asked of Fate.
    ...
    Mischance stood by, and watched, and at an hour
    When least I thought her near, with hasty hand
    All my fair pictured hopes at once defaced.

The lines which follow are much too beautiful to require any apology for
insertion.

    The traveller thus when louring skies impend,
    In sorrowing silence leaning on his staff,
    From some ascent his weary steps have gained,
    Breathless looks back, and pausing, wonders well
    The lengthened landscape past: now hid he finds
    Mid far off mists and thick surrounding showers
    Each city, wandering stream, and wildering wood,
    Where late in joy secure he journeyed blythe,
    Nor met the phantom of a single fear,
    Where every cloud illumined by the sun,
    Hung lovely, and each zephyr fragrance breathed.

                                    [_Cætera desunt._

The obstacle, however, could not be removed, and it was deemed expedient
and prudential that the connection should be dissolved. It was so, but
our friend never got the better of the shock, which his sensibility
sustained. He absented himself from his friends, and when he again
appeared among them, he introduced a wife; but such a wife!—no more
like her by whom he had been rejected, than he himself to Hercules. Who
she was, where he found her, why he married her, are matters which, if
known at all, can only be so to a very few. But the vessel was too much
shaken, and battered, and crazy, to weather many of the gales of life.
There was deadly and corrosive poison lurking within. It was deemed
adviseable that he should try the air of Lisbon. He prepared to do so,
and in his progress thither, before he embarked, he visited him who
now pays this tribute to his memory. But oh how altered! He was also
alone; he who wanted, he who merited every care, every attention of the
tenderest sympathy, had, when approaching almost to the last stage of
pulmonary decay, no friend, no companion, no kindness to soothe his
sufferings, or cheer him on his way. Shame! shame! shame! She whose duty,
if not affection, should have prompted her to undertake the benevolent
office, remained behind; and if not foully slandered, went to the theatre
with a paramour, within an hour after parting with her husband, with
every probability of seeing him no more. She married this same fellow
afterwards; but both are dead, and may God forgive them.

But as we were saying, he proceeded to Lisbon, where he would have died
a victim to the want of proper attention and attendance, but that the
incidental recommendation of a friend, procured for him hospitality of no
ordinary kind or extent. All was, however, unavailing, and he returned
without benefit. He did not survive a great while afterwards, but to the
last, retained his native sweetness of temper, unruffled by sufferings,
and his elegance of taste and powers of intellect, unclouded and
undiminished. Peace to his ashes. A purer spirit has not heaven. He died
at the early age of twenty-four; yet in that short interval, he directed
the national taste to the investigation of natural and simple beauties,
which had long lurked unnoticed and unknown, in the productions of our
earlier bards; and had he lived, would, beyond all doubt, have pursued
the course of his studious propensities, and have brought to maturity
somewhat of still greater importance to the literature of his country.

A few specimens of this young man’s taste and talents will be found in
the Appendix, but the following Song, which is not printed with his
works, seems to merit insertion here.

SONG.

(_The sentiments borrowed from Shakspeare._)

1.

    Young Damon of the vale is dead,
      Ye lowland hamlets mourn,
    A dewy turf lies o’er his head,
      And at his feet a stone.

2.

    His shroud which death cold damps destroy,
      Of snow-white threads was made,
    All mourned to see so sweet a boy
      In earth for ever laid.

3.

    Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,
      Which plucked before their time,
    Bestrewed the boy like him to waste,
      And wither in their prime.

4.

    But will he ne’er return, whose tongue
      Could tune the rural lay?
    Ah no! his bell of peace is rung,
      His lips are cold as clay.

5.

    They bore him out at twilight hour,
      The youth who lov’d so well,
    Ah me! how many a true-love shower
      Of kind remembrance fell.

6.

    Each maid was woe, but Lucy chief,
      Her heart o’er all was tried,
    Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,
      And o’er her loved one died.



                        ⸺aut equos
    Alere, aut canes ad venandum aut ad philosophos.

CHAPTER XXX.


School-fellow with the above, and afterwards his intimate companion and
friend at college, was an individual of almost similar endowments. They
were certainly, in many instances, of kindred minds. When these notes
were written, he was alive, and may he yet live, the delight of those who
know him, and an ornament to society. Yet there are a few circumstances
concerning him, which appear not unworthy of being recorded. There might,
when a boy, be a certain waywardness of temper, or there might, which is
more probable, have been something in the treatment he received from his
Orbilius, at which his generous and manly mind revolted. Whatever it was,
on some occasion, or some provocation or other, he suddenly disappeared
from school.

In a few days, however, he was again seen in his proper place, and this
is perhaps the only incident of his life, which he remembers with any
thing like self-reproach. On his going to the university, he very soon
distinguished himself by his love of literature, and in truth he was an
admirable scholar. But a few years beyond twenty had passed over his
head, when he superintended a periodical work, in which many illustrious
personages were combined, which was exceedingly well received at the time
of its publication, and even now, whenever it turns up in a catalogue,
which is not often the case, is bought up with eagerness. He afterwards,
to use a provincial phrase with which he is not unacquainted, published
an original volume _on his own account_. This also was well received, and
cannot now be obtained without difficulty. He took part also in some of
the popular periodical works of the day, and was always considered as an
enlightened and valuable correspondent.

One propensity he had, which is seldom, if ever, found connected with
studious pursuits and literary attainments; and what is still more
extraordinary, and still more unlikely to meet with a parallel, the
ardent indulgence of this propensity, led to a situation of honourable
independence. He had an extreme fondness for hunting, and for fox-hunting
in particular. He would at any time be easily prevailed upon to forsake
the bowers of the muses, the repose of study, the charms of classical
allurements, to join in the clamours of the huntsman, and unite with the
merciless hounds in the pursuit of poor Reynard. The indulgence of this
passion, if it may be so called, finally introduced him to the notice and
familiar acquaintance of a nobleman, who, beyond all doubt, on further
knowledge and experience, could not fail to discover that he possessed
other and better qualities, than were displayed and exercised in the
sports of the field. This nobleman presented him to a valuable living,
upon which he has ever since resided, conscientiously discharging the
duties of his function and his station; and by superintending the private
education of a few young men of fortune, contributing much to the benefit
of society.

Of this person’s talents, specimens will also be found in the Appendix,
but the following elegant morsel deserves a place here.


FROM THE ANTHOLOGY.

    Why will ye tear me, cruel swains, away
    From my dear solitude, the dewy spray,
    Me the Cicada, who, in sultry hours,
    Chaunt to the nymphs who haunt the hills and bowers.

    See how the greedy thrush infests your fields,
    He rifles all the stores that autumn yields,
    Let this destroyer feel the vengeance due,
    But why grudge me a leaf and drop of dew.

Far different in fate and fortune was another school-fellow, who
was also possessed of talents beyond the ordinary level, and whose
family connections necessarily pointed to a path of life, leading to
a termination very opposite to the above. He was an Irishman, and
connected with some of the first families of that country. He possessed
great vivacity of intellect, a considerable desire of information, much
good humour, with all the eccentricity that is generally imputed to the
natives of Erin. He was in due time called to the bar, and ere long
obtained a seat in the Irish House Of Commons, which he retained till the
consummation of the Union between the two countries.

His mind, ever ardent and ever active, was perpetually forming schemes
of wealth and aggrandizement, none of which were found to succeed, and
probably for no other reason, but that his talents were not steadily
directed to any one individual object. At one time he would be a banker,
at another a farmer, at another a grazier. Once he had a magnificent
speculation for supplying Covent Garden with onions; once also, with
still more magnificent ideas, he was to purchase numerous droves of
cattle in the north of Ireland, which were to be imported into England,
for the supply of the metropolis. He accordingly made application to
various noblemen and gentlemen, to obtain the leases of small farms at
regulated distances, between Holyhead and the metropolis.

These were to be stations for the cattle in their progress to the
London market, and selections were to be periodically remitted to
Smithfield. The cattle, however, remained very quietly in Ireland, where
at length Mr. ⸺ purchased for a small sum, in a mountainous district, a
considerable portion of land, which by care and cultivation was to be
made another garden of Eden. Here he had a very large dairy, from which
the neighbouring towns were to be supplied with butter and milk: so for a
long time they actually were, and this seemed the most rational and the
most promising of his various undertakings.

But among all his peculiarities, and in all the busy variety of his
occupations, politics formed the darling object of his thoughts; and his
steady adherence to the cause of government, in the perilous period of
the Irish rebellion, his personal courage, zeal, and activity, will long
be remembered to his honour. He used to relate many curious anecdotes
which occurred to him and his family, at that momentous epoch; one in
particular of his mother, which may be worth commemorating. They had in
their family a gardener, who had been thirty years in their service, and
who was a Roman Catholic. The old lady, who was of a remarkably mild,
amiable, and unsuspicious temper, used to walk without any attendant
about her spacious garden and domain, till some of her neighbours
who had been molested, cautioned her against the danger of walking
without a companion. In consequence of this, she one day called to the
gardener, and reminded him of the great length of time he had lived in
the family, of their kindness to him, and of her own acts of friendship
in particular. She concluded with asking him, whether any influence or
authority could induce him to make any attempt upon her life. “Certainly
not, Madam,” was the reply, “unless my priest should order me.”

When the Union was fully arranged and confirmed, our friend came to
England, where his services, his patriotism, his activity, and abilities,
were acknowledged and rewarded. He was appointed to a highly honourable
situation, the functions of which, for a considerable time—indeed whilst
he retained the office—he duly and faithfully discharged.

In this interval he married; how wisely, it is not here necessary to
pronounce. They who think forty-five, marvellously disproportionate
to twenty, will be of opinion, that he might as well have let it
alone. There was, however, a certain sort of restlessness, which so
characterized this gentleman, that he was perpetually looking about him
for some new scene for the display of his activity. A near relation
was appointed to a high and splendid situation in one of the remote
dependencies of the British Empire. It was proposed to him to accompany
his noble friend in a great and confidential office. He did so, and if
he survives, there he yet remains. Whether he has obtained wealth, or
whether satisfied with his situation, he intends to return to Albion no
more, is still problematical. One of his first acts seemed to indicate
his determination to turn the wilderness into a garden, and make
corn-fields laugh and sing in the African deserts. He ordered ploughs,
harrows, and every kind of agricultural apparatus, to an extent that
alarmed his friends, and were sufficient for a numerous colony.

If he yet breathes the vital air, may all prosperity attend him.
Generous, friendly, amiable, with every social quality, he was much
beloved by all who approached him with claims of intimacy, with as little
of defect and error, as generally falls to the lot of human nature.
Let us smile with the reader at two or three instances of pardonable
inattention to the forms which the rank he held in life, seemed to call
upon him to observe.

He was always remarkable for his slovenly appearance, and disregard
of dress. On one occasion, when he was invited by a noble relative to
meet a person of high official situation in Ireland at dinner, the
nobleman, aware of his nephew’s negligence in this particular, ventured
to hint that he must come dressed. He was in consequence busily employed
at his toilet, when his servant announced that a friend had called in
his carriage to take him whither he was going. He hastened himself
accordingly, but instead of putting on his dress silk stockings, he
stuffed them into his pocket, and hurrying down the stairs, got into his
friend’s carriage. When they arrived at the nobleman’s door, he remarked
that he had been desired to come dressed, and he thought himself very
smart. At this moment one of the silk stockings appeared hanging half way
out of his pocket, and he exhibited the whimsical appearance of being
in a full court dress, with a very dirty pair of worsted stockings.
Fortunately, he had time to repair his inadvertency, by retiring into a
private room, and exchanging the situation of the stockings.

Upon another occasion, no less important than that of attending one of
the state dinners of the Speaker of the House of Commons, our friend,
as was indeed usually the case, finding himself too late, and not being
able to divest himself very easily of his fashionable leather breeches,
drew over them a thin pair of black silk. In the progress of the evening,
however, the _leathers_, determining to preserve their ascendancy, worked
themselves down a considerable way below the black silk, till they
attracted universal notice, and excited general mirth.

At another time he attended a fashionable masquerade, at which most of
the dresses were very costly and splendid: our friend, however, went
only with a mask, which he sometimes applied, and sometimes neglected to
apply to his face. A paragraph accordingly appeared the next morning in
one of the papers, stating that Mr. ⸺ was at the masquerade the preceding
evening, and it was at first supposed that he was in the garb of an old
cloathsman, but on observing him more carefully, it appeared that he was
only in his customary dress.



    Adnisi certe sumus, ut quamlibet diversa genera lectorum per
    plures dicendi species teneremus.

CHAPTER XXXI.


Whilst we are recording from our notes the productions of early
genius, another document presents itself, which, from its singularity,
appears deserving of preservation, and which, from its unquestionable
authenticity, defies alike all cavil and dispute. It appears to
have found its place in this Olio, from the immediate and personal
communication of the individual who was the cause of its being written.
The story in brief is this:—

In a remote village in Gloucestershire, the son of a peasant had
attracted the particular notice of the clergyman and principal people
of the place, from the indications which he had, on various occasions
manifested, of superior abilities. These appearing to be progressive,
and far beyond his original destination in life, joint contributions
were made to extend his education, and maintain him at the University.
This was accordingly done, and with such success, that the object of
this liberality did ample honour to his patrons, by his extraordinary
reputation, his profound learning, and numerous valuable publications.
He was a moon among the lesser stars, and although whilst he lived,
partly from waywardness of circumstances, partly from the simplicity
and unsuspicious nature of his own temper and manners, and partly from
the literary jealousy or constitutional irritability of others, he was
involved in controversies, yet the claims of Dr. ⸺ talents and learning,
were universally allowed, and the productions of his pen, universally
admired.

Whilst yet a child at the village school, the gentleman who was most
actively his friend, desired him to write his opinion on what was most
to be desired—Peace or War. In a very short space of time, he wrote what
follows, and which perhaps was the very first thing he ever did write.

“Whoever reflects on the evils, mischiefs, and troubles, which war
embroils a nation in, and the security, comfort, and happiness of peace,
must allow that peace is infinitely preferable to war. By which is
meant, that peace, in its salutary effects and consequences, is much
more desirable than war. Nor will any one doubt the truth of this
position, who considers the vast expences that must support a war with a
powerful enemy, the innumerable dangers to which a people, especially the
militant part, are exposed, and the quantity of blood that must be shed
in maintaining it; who considers again the blessings of peace, how those
fields which before were laid waste, are cultivated, those cities rebuilt
which were before demolished, and those arts and manufactures improved
which were before neglected.

“History furnishes us with sufficient examples of the truth of this;
we need but look back into the state of ancient Greece and Rome, and
we shall find that they flourished chiefly in times of peace, and that
’twas then their improvement in the learned arts were chiefly made, which
verifies this, that peace is preferable to war. The latter of which
resembles wild-fire, laying waste wherever it comes; the former may be
compared to balmy sleep, strengthening the body politic, and diffusing
over it a grateful recreation. War therefore ought to be dreaded, and all
proper means used to avoid it, and obtain an honourable peace, since ’tis
certain that peace is preferable to war.”

There is yet one other specimen preserved, which, with that which
precedes, is copied from the Professor’s own hand-writing.

    Scribendi recte sapere est principium et fons.

“To write with correctness, elegance, and good sense, requires an able
judgment, and a diffusive knowledge in literature. There must first be
store of ideas treasured up, before any pure rivulets can flow from it.
In short, ’tis necessary, in order to become a good writer, to understand
well nature herself, to copy her in her paintings, to represent things
in their true light, and then to decorate the descriptions with suitable
language agreeable to Horace.

    Scribendi recte sapere est principium et fons.

“Whose authority is to be regarded, as he was himself as accomplished
a writer as any in the Augustan age. And most certain it is, that a
good writer stands in need of all these qualifications, and a defect of
them renders writing contemptible and ridiculous. For how can a writer
represent a thing to the age, if he does not understand it thoroughly
himself?

“How can he describe it properly, if he does not understand the effect
it produces, and the consequences which follow it? ’Tis only a clear
understanding of the subject in all its various branches, that can
constitute a good writer; so that Horace’s rule, though applied by him
to poetical performances, may with equal reason be adapted to other
writings, and we may with him conclude, that

    Scribendi recte sapere est principium et fons.”

A casual and slight perusal of the above composition, may perhaps not
discover any indication of those very superior abilities, which were
afterwards exercised in an elevated station, and admired by the world;
but more serious examination will detect beneath the surface something
like manly reflection, arrangement of ideas, and, if it may be so said,
of syllogistic reasoning.

The subject is alluring, and what observes our Sexagenarian in his Notes
forbids its being pursued somewhat further?



    Laud we the gods once more!
    For now at last the sacred influence
    Of light appears, and from the walls of heaven
    Shoots far into the bosom of dim night
    A glimmering dawn.

CHAPTER XXXII.


In other words, we are preparing to conduct our reader to the metropolis,
there to associate with the demi-gods of genius, learning, wit, and taste.

How circumscribed is man’s foresight! How impotent his sagacity! At
a moment, when an individual, delineated in a preceding part of this
narrative, was sitting with the Sexagenarian, both of them lamenting the
narrow circle, the obscure, unpalatable, and unprofitable offices, to
which their ill stars had apparently doomed them “for ever and for aye,”
an express brought an alluring invitation to a permanent and advantageous
situation in

    The fairest Capital of all the world.

In a few passing days, nay, almost in a few hours, what a change of
scene!!

Retirement properly so called, for busy scenes and active employments;
from a space in which there was not room for ambition, to one where
ambition appeared to have no limit; from a spot where a few wild flowers
occasionally charmed the sight with their beauty, and the senses with
their fragrance, to the prolific and auspicious nursery of every science
and every art; from knowing every body, to knowing nobody; from ⸺ to
London!!

Here let us take time to breathe awhile. He who for the first time in his
life leaves the white cliffs of Dover, on an excursion to France, on his
landing at Calais, is for a few moments bewildered with the strangeness,
the novelty, the wonderful change of the scene. He feels as if he was
removed to another planet. The language, the dress, the manners, every
thing he beholds, dazzles and confounds him: till at length reflection
and judgment resume their influence, and experience makes the contrast
familiar. Such was, and such, under similar circumstances, will ever be,
the first periods of residence in London, after a long familiarity with
the quiet, repose, and ordinary pursuits of the country.

The first impression, the first subject of reflection, the
first determination, was that from which there was never any
deviation—LITERATURE. A noble field opened its expanded bosom to
emulation, exertion, honour, and reward. But how was an obscure, unknown
individual, without connection, introduction, or seeming opportunity of
any, to surmount the difficulties, perplexities, and intricacies, which
threatened to obstruct his path, and interrupt his progress? Patience and
perseverance finally succeeded, and over what opposition will not these
qualities triumph?

The first necessary and indeed indispensable step was to form literary
connections; but this was by no means found difficult. Similar
propensities and endowments soon discover one another, and induce
frequent and familiar association. Generally speaking, in London at
least, there is great liberality among literary men, a ready disposition
to interchange communications, which may be mutually useful, to
accommodate one another with the loan of books, to point out sources of
information, indeed to carry on, by a sort of common treaty among one
another, a pleasant, friendly, and profitable commerce.

One material assistance in forming and cementing literary intercourse,
is presented at book-auctions; another, and still a better, occurs in
the shops of eminent booksellers. The few old fellows that are yet left,
chuckle at the recollection of the numerous and cheerful meetings which
used to take place at honest Tom Payne’s, at the Mews Gate, and at Peter
Elmsley’s, in the Strand.

In these places of resort, at a certain period of the afternoon, a
wandering scholar, in search of Pabulum, might be almost certain of
meeting Cracherode, George Steevens, Malone, Windham, Lord Stormont, Sir
John Hawkins, Lord Spencer, Porson, Burney, Mr. T. Grenville, Wakefield,
Bishop (then Dean) Dampier, King of Mansfield-street, Townley, Col.
Stanley, and various other bookish men.

Honest Tom Payne! and well indeed did he deserve the name so universally
bestowed upon him, and happily and effectually has he entailed it on
his successor, than whom a worthier character does not exist. He who
willingly pays this tribute, does it from the experience of almost forty
years.

The earliest literary efforts are almost always of the same kind. The
first productions are most probably poetical, but soon, very soon, the
ardour of immortalizing “the tangles of Neæra’s hair” subsides, and gives
place to austerer studies, and more elaborate pursuits. This is more
particularly the case, if the _olive branches_ should multiply apace,
and two puddings are found necessary to smoke upon the board. After
poetry is in some degree gone by, as every young author dearly loves to
see himself in print, the next display of talent or erudition, is made
in the periodical publications of the day. In this particular path,
old Sylvanus Urban has been found exceedingly commodious, and many a
maiden pen, which has subsequently been entitled to have its letters
wreathed with laurels, has first of all inked itself in his pages. If
the propensity shall lead to politics, the popular journals of the day
are invitingly ready to enlist the zeal of youthful authorship. But the
appetite of literary reputation progressively increases, nor will it
finally be satisfied, till it fancies at least that it has established
some monumental column, “_ære perennius_.”



              Camœnarum decus
      Exemplar unum in literis
    Quas aut Athenis docta coluit Græcia
      Aut Roma per Latium colit.

CHAPTER XXXIII.


After skirmishing with various success, and after multiplied rencontres,
in which some knowledge of the service was obtained, and some dexterity
acquired, a determination was made on the part of him whose pen has in
our MS. traced records of the dead and the living, to make one great and
bold attempt. The result was to be fame and profit. A proposal was made
to an eminent bookseller to publish a very extensive work, which appeared
to be wanted; the execution of it, however, required what is properly
called learning, knowledge of languages, history, geography, and indeed
every scholar-like accomplishment.

Strange as it may appear, the proposal, though made by a young, obscure,
and almost inexperienced adventurer in the fields of literature, was
accepted. The work was successfully completed. A very large impression
was printed and sold, which was in time succeeded by a second. “Sooth
to say,” observes our MS. “the remembrance of the undertaking, from
its magnitude and difficulty, from the little help that was received
in its progress, from the very limited access to literary supplies and
reinforcements, excites at this distant period an irresistible sort of
tremour.” Notwithstanding many defects, which were unavoidable, many more
which were very justly imputable to the author’s deficiency of talent, or
of learning, or perhaps of both, the work was accompanied by reputation,
and still remains a staple commodity in the market.

Among other advantages which resulted from the undertaking, was the
very valuable one of an extensive introduction to the most eminent and
considerable literary characters. Ah! that of these so few should survive
to peruse this narrative. One connection was formed, which endured to
the satisfaction of both, as long as life’s frail thread permitted,
and this was with Porson. It commenced in this manner:—A crabbed sort
of composition in a dead language had made its appearance, which from
the singularity of the circumstance, the celebrity of the writer, and
the feverish susceptibility of the times, excited universal curiosity.
It seemed to defy all attempt to render it into the Vernacular
language. The attempt, however, was made, and with such effect, that
Porson expressed a desire, a thing not very usual with him, to know the
“Cunning Shaver,” who had been guilty of this audacious enterprize. In
consequence, a common friend brought them together, and an intimacy
succeeded, which suffered no interruption till the melancholy period of
the Professor’s premature death. They had before met in very early life,
and their earliest friends were nearly connected. It may be said, that
perhaps nobody knew Porson better, very few so well. Much has been said
of this extraordinary scholar, but by no means enough; a great deal more
is due to him. In what follows, he who wrote this narrative, may boldly
defy contradiction.

It is by no means intended to enter into controversy with the only
two accounts of Porson which have hitherto been given with any thing
like authority, or materially to contradict their assertions. The
first appeared in the Morning Chronicle, the second in the periodical
publication called the Athenæum. This latter has usually been assigned
to ⸺, a most learned and able contemporary, and who was, beyond all
possibility of doubt, accurate as far as circumstances enabled him to
be so. The other account was communicated to the editor of the Morning
Chronicle by Porson’s sister, who attended his funeral.

This lady’s name is H⸺, and her residence is at C⸺, in N⸺. She is
probably some four or five years younger than her brother, to whom she
bears a strong personal resemblance, more particularly in the lower
features of her face, her tone of voice, and peculiarity of smile.
After her return from the funeral, she communicated to the editor, the
substance of what appeared in that paper on the day following. Its
accuracy will hardly be called in question; yet all that she had to
tell, must necessarily, as far as her actual knowledge went, be confined
to Porson’s boyish days, for after he went to Eton, he had but little
intercourse with his family. Neither was she circumstantially correct, as
she subsequently acknowledged, on being desired to call to mind whether
her brother did not imbibe his very first rudiments from a person of the
name of W⸺, who kept the village school at B⸺, in N⸺, where Porson’s
father and mother lived. She remembered the fact, but observed, that W.
was a plain ignorant shopkeeper, to whom her brother was sent when a
child about six years of age, but that he did not continue long with him,
it being soon discovered that the pupil could read as fluently as his
master. This may or may not have been the truth. That Mr. W⸺ was a plain
shopkeeper, and that he kept the village school, cannot be denied; but
that he was so ignorant, as the lady’s remark seemed to intimate, may
fairly be questioned. He was well known to the writer of this narrative,
who had frequently conversed with him on the subject of Porson. He spoke
in the highest terms of his early proofs of capacity, and was not a
little proud of having been accessory to the formation of the base of
that monument, which afterwards lifted its proud eminence so high.

Mr. W⸺ had a respectable appointment under the Excise Office, another
proof, if one were wanting, that he could not be so exceedingly ignorant.
He was also greatly respected by ⸺, the squire of the parish, who was
subsequently the patron of Porson, as well as by ⸺, the clergyman, who
was Porson’s earliest friend. Thus much for honest Mr. W⸺. _Paullo majora
canamus._



    Nam et in ratione conviviorum quamvis a plerisque cibis singuli
    temperemus, totam tamen cœnam laudare omnes solemus: nec ea quæ
    stomachus noster recusat, adimunt gratiam illis, quibus capitur.

CHAPTER XXXIV.


Porson was born at Earl Ruston, in Norfolk, on Christmas day, 1759. His
father was parish-clerk to Mr. H. who was also Minister of B. Mr. H.
was a most amiable and truly benevolent man; and beyond all doubt was
the first encourager of Porson’s early disposition to learning, and
the individual also, to whose exertions he owed the opportunities he
afterwards enjoyed, and so well improved. Porson had certainly, when
quite a child, the practice of making letters on any sandy or moist
surface, upon which they could be conspicuously formed. His relations
were wont to draw inferences very favourable to his intellect, from this
circumstance; but after all, this is a very common practice, indeed much
too frequent to be considered as any indication of a prodigy. Mr. W.
who was mentioned in the preceding chapter, noticed in him very soon an
extraordinary quickness with regard to figures—this was much more to the
purpose—and this he ever retained.

Porson’s father and mother were both totally destitute of any education,
except so far as being able to read and write. The father was a man
of exceedingly strong sense, very silent and very thoughtful, and was
accustomed with great regularity, to exercise Porson’s memory. To what
an extraordinary degree of perfection, exercise finally brought this
faculty in the Professor, must be in the recollection of many; yet,
strange to say, he who wrote this sketch of his friend, has repeatedly
heard him assert, that he had not naturally a good memory, but that what
he had obtained in this respect, was the effect of discipline only. His
recollection was really wonderful. He has been known to challenge any
one to repeat a line or phrase from any of the Greek dramatic writers,
and would instantly go on with the context. The Letters of Junius, the
Mayor of Garratt, and many favourite compositions, he would repeat _usque
ad fastidium_. But, to return; the solidity and seriousness of Porson’s
father, seem to have been well relieved by the cheerful and sprightly
temper of his mother, who was very lively and very light-hearted. She
had also a taste for poetry, very seldom met with in the wife of a
cottager; she was familiar with the writings of Shakspeare, and could
repeat many of his favourite and popular passages.

It is stated by the writer in the Athenæum, who calls himself
Hellenophilus, that Mr. Summers, to whom afterwards Porson went to
school, was a plain man, who professed nothing beyond English and the
common rudiments of Latin. This is not quite correct. Mr. Summers was,
and it is presumed is, a very respectable scholar. He was living when
this was first written, and was master of the Free School at Happesburg,
in Norfolk.

Another inaccuracy in that account must also be corrected. It is there
stated, that at nine years of age, Porson, and his youngest brother
Thomas, were sent to the village school, kept by this Mr. Summers. But at
this period, his brother Thomas was not born. It is further remarked in
that publication, that the Rev. Mr. H. heard of Porson’s extraordinary
propensity for study.—Of course, the writer could not possibly have known
that Porson’s father was Mr. H.’s parish-clerk.

There is still another error in that memoir, of no immediate consequence
with regard to Porson, but somewhat unaccountable, considering the
quarter from which it proceeded. It is stated in the Athenæum, for Nov.
p. 430, that Porson married Mrs. Lunan, the sister of Mr. Perry, Editor
of the Morning Chronicle, in 1795, and that she died of a decline in
1797. Whereas, the fact is, that Porson married Mrs. Lunan, in Nov. 1795,
and the lady died some time in the April following. The rest of the
memoir is generally unexceptionable. With respect to the eulogium passed
at the conclusion of the article in the Morning Chronicle, these are
the sentiments _ipsissimis fere verbis_, of Mrs. H. as expressed to an
enquiring friend.

“I wish it had been suppressed. The Editor, I have no doubt, had the most
obliging intentions in the world, when he represented me as an amiable,
and accomplished woman; but I really have no taste for such flattery. He
must have known, from my situation in early life, that it was impossible
I should possess any accomplishments. I wish not to be brought before the
public; my only ambition is, at the close of life _to have deserved_ the
character of having been a good wife to my husband, and a good mother to
my children.”

It is impossible to record these sentiments, without admiration of their
good sense, modesty, and merit. It is with great satisfaction we are
enabled to subjoin, that this lady’s husband is a brewer at Coltishall
in Norfolk, extremely respectable, and in flourishing circumstances.

The sentiments of Mrs. H. as above expressed, demonstrate great
congeniality of feeling with her brother. No man was ever less assailable
by flattery, or disliked it more; nor could any one be possibly more
averse than he was to be pointed out—_digito prætereuntium_.—But let us
proceed.

At the age of nine, Porson was placed under the care of the
above-mentioned Mr. Summers, by whom he was well grounded in Latin. He
remained with him three years. At twelve, he was taken under the care
of Mr. H. who was then employed in the education of his own children;
with him he also continued three years. By him he was introduced to Mr.
Norris, of Witton, the adjoining parish to Bacton; and this gentleman
became his professed patron. First by his example, and afterwards by
his strenuous recommendation, a subscription was set on foot for the
general purposes of educating Porson, and of maintaining him at the
university. The individuals who interested themselves about him, were
highly respectable, both with regard to their rank, their character,
and their number. Among them was Bishop Bagot, one other Bishop, whose
name has escaped, Sir George Baker, Dr. Poynter, Dr. Hammond Prebendary
of Norwich, &c. Sir George Baker was the Treasurer. But there was a
lady among them, whose zeal and anxiety concerning Porson, surpassed
perhaps that of her gentlemen coadjutors. This was Mrs. Mary Turner, the
grand-daughter of Sir Charles Turner; she was related to Mr. Norris, by
whom Porson was introduced and recommended to her. She afterwards became
his principal protector. Her house was always open to him, and whenever
he returned from Eton, to pass his holidays in Norfolk, he enjoyed at
Mrs. Turner’s house the most constant and unrestrained hospitality.

She was afterwards entirely alienated from him; for which the following
reasons have been alledged. She was very piously disposed, and was
exceedingly anxious that Porson should go into the church. The decision
to which he came, of not subscribing to the articles, and consequently
of resigning his Fellowship, was to her utterly incomprehensible, and
exceedingly shocked and distressed her. But the publication of his
Letters to Travis gave the _coup de grace_ to our unlucky friend. Some
officious person represented this work to the old lady, as a calumnious
attack upon Christianity, and as malignantly intended to call in question
the truth of the Gospel.—It could only be the work of an apostate, an
infidel, an abandoned reprobate. These circumstances prevailed upon Mrs.
Turner to alter her will, in which she had left him a very considerable
sum of money.—He had only a legacy of 30_l._ We must now go back to our
chronological order.



                Amicus dulcis ut æquum est
    Quum mea compenset vitiis bona; pluribus hisce
    Si modo plura mihi bona sunt, inclinet, amari
    Si volet—hac lege in trutina ponetur eadem.

CHAPTER XXXV.


In the year 1774, when Porson was about fourteen years of age, and had
been under the care of Mr. H. for two years, he had already discovered a
most extraordinary quickness of parts.

His acquirements, indeed, even at that early period, and his remarkable
powers of abstraction and of memory, the force of his intellect in
whatever direction it was excited, induced in the breast of Mr. Norris a
desire of extending the scale of his education.—It was determined to send
him to Eton.

A circumstance relating to this event is communicated by his family,
so much out of the ordinary mode of proceeding in similar cases, that
a little suspicion of its accuracy may, without offence, be indulged.
It is stated by his relations, that previously to his being admitted
at Eton, Mr. Norris sent Porson to Cambridge, to be examined as to his
proficiency in the classics, by the Greek Professor.—This was in the
midsummer of 1774. It is added, that in his examination, he displayed so
much talent, and such extensive acquirements, that he was sent to Eton in
the following summer, viz. in 1775.

Now, if this really were the fact, it is more than probable that such
an incident never took place before, and can only be explained by the
possible circumstance, that the Greek Professor, who was at that period
Dr. ⸺, was an intimate friend of Mr. Norris, and from a natural curiosity
on his part, was entreated to perform this office. But there exists a
still stronger reason for supposing there must be some mistake in this
matter. Many of his schoolfellows at Eton still survive, and they all
affirm, without any variation, that when Porson first went to Eton, he
was not particularly distinguished above the other boys, either for
learning, acquirements, or studious habits. Further than this, it is said
by one, who is well qualified to judge, that is, by no less a personage
than the present amiable and learned ⸺, that as a boy, he discovered but
an indifferent taste, and in his compositions was very fond of mixing
Greek with his Latin, as thus, “_ingemuere ποθοι_,” &c. &c.

It may perhaps be the fact, that there is a little confusion and mistake
with regard to dates. Porson was necessarily and officially examined by
the Greek Professor, when he sate, as it is termed, for the university
scholarship; and he might, after his admission at college, and before
his actual residence, go down to Cambridge from Eton, or, not improbably
in some interval of the holidays, from his friends in Norfolk, for this
particular purpose.

It is very certain, that his contemporaries at Eton, with little,
very little exception, do not remember much about him. The following
particulars concerning him at this period, may, however, be depended
upon, being either communicated by himself, or from authority which
cannot be doubted.

When at Eton, he wrote two dramatic pieces, and acted in them himself.
All, however, that is remembered of either is, that one was more
elaborate than the other, and indicated more of plot, ingenuity, and
contrivance.—The title of it was, “Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire.”

The other was a shorter piece, of less importance, and was occasioned by
some private circumstance, or anecdote, among the boys themselves.

It is an extraordinary, but well attested fact concerning him, that the
first book he ever read with attention was Chambers’s Dictionary, which
he fairly and regularly perused from beginning to end. He was always fond
of algebra, and was a very skilful algebraist.—He taught himself the
principles from the above dictionary.

After Porson left Eton to reside at Cambridge, a very long time elapsed
without there being any intercourse between him and his family. This
circumstance has brought upon him, particularly in Norfolk, the severest
censure. Yet that this apparent, and indeed culpable neglect, did not
entirely arise from insensibility to the ties of nature and of blood, is
very certain.—Porson was undoubtedly not deficient in filial reverence.
His sister had not seen her brother for twenty-two years, when, in
1804, she wrote to inform him, that her father was exceedingly ill,
and considered as being in great danger. Porson immediately went down
to Norfolk to see him, and at that time continued for seven weeks with
his sister. The old gentleman recovered; but when seized with his dying
illness, two years afterwards, Porson was again written to by his sister,
and again replied to her letter by his presence. This was his last visit
into Norfolk, when he passed a month at Coltishall. Now, it must be
acknowledged, that these facts demonstrate any thing rather than filial
ingratitude, and tell with the candid mind, more than a hundred idle
stories to his disadvantage. The writer of this narrative has also a
strong impression, that he used to send clothes and occasional presents
to his brothers; though he certainly did not write to any of the family,
which, of course, they resented. He had, indeed, a very great repugnance
to writing letters, and when he did so, his epistles were concise, stiff,
and formal.—A specimen or two will hereafter be given. He certainly did
not want sensibility; though his coldness, and reserve of demeanour,
might reasonably excite the suspicion that he was unfeeling.

He spent the evening with him, whose notes now record the fact, when
the last year of his being permitted to retain the benefits of his
fellowship, expired.—It could not easily be obliterated from the
memory.—His indignation at not being appointed to a lay fellowship in his
college, then vacant; his resentment on perusing the letter which coldly
apologised for giving it to another, with a recommendation to him, which
he felt as the bitterest insult, to take orders; the anguish he expressed
at the gloom of his prospects, without a sixpence in the world; his
grief; and, finally, his tears; excited an impression of sympathy, which
could never be forgotten.

Another proof that he was not insensible of kindness, deserves also to be
recorded. He had borrowed, on some occasion or other, of our Sexagenarian
a sum of money. Of course, he was never asked for it, nor in the remotest
degree reminded of it. After an interval of more than four years, he came
one day, in the familiar manner to which he was accustomed, and said, “I
am come to dine, and have brought you the money I owe you—I suppose you
thought I had forgotten it.”

On his first arrival at college, he of course did not possess a very
extensive library, and he used to go to the present Provost of Eton’s
rooms, to read Suidas and Plutarch’s Morals; and even at that early
period proposed some very curious critical emendations.

A very singular circumstance occurred about this period, which there may
be some who are able to explain—it is not attempted here. Some person or
other had taken a copy of Eustathius from Eton college library, and had
conveyed it to Cambridge. It was here lent to Porson, who made excellent
use of it. The following paragraph is verbatim from our manuscript. “The
book was afterwards returned to Eton college, where it now remains, it is
to be hoped, as Bonaparte said of the Belvidere Apollo, “_pour jamais_.”
The expression of “it is to be hoped,” is made use of, because the very
extraordinary fact not long since occurred of some most rare, curious,
and valuable books finding their way from the venerable precincts of a
Cathedral library, to the shelves of a private collection.—May the fate
of this Eustathius be different! At present, at least, whoever pleases
may see it in Eton college library, enriched by a number of notes by
Porson in the margin.”

Porson had a very lofty mind, and was tenacious of his proper dignity.
Where he was familiar and intimate, he was exceedingly condescending
and good-natured. He was kind to children, and would often play with
them, but he was at no pains to conceal his partiality, where there were
several in one family. In one which he often visited, there was a little
girl of whom he was exceedingly fond; he often brought her trifling
presents, wrote in her books, and distinguished her on every occasion,
but she had a brother to whom, for no assignable reason, he never spoke,
nor would in any respect, notice. He was also fond of female society, and
though too frequently negligent of his person, was of the most obliging
manners and behaviour, and would read a play, or recite, or do any thing
that was required.

He was very fond of crab fish, and on one occasion, where he was very
intimate, asked to have one for supper; his friend jocularly said, that
he should have the finest in St. James’s Market, if he would go thither,
buy, and bring it home himself. He disappeared in an instant, and
marched unconcerned through some of the most gay streets of London with
the crab triumphantly in his hand.

Much has been said of his irregularities.—That odious theme is left
to others. With all his errors and eccentricities, he who wrote this,
loved him much, bowed with reverence to his talents, and admiration to
his learning, and acknowledged with gratitude the delight and benefit
he received from his society and conversation. Yet Porson by no means
excelled in conversation; he neither wrote nor spoke with facility.
His elocution was perplexed and embarrassed, except where he was
exceedingly intimate; but there was strong indication of intellect in his
countenance, and whatever he said was manifestly founded on judgment,
sense, and knowledge. Composition was no less difficult to him. Upon one
occasion, he undertook to write a dozen lines upon a subject which he had
much turned in his mind, and with which he was exceedingly familiar. But
the number of erasures and interlineations was so great as to render it
hardly legible; yet, when completed, it was, and is, a memorial of his
sagacity, acuteness, and erudition.



    Cujus uti memoro rei simulacrum et imago
    Ante oculos semper nobis versatur et instat.

CHAPTER XXXVI.


It remains to record a few anecdotes of him, some of which, at least,
do him the highest honour. During the whole period of his residence in
Norfolk with his sister, which altogether amounted to eleven weeks, he
never drank more than two glasses of wine after dinner, and never touched
a single drop of spirits.—He was most frequently satisfied with one glass
of wine. He talked familiarly with the family, joined them in their
walks, and principally amused himself with a Greek manuscript belonging
to Dr. Clark, which that traveller had brought home with him from Greece
or Syria.

He was, from his childhood, a very bad sleeper; and it is to be feared,
for it is no unusual case, that he may have been led to occasional
indulgences with regard to wine, with the view of procuring sleep. But
he was also of a very social disposition, and the universal desire of his
company, might eventually cause this to be imposed upon. One thing, it is
believed, may positively be insisted upon, that he was never guilty of
any intemperance in solitude; and his behaviour when under his sister’s
roof, shows that he could easily accommodate himself to the disposition
and manners of the people among whom he was thrown.

The anecdote next about to be related, will perhaps excite surprize in
many, but its authenticity cannot be disputed.

Porson, when in Norfolk with his sister, went regularly to church, nor
was he ever prevented from so doing, except when under the influence of
one of the violent paroxysms of asthma, to which he was subject.—These
were occasionally so formidable, that apprehensions were often
entertained, that he would expire in the presence of his friends. On his
first visit to Norfolk, in 1804, he accompanied his brother-in-law to
the adjoining village church of Horstead. Porson found that preparations
were made to administer the sacrament.—When the usual service of prayers
and sermon was ended, and they were about to leave the church, Porson
stopped suddenly, and asked Mr. Hawes, if in his opinion there would
be any impropriety in his receiving the sacrament. Mr. Hawes instantly
replied, “certainly not.” Upon this, they both turned back, and received
the communion together.

This was an extraordinary fact; and on the part of Porson suggests
a singular question. Perhaps he might feel some hesitation from the
circumstance of his being a total stranger to the clergyman who
officiated; or perhaps it might have reference to the consciousness
of his avowed non-conformity to the articles. The matter must remain
undecided.

Singular as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that Porson did not
hold ⸺ in so high a degree of estimation as might have been expected
from the exalted station, which this venerable personage has invariably
enjoyed in the kingdom of letters. It would be invidious, as it is quite
unnecessary, to be circumstantial; but the fact was so.

On one occasion, when this personage was enjoying his afternoon’s pipe,
he turned triumphantly to the Greek Professor, and remarked, “Porson,
with all your learning, I do not think you well versed in metaphysics.”
“I presume you mean your metaphysics,” was the reply.

At another time, when something which this gentleman had written and
published much interested the public attention, and occasioned many
squibs, paragraphs, and controversial letters in the newspapers, Porson
wrote the following epigram:

    “Perturbed spirits spare your ink,
      And beat your stupid brains no longer,
    Then to oblivion soon would sink,
      Your persecuted ⸺monger.”

On the other hand, it is to be observed, that this eminent man, for so he
was, invariably spoke of Porson in terms of the highest admiration and
regard.

Whatever might be the case with respect to the person above alluded
to, Porson was never at any pains to conceal his extreme contempt
for Wakefield. There was at one time a seeming sort of friendly
communication; but whilst Wakefield aimed at being thought on a level
with Porson in point of attainments, this latter must unavoidably
have felt the consciousness of his own great superiority.—Indeed, the
difference between them was immense. Without disparagement to Wakefield,
his warmest advocates must acknowledge, that although he formed his
opinions hastily, he never failed to vindicate them with peremptory
decision. In consequence of this eagerness and haste, his criticisms were
frequently erroneous, and his conclusions false; neither, if detected
in error, would his pride allow him either to confess, or retract his
fault. The writer of this article once pointed out to him a very great
error in his translation of the New Testament; he acknowledged it at
the time, but the second edition appeared, and the same error was
repeated: he might possibly have forgotten it. Porson, on the contrary,
never declared or formed his critical opinions (for of such we are now
speaking) hastily.—He patiently examined, seriously deliberated, and was
generally correct in his decisions; nevertheless, he quietly listened to
the arguments of opponents, and was neither irritable nor pertinacious.
How erroneous an estimate Wakefield had formed of Porson, is sufficiently
apparent from the Posthumous Letters between him and Mr. Fox.

W. appears to tell that eminent Statesman, with a sort of ill-natured
exultation, that nine hundred errors had been detected in the edition
of Heynes’ Virgil, _corrected_, as he is pleased to call it, by Porson.
The fact is not so. The errors were certainly very numerous; but the
office of press corrector was far beneath the dignity of Porson, and what
mistakes there are, are principally confined to the notes, which a single
glance from a critical reader, will in a moment detect and amend. The
errors of the text, which is of more material importance, did not exceed
twenty in all the four volumes.

Again, at p. 99, of the work above quoted, Mr. Wakefield is pleased thus
to express himself: after assigning two reasons for not having more
frequent intercourse with Porson, he gives as a third:

“The uninteresting insipidity of his society, as it is impossible to
engage his mind on any topic of mutual enquiry, to procure his opinion on
any author, or on any passage of an author, or to elicit any conversation
of any kind, to compensate for the time and attendance of his company.
And as for Homer, Virgil, and Horace, I never could hear of the least
critical effort on them in his life.

“He is in general devoid of all human affections, but such as he has, are
of a misanthropic quality; nor do I think that any man exists, for whom
his propensities rise to the lowest pitch of affection and esteem. He
much resembles Proteus in Lycophron,

          “ῳ γενως απεχθεται
    Και δακρυ.”

The whole of the paragraph, and every particle of the affirmation which
it contains, is as foolish as it is false. Porson’s conversation insipid!
The appeal may safely be made to many characters now living, to Dr. Parr,
Dr. Charles, Burney, Judge Dampier, the Provost of Eton, Sir James
Mackintosh, Mr. Sharp, Mr. Perry, and to many, many others, whether his
conversation among his intimate acquaintance, did not invariably and
irresistibly demonstrate intellect, information, and knowledge. That he
was not very communicative with Mr. Wakefield on subjects of criticism
and abstract erudition, may readily be accounted for.—He despised
Wakefield’s attainments of this kind, in the first instance; and in the
next, had reason to apprehend that improper use might be made of what he
might utter. Mr. Wakefield could not pretend to much of “human affection”
in the declaration of his controversial opinions, but cut and slashed,
and threw his dirt about, without any compunctious feeling.

It may be asserted, without fear of contradiction, that if any friend
or acquaintance consulted the Greek Professor, on any difficult passage
of any author, he readily communicated his aid, and would, if required,
discuss such subjects in conversation.

That our friend was not “devoid of all human affections,” examples have
already been adduced; that he was “misanthropic,” is an assertion equally
absurd. He was, perhaps, too social; and it was this love of society,
which frequently betrayed him into inadvertencies. As to the Greek
quotation with which this curious passage ends, all that can be said is,
it does not apply to Porson.

Mr. Wakefield proceeds to observe, “I will be content to forfeit the
esteem and affection of all mankind, whenever the least particle of
envy or malignity is found to mingle itself with my opinions.” Let the
reader contrast this declaration with the letter, given in a preceding
part of this narrative, and printed from his own hand-writing. Let him
also compare this expression of Wakefield’s with the diatribe which he
addressed to Porson, on his publication of the Hecuba.

A few more anecdotes, from personal knowledge, shall close this part of
our narrative. Porson once accompanied the Sexagenarian in a walk to
Highgate. On their return, they were overtaken by a most violent rain,
and both of them were thoroughly drenched to the skin. As soon as they
arrived at home, warm and dry things were prepared for both; but Porson
obstinately refused to change his clothes. He drank three glasses of
brandy, but sate in his wet things all the evening. The exhalation, of
course, was not the most agreeable; but he did not apparently suffer any
subsequent inconvenience.

There was a lady, who was allied to some of the best families in the
kingdom, exceedingly agreeable, and very accomplished, who took great
pleasure in the conversation and society of Porson. He, on his part,
was very partial to her; and she it was who was the occasion of his
composing those excellent Charades, which have found their way into many
of the public prints, but of which an accurate copy has no where hitherto
appeared. They were principally composed in his walks from his chambers,
to the house of the author of this narrative, and will be found in the
Appendix.



    Και ομως ετολμησαμεν ημείς, τα ουτως εχοντα, προς αλληλα
    ξυναγκγειν και ξυναρμοσαι.

CHAPTER XXXVII.


PORSON’S CHARACTER.

His character will now be given, as it impressed the judgment of one
who studied it much, and knew it well; but the undertaking is somewhat
arduous. There were blended in him very opposite qualities. In some
things he appeared to be of the most unshaken firmness; in others he was
wayward, capricious, and discovered the weakness of a child. Although in
the former part of his life, more particularly, he would not unfrequently
confine himself for days together, in his chamber, and not suffer
himself to be intruded upon by his most intimate acquaintance, he hardly
ever could resist the allurements of social converse, or the late and
irregular hours to which they occasionally lead.

That he was friendly to late hours, and generally, exhibited Dr.
Johnson’s reluctance to go to bed, might naturally arise from the
circumstance of his being from a child, a very bad sleeper. Porson
frequently spent his evenings with the present venerable Dean of
Westminster, with Dr. Wingfield, with the late Bennet Langton, and with
another friend in Westminster, with respect to whom, the following line
used to be facetiously applied from Homer.

    Ριψε ποδος τεταγων απο βηλου θεσπεσιοιο

Yet he hardly ever failed passing some hours afterwards, at the Cyder
Cellar, in Maiden-lane.

The above individuals being all of them very regular in their hours, used
to give him to understand, that he was not to stay after eleven o’clock,
with the exception of Bennet Langton, who suffered him to remain till
twelve; corrupted in this instance perhaps, by Doctor Johnson. But so
precise was Porson in this particular, that although he never attempted
to exceed the hour limited, he would never stir before. On one occasion,
when from some incidental circumstance, the lady of the house gave a
gentle hint, that she wished him to retire a little earlier, he looked at
the clock, and observed with some quickness, that it wanted a quarter of
an hour of eleven.

In the former period of his early residence in the metropolis, the
absence of sleep hardly seemed to annoy him. The first evening which he
spent with Horne Tooke, he never thought of retiring till the harbinger
of day gave warning to depart. Horne Tooke, on another occasion,
contrived to find out the opportunity of requesting his company, when he
knew that he had been sitting up the whole of the night before. This,
however, made no difference; Porson sate up the second night also till
the hour of sun-rise.

What shall we call it—waywardness, inconsiderateness, or ungraciousness?
but it is a well known fact, that he spent the day of his marriage with
a very learned friend, now a Judge, without either communicating the
circumstance of his change of condition, or without attempting to stir
till the hour prescribed by the family, obliged him to depart.

The following anecdote he would often relate himself, with the greatest
good humour. It is sufficiently notorious, that our friend was not
remarkably attentive to the decoration of his person; indeed, he was
at times disagreeably negligent. On one occasion, he went to visit the
above-mentioned learned friend, where a gentleman, who did not know
Porson, was waiting in anxious and impatient expectation of the barber.
On Porson’s entering the library where the gentleman was sitting, he
started up, and hastily said to Porson, “Are you the barber?” “No, Sir,”
replied Porson, “but I am a cunning shaver, much at your service.”

When there was considerable fermentation in the literary world on the
subject of the supposed Shakspeare Manuscripts, and many of the most
distinguished individuals had visited Mr. Ireland’s house to inspect
them, Porson, accompanied by a friend, went also. Many persons had been
so imposed upon as to be induced to subscribe their names to a form,
previously drawn up, avowing their belief in the authenticity of the
papers exhibited. Porson was called upon to do so likewise. “No,” replied
the Professor, “I am always very reluctant in subscribing my name, and
more particularly to articles of faith.”

The story of his pertinacity in twice transcribing the perplexed and
intricate manuscript of the Lexicon of Photius, has been well detailed in
the Athenæum, and is perfectly true.

An intimate friend of the Professor had a favourite old dog, whose death
he exceedingly regretted, and asked Porson to give him an inscription,
for the place in the garden where he was buried. After a time, Porson
brought him the following, which was afterwards neatly cut in the antique
manner, without stops, on a white marble stone, and remained for many
years where it was first deposited.

    ΤΗΝΤΡΙΒΟΝΟϹΠΑΡΑΓΕΙϹΗΝΠΩϹΤΟΔΕϹΗΜΑΝΟΗϹΕΙS
    ΜΗΔΕΟΜΑΙΓΕΛΑϹΗϹΕΙΚΥΝΟϹΕϹΤΙΤΑΦΟϹ
    ΕΚΛΑΥϹΘΗΝΧΕΙΡΕϹΔΕΚΟΝΙΝϹΥΝΕΘΗΚΑΝΑΝΑΚΤΟϹ
    ΟϹΜΟΥΚΑΙϹΤΗΛΗΤΟΝΔΕΧΑΡΑΞΕΛΟΓΟΝ.

A great many people, and learned people too, thought it an ancient
inscription, and so it is, but the Professor omitted to say where he
met with it. It is however to be found among the Επιγραμματα ἀδεσποτα
of Brunck and Jacobs, No. 755, and has been published in many other
collections; but first by J. Vossius on Pomponius Mela, p. 129.

He was not easily provoked to asperity of language by contradiction in
argument, but he once was. A person of some literary pretensions, but who
either did not know Porson’s value, or neglected to show the estimate of
it which it merited, at a dinner party, harassed, teazed, and tormented
him, till at length he could endure it no longer, and rising from his
chair, exclaimed with vehemence, “It is not in the power of thought to
conceive or words to express the contempt I have for you, Mr. ⸺.”

On his being appointed to the Greek Professorship, a gentleman who in
his boyish days had shewn him great kindness, and who indeed being the
agent of his first patron, was the dispenser also of that personage’s
liberality to Porson, wrote him a kind letter of congratulation. At
the same time, not being acquainted with the nature of such things, he
offered, if a sum of money was required to discharge the fees, or was
necessary on his first entrance upon the office, to accommodate him
with it. Of this letter, Porson took no notice. A second letter was
dispatched, repeating the same kind offer; of this also, no notice was
taken. The gentleman was exasperated, and so far resented the neglect,
that it is more than probable, his representation of this matter, was one
of the causes of Porson’s losing the very handsome legacy intended for
him, to which allusion has before been made.

It is exceedingly difficult to explain the motive of Porson’s behaviour
on the above occasion. He was not insensible of the kindness, for he
mentioned it to him who has recorded the fact, in terms of respect and
thankfulness, and as an act which merited his gratitude. It might arise
first from his extreme reluctance to letter-writing, which induced him
to defer his reply till the time was past, and notice of it might seem
unseasonable; or he might not exactly like the terms in which the offer
was conveyed, for it is more than probable that the letter commenced
with something like reproach, for the long and continued neglect of his
earlier friends. Whatever might be the cause, it did him incalculable
injury; the person in question never forgave the neglect, nor would
he ever afterwards endure to hear his name mentioned. He was moreover
the legal adviser of the old lady, Mrs. Ann Turner, of whose early
impressions in Porson’s favour, mention has already been made.

It must be acknowledged, that there was an occasional waywardness about
Porson, which defied the utmost sagacity of his friends to explain. No
example of this can perhaps be more striking, than his behaviour with
respect to Sir G⸺ B⸺. Sir G⸺ was among his earliest as well as warmest
friends. He was trustee for the money raised for his education at Eton
and the University; his house was always open to him, and being an
excellent scholar himself, he naturally watched, incited, and encouraged
the progress of him whom he protected. Nay, Porson himself would always
and willingly render his patron ample justice in all these particulars;
yet all at once he ceased to go to his house. From what motive, Sir G⸺
always avowed himself entirely ignorant, nor in all probability was it
ever known. The writer of this Memoir had once a conversation with Sir
G⸺ on the subject; he spoke of Porson without the smallest asperity or
reproach, but declared that his behaviour in this respect was perfectly
unaccountable.



    De ingenio ejus qui satis nostis, de interitu paucis
    cognoscite. Ad etiam de ingenio pauca vultis?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.


Our tale is now drawing to its close. The subject clings to the heart,
and is parted with reluctantly. The circumstances attending the close
of his life have been so minutely, and, to all appearance, faithfully
narrated, as to call for no animadversion. His peculiarities and failings
have been by some too harshly pointed out and commented upon, without
due consideration of how exceedingly they were counterbalanced, by the
most extraordinary and most valuable endowments. Of what importance is
it, that when he shaved himself he would walk up and down his room,
conversing with whomsoever might happen to be present; that he knew
the precise number of steps from his apartments to the houses of those
of his friends, with whom he was most intimate, which, by the way, in
the metropolis, must have been strongly indicative of a mind not easily
made to swerve from its purpose; that at one period he was remarkably
fond of the theatre, and all at once, as it were, ceased to frequent it?
The circumstance most remarkable concerning his habits and propensities
is, that he latterly became a hoarder of money, and, when he died, had
not less than two thousand pounds in the funds. All these, however, are
minor subjects of reflection. In him, criticism lost the most able,
most expert, most accomplished support of her sceptre;—learning, one
of its greatest ornaments. His knowledge was far more extensive than
was generally understood, or imagined, or believed.—There are very few
languages with which he had not some acquaintance. His discernment
and acuteness in correcting what was corrupt, and explaining what was
difficult and perplexed, were almost intuitive; and, in addition to all
this, his taste was elegant and correct. His recitations and repetitions
were, it must be confessed, sometimes tedious and irksome, which would
not, however, have been the case, unless they had been too often heard
before; for he never repeated any thing that was not characterized by
excellence, of some kind or other. One talent and quality he had, for
which they who have hitherto exhibited biographical sketches of him, have
not given him sufficient credit:—This was humour.

To prove that he possessed this in no ordinary degree of perfection,
appeal need only be made to the three witty and facetious letters which
he inserted in the Gentleman’s Magazine, with the signature of “Sundry
Whereof.” The occasion was, The Life of Johnson, by Sir John Hawkins—Let
the reader judge from one or two specimens.

Addressing the Editor he says: “Have you read that divine book, ‘The
Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D. by Sir John Hawkins, Knt.?’ Have you done
any thing but read it, since it was first published? For my own part, I
scruple not to declare, that I could not rest till I had read it quite
through, notes, digressions, index, and all. Then I could not rest
till I had gone over it a second time. I begin to think that increase
of appetite grows by what it feeds on, for I have been reading it ever
since. I am now in the midst of the sixteenth perusal, and still I
discover more beauties. I can think of nothing else—I can talk of nothing
else, &c. &c. &c.

    “Read Hawkins once, and you can read no more,
    For all books hence appear so mean, so poor,
    Johnson’s a dunce; but still persist to read,
    And Hawkins will be all the books you need.”

Who would have expected this sally of facetiousness from the grave and
didactic Porson?

After proposing to offer, in a future letter, a few corrections and
amendments, the first epistle thus concludes:

“In a statue from the hand of Phidias, I would not, if I could help it,
have a single toe-nail amiss. And since the smallest speck is seen on
snow, I am persuaded that the Knight himself will not be displeased with
a freedom which proceeds solely from esteem.”

The second letter is still more pregnant with the truest humour. It is
to be remembered that Porson was himself an Etonian; Sir John’s book had
been attacked in the Microcosm, a periodical work, by the upper boys at
Eton, which fact is thus mentioned by Porson:

“Soon after the publication of Sir John’s book, a parcel of Eton boys,
not having the fear of God before their eyes, &c. instead of playing
truant, robbing orchards, annoying poultry, or performing any other part
of their school exercises, fell foul, in print, upon his Worship’s
censure of Addison’s middling style; and even sneered at the story of the
Quaker, which I hold to be as good a thing as any in the volume. But what
can you expect, as Lord Kaimes justly observes, from a school, where boys
are taught to rob on the highway?”

It is with genuine humour that Mister Sundry Whereof affects to doubt the
genuineness of some pages in Sir John’s book. “The Knight’s style,” he
observes, “is clear and elegant, whilst that in which the circumstance
is narrated of Dr. Johnson’s parchment-covered book, _is_ cloudy,
inconsistent, and embarrassed. He therefore begs to propose a few
queries, of which the first is,

“Would a writer confessedly so exact in his choice of words, as the
Knight, talk in this manner: ‘While he was preparing;’ ‘An accident
happened?’ As if one should say of that unfortunate divine Dr. Dodd, _an
accident_ proved fatal to him; he _happened_ to write another man’s name,
&c.”—The whole of this epistle is full of the happiest irony.

The point and humour of the third and concluding epistle is of a similar
character. After premising certain canons of criticism, in which it
is assumed, that “Whenever Sir John Hawkins, in quoting any part of
Johnson’s works, adopts a reading different from the editions, it is to
be replaced in the text, and the other discarded. Thus, in the vulgar
edition of London, vol. xi. of Johnson’s Works, p. 319, we read,

    ‘And fixed _on_ Cambria’s solitary shore,’

How much better is Sir John’s reading,

    ‘And fixed _in_ Cambria’s solitary shore!’

“I would not believe that Johnson wrote otherwise, though Johnson himself
should affirm it.

“Again, in the last number of the Rambler, Johnson says, or is made to
say, ‘I have endeavoured to refine our language to grammatical purity.’
How tame, dull, flat, lifeless, insipid, prosaic, &c. is this, compared
to what the Knight has substituted—‘_grammar_ and _purity_!’ A fine
instance of the figure, _Hen dia duoin_, like Virgil’s _pateris et auro_,
or like—; but I will not overpower you with my learning,” &c.

The whole of this is admirable, and expressed in a style of the purest
humour.

Much of this same quality is also conspicuous in Porson’s character
of Gibbon, as it is given in his Preface to the Letters to Travis;
which character, notwithstanding its great severity, induced Gibbon
to solicit an interview with Porson. This accordingly took place, by
the intervention of honest Peter Elmsley, and was once repeated, but
no acquaintance or further communication ensued. Porson was not of a
disposition to pay court even to the most eminent characters; and Gibbon
then stood on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, and probably did not
take the necessary steps to secure Porson’s further correspondence.

With respect to the other branches of Porson’s family, some errors have
found their way into the public prints. His younger brother’s name was
Thomas. He is mentioned first, because he received the same benefit,
with respect to education, under Mr. Hewitt and Mr. Summers, as his
elder brother, the Professor. His talents were thought by no means to be
inferior; he was certainly an excellent scholar, or possessed the faculty
of becoming such. No efforts were, however, made in his favour to obtain
for him similar advantages. He became assistant to the Rev. Mr. Hepworth,
a very respectable clergyman, and amiable man, who kept a school first
at Wymondham, in Norfolk, and afterwards was master of the free grammar
school at Northwalsham. Thomas Porson, on leaving Mr. Hepworth, opened
a school at Fakenham, which is likewise in Norfolk. Here he married, and
died young. The second brother, Henry Porson, was not a scholar, but an
admirable accountant. Mrs. Hawes has already been mentioned.—She has
five children. The eldest son was for a time a member of Benet College,
Cambridge; but he also had his scruples on the subject of subscription
to the articles of the Church of England, and declined entering into
orders. Though not disinclined to literary pursuits, he thought, and
thought justly, that literature as a profession, was but an indifferent
speculation; he resolved, therefore, to enter into more active life.—He
is now at Buenos Ayres.

Now, then, alas! the moment is come, when we are to take a final leave
of our illustrious friend.—Whatever were his errors, his failings, and
his infirmities, he was, as far as talent, learning, and intellectual
distinction is concerned, a GREAT MAN. His loss will ever be deplored by
those who intimately knew him; and the tenderest regret will, as long as
life shall endure, be everlastingly excited, when memory brings to the
view of him who writes this narrative, the instructive, interesting, and
pleasing hours spent in his society.

                      Hunc unum Plurimi consentiunt
                       Doctorum doctissimum fuisse
                            RICARDUM PORSONUM.

                         ΕΑΝ ΔΕ ΤΙ ΦΑΙΝΗΤΑΙ ΥΜΕΝ
                           ΠΡΟΣΘΕΙΝΑΙ Η ΑΦΕΛΑΙ
                               ΕΥΧΑΡΙΣΤΩΜΕΣ
                                 ΕΡΡΩΣΤΕ.



    Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas, Harpyiasque
    Invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit.

CHAPTER XXXIX.


Proceed we next to one whose house Porson for a long series of years
frequented with more familiarity and regular intimacy, than that of
almost any body else. The expression of regular intimacy is deliberately
used; for, in this respect, the Professor was particularly wayward.
After visiting at a friend’s house, for perhaps four or five days in
succession, he would abruptly, and without any assignable reason, absent
himself for as many weeks. The individual of whom we are about to speak,
did not in this respect fare better than his neighbours. This individual
was


⸺.

It appears from the scattered memoranda, from which what follows has
been compiled and arranged, that our Sexagenarian’s acquaintance with
him commenced in childhood, but different places of education, and a
different period of residence at the university, occasioned a separation
for many years; the connection was renewed, on again meeting in the
metropolis.

His history in few words is this:

His father was a clergyman, and master of an endowed free-school in
Yorkshire. He received a small number of private boarders into his
house, which, with the addition of curacies, enabled him to live with
respectability and comfort. The fortunes of men often turn upon slight
hinges, and he who has the sagacity to avail himself of the favourable
opportunities which present themselves, without any imputation on his
integrity, is justly entitled to esteem and praise.

The elder Mr. ⸺ was a very good scholar, remarkably quick and
intelligent, and, very differently from the general herd of masters of
seed-shops and seminaries, by courtesy ycleped boarding schools, his plan
of educating his pupils was admirable. He knew the right way, and pursued
it: he was not satisfied with his boys having a sort of smattering of
this book and the other—what they knew, they knew effectually; for their
knowledge was grounded on the most familiar intimacy with grammar. He was
also of a sociable and convivial temper, and exceedingly acceptable to
the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.

Fortunately for him, and, indeed, for his family, he served the curacy of
a village (the name is now forgotten by the writer), where Lord ⸺, who
married the gay, alas! too gay, daughter of Lord ⸺ resided. Lord ⸺ was
at that time a great favourite with the Queen; and, at the intercession
of his daughter, his Lordship applied to her Majesty for a presentation
to a great and popular seminary, for the subject of this article. The
request was granted; and thus the foundation of his future good fortune
was permanently laid. But this was not all the good derived to the family
from this splendid connection.—In process of time, the old gentleman, who
well deserved it, obtained from the kindness of the same noble family,
very valuable preferment. Another son also was enabled from the same
source to appear with great distinction in life, was confidentially and
honourably employed in their affairs, and did at one time at least, if
not now, represent in parliament one of the boroughs in this interest.

But, to return to our immediate subject. He passed through the ordinary
routine of a public school with credit, whence he removed to Cambridge,
acquitted himself with great respectability, became a fellow of the
society, and, at the usual period, entered into orders. He was for
a time curate of the parish in which some of the relatives of that
unfortunate India Captain who perished at sea in the Holwell, resided,
and he preached on that occasion a funeral sermon which he was afterwards
induced to publish. As far as recollection is of avail, the discourse
was in every respect highly creditable to his sensibility and judgment.
A vacancy happening at the public school where he was educated, among
the under masters, he removed thither, and most probably was invited to
do so. After various gradations, he rose to the chief situation, which
he retained till his death. He obtained at different times, different
pieces of preferment, and having always his house full of pupils, in all
probability died opulent.

His connection with Porson commenced at the university, and was only
interrupted by that which breaks all human bonds asunder—a summons
to the grave. Different as they were in the powers of intellect, and
attainments of learning, properly so called, though it is by no means
intended to insinuate, that this gentleman’s talents and learning were
not very highly reputable, yet there was a certain congeniality of mind
and sentiment between him and Porson, which tended to confirm and cement
their intimacy. They took the same decided line in politics; both were
strenuous advocates, at first, at least, of the French Revolution, both
associated intimately with its warmest defenders, and both were alike
sceptical on certain points of ecclesiastical controversy. Of the subject
of this article, it was facetiously remarked by a Barrister, who was
one of his auditors, that having engaged to preach at Lincoln’s Inn, on
Trinity Sunday, he preached against the Trinity. But perhaps by this
remark no more was intended, than that the preacher did not enter very
profoundly into the question, but rather permitted it to escape in a
vapour of generality.

Both these worthies were deluded enough to think Fox the true lover,
and Pitt the decided enemy of his country. But what will not the spirit
of party do? Now, in our opinion, and in more instances than one, Fox
was the enemy of his country. But we are well aware that these may be
called prejudices on the other side; and it is not intended to throw down
the glove for political hostility in this narrative. To show, however,
our candour, the following ingenious nonsense is inserted, which some
have given to Porson, others to ⸺. It is more probable to have been the
production of the former, who had a great talent for splendid trifles;
for trifles they certainly are, even when such a genius sports with them.


ORACULA ECHUS

DE BELLO ET STATU NATIONIS.

    Huc ades, huc ades prestò, resonabilis Echo
                                           ἨΚΩ.

    Romanam credidi—οἶσθα καὶ ελληνιστι ΛΑΛΕΙΝ
                                        ΛΑΛΕΙΝ.

    Forsan & Gallicè, polyglolta, possis loqui?
                                      O QU’OUI.

    Et Anglica nostra non sit tibi prorsus igNOTA?
                                             NOTA.

    Benè, τετραφωνήσς καγω—si tibi non dis-PLICET.
                                            LICET.

    Quid tibi videtur, Dea! de hocce Gallico BELLO?
                                           HELL, O.

    Ignoscas, Cara, dicendum Anglicè, O, HELL!
                                      O, HELL!

    Scilicet auctor hujus Belli est ipse ΔιαΒΟΛΟΣ.
                                             ὉΛΟΣ.

    Et instrumenta Diaboli boni regis Ministri sunt?
                                             I SUNT.

    Num isti regis Ministri sciunt quid FACIUNT?
                                         SCIUNT.

    Sed nobis, vili Plebeculæ, consilia sua dicere NOLUNT?
                                                   NOLUNT.

    Audesne tu, Dea! Belli veram dicere CAUSAM
                                        AUSIM.

    Equidem pugnari putavi, primò Libertatis aMORE.
                                              ΜΩΡΕ!

    Secundò certamen esse pro sacra ConstitutiONE
                                             O NE!

    Sic tamen solet ὁ Δεινα crePARE.
                               A RE.

    Periclitari navigium, clamitat ille ναυκΛΗΡΟΣ.
                                            ΛΗΡΟΣ.

    Τον βασιλεα, τους Νομους, την Εκκλησιαν, κινδυ ΝΕUΕΙΝ.
                                                 NEW WINE.

    Non aliter, tamen ille _Sobrius_ DUNDASSUS loqui sOLET.
                                                      OLET.

    Αλλ’ ἀυτος ὁ Πωρτλανδος τουτους αποδεχεται τους λΟΓΟΥΣ
                                                   O GOOSE.

    Et ipse WYNDHAMUS devorat dictamina PITTI
                                         PITY!

    And even BURKE himself now listens to DUNDASS
                                              ASS!

    Hinc in FOXIUM, ἡμιθεον, tantum concitatur ODII.
                                             O, DII!

    Qui tamen Patriam, ut aiunt, quàm maxumè adAMAT.
                                               AMAT.

    Et enixè tuetur sacra Anglorum JURA.
                                   JURA.

    Quàm, ergo, Anglorum Populus ingratus mihi viDETUR!
                                                 DETUR.

    Ce peuple ne voit pas les miseres de la GUERRE.
                                            GUERES.

    Ni l’infinitè des maux qui doit s’en SUIVRE
                                         SUIVRE.

    Quot, quæso, sunt mala metuenda pro PaTRIA?
                                          TRIA.

    Τις, δεομαι, τουτων ἡ πρωτη συμΦΟΡΑ;
                                   ΦΟΡΑ.

    Intelligo: secunda calamitas erit iNEDIA.
                                     ΝΗ, ΔΙΑ!

    Και ἡ τριτη, γογγυσμος του λαου απορ’ΡΗΤΟΣ?
                                         ΡΗΤΟΣ.

    Και τα λοιπα ταχα, θεα! αμεινον τα νυν ΣΙΓΑΝ?
                                           ΣΙΓΑΝ.

    At causas Belli nondum dixisti:—apertè loQUERE.
                                             QUÆRE.

    Quræram:—αλλα ψιθυριζωμεν, ει και σοι ΔΟΚΕΙ.
                                          ΔΟΚΕΙ.

    Peutêtre, on fait la guerre, en partie, pour plaire AU ⸺?
                                                        AU ⸺.

    Et sur tout, pour empêcher une reforme DES ⸺?
                                           DES ⸺.

    Et pour êtablir un systeme de pure ⸺?
                                       ⸺.

    Dic mihi, quis erit hujusmodi Belli EVENTUS?
                                         VENTUS.

    Scilicet, frustrà tentamus istos subjicere GALLOS?
                                                ἈΛΛΩΣ.

    Precamur ergo Deos, ut quam maturimè finiatur certAMEN.
                                                      AMEN.

Whoever was the author of the above facetiousness, was indebted for the
idea to a book of no common occurrence, of which the title is “Lusus
Imaginis Jocosæ sive Echus, a variis Poetis, variis linguis et numeris
exculti. Ex Bibliotheca Theodori Dousæ, I. F. Accessit M. Schoockii
Dissertatio de natura Soni et Echus. Ultrajecti. Ex officina Ægidii
Roman. Acad. Typog. 1638.”

The volume consists of poems, in the style and manner of that above
printed, in Greek, Latin, French, Italian, Dutch, German, and English; as
for example:

                   Echo in Nuptias
           Nobiliss. Viri HENRICI Van EEDEN
            et Nobil. Virginis DOUSÆ, quæ
           maternum stemma ducit e familia
                Dominorum Van REEDEN.

    Dic age quem thalamo deposcit filia REEDEN?
      _Eeden_—num thalamo vota parata? _rata._
    Num sponsum moresque probos adamabit? _amabit_
      Qualis ei conjunx? res operosa? _rosa._
    Quæ pestis procul esse velis? _lis_—optima virtus
      Conjugii quæ sit, dic mihi clamor? _amor._
    Dicite saxa, thori quæ spes, num fœmina vel mas
      _Mas._ At Posteritas quos sibi dicet avos?
    _Vos._ Sibi num celebres Downas annectere gaudet?
      _Audet_—Quid sponso dicere mane? _mane_—
    Num colet Henricus teneram siue labe puellam?
      _Ellam_—num magnum credet amare? _mare_—
    An mihi tam chari thalami fas dicere civis?
      _Si vis_—at Musæ si faveant? _aveant_—
    Num candor, doctrina, boni cultura sodalis,
      Et probitans illi est unica Thais? _ais._

                                   C. BARLÆUS.

This Caspar, or Gaspar Barlæus was a very learned physician of Antwerp,
of whom Vossius says, “Dubium Poeta melior an Philosophus.” Many of his
works are extant, and highly esteemed. But, to return to our subject.

Let not such of ⸺’s surviving friends as may peruse this article take
offence, when it is asserted that he was not the most profound of
scholars, nor was his taste the finest and most accurate in the world;
but he was certainly an excellent teacher, and many very eminent scholars
have been produced under his guidance. He was far from deficient in
judgment, was possessed of excellent common sense, and was wise enough
to turn his familiar and intimate connection with Porson to excellent
use. Many a lecture on the Greek dramas has smacked sensibly of the
Professor. It is not known that he ever wrote any thing by which (the
sermon above-mentioned excepted) his intellectual powers, or acquired
attainments, can be brought to the test. The oration which follows in the
Appendix was undoubtedly of his composition. As one of Porson’s has been
exhibited, composed by him in very early youth, it should be noticed that
the oration subjoined was produced not a great while before ⸺ changed
this state for a better.

They who are so disposed may there, if they please, enter into a critical
examination and comparison of the Latinity of these two distinguished
personages. We have something else to do. It is not pretended to say
that the author of this last oration was defective in good taste with
respect to literary composition, but it is rather extraordinary that so
protracted a course of scholastic discipline did not create more. One
thing is alike remarkable and certain, and was notorious to the pupils in
almost every division of their classes, that their master had no great
talent for versification. They who have seen the Masters of Westminster,
of Eton, or Harrow, correct verse exercises, must be well aware of the
extreme readiness, facility, and precision, with which a false quantity
is detected, an unpoetical word erased, a better substituted, and every
part of the rhythm accurately determined. Whereas the learned man of
whom we are speaking, made few or no remarks when correcting verse
exercises, and was generally satisfied—with putting a mark under the
mistakes of his _boobies_. This is not intended to depreciate his value
as a schoolmaster. By no means; as a master, he had the more useful and
valuable qualities, though he could not be said to have had much of
poetry in his composition.

It is an old and generally received adage, “a man is known by the company
he keeps.” We will not altogether apply this to ⸺ in the present case,
because it is most willingly conceded that he had a great share of
mildness and benevolence in his temper; and perhaps it might be illiberal
to infer, that his kindness to certain individuals was the result of
an entire congeniality and community of feeling. We trust that it was
not, and more particularly with respect to one person, hereafter to be
mentioned.

Of the subject of this article, little more remains to be said, than that
he died prematurely, and much lamented by an extensive circle of friends
and acquaintance. It does not appear that he left behind him any thing
with the view of publication, though among his manuscripts, particularly
when his long intimacy with Porson is remembered, there must probably
have been many things well deserving of public notice.



    Alterum genus est eorum, qui quanquam premuntur ære alieno,
    dominationem tamen expectant: rerum potiri volunt, honores
    quos quieta republica desperant, perturbata consequi se posse
    arbitrantur.

CHAPTER XL.


The individual alluded to in the conclusion of the preceding article was


J⸺ G⸺,

than whom a more extraordinary character has not of late years, appeared
as a candidate for public notice.

He was born, if we mistake not, in the Island of St. Christopher’s, in
the West-Indies. He was the presumed heir to considerable property, but
this was the subject of legal dispute. In the interval, J⸺ was sent to
England for his education, and being placed under the care of the late
eminent surgeon, Mr. Bromfield, he was by that gentleman consigned to
Doctor, at that time Mr. Parr. Mr. Parr having been disappointed in
his views of succeeding Dr. Sumner in the head mastership of Harrow
school, had established himself in its vicinity, at Stanmore, whither he
brought with him many of his former pupils, sons of noblemen, and other
distinguished persons.

G⸺ soon gave proofs of the greatest abilities, and had he, fortunately
for himself and the world, pursued his natural propensities for literary
pursuits, he would, beyond all doubt, have shone as a star of the first
magnitude, and avoided the miserable fate, which at a premature period,
removed him from the world. But he was all fire—a real child of the
sun—without deliberation or reflection, without care or thought of
remoter consequences, he yielded implicitly to the first impulses of
his mind, and was too proud and too lofty to retract or recede. Most
unluckily, at the moment when G⸺ was beginning to feel the consciousness
of his intellectual superiority, the poisonous and malignant seeds of
the French Revolution had shewn their germs above the surface of the
earth, and were advancing to an ill-omened maturity. The delusive cry of
liberty always impresses the youthful mind with an impatient ardour, and
when properly disciplined and restrained, may afterwards display itself
in the zeal of a sound and honest patriotism, and eventually become the
parent of every manly virtue. But when the object of this ardour takes a
false name and wrong direction, when zeal is misled by an _ignis fatuus_,
and not by the genuine flame of real liberty—when the name of liberty is
made the stalking horse of ambition, the instrument of selfish ends and
motives, the tool of the demagogue, the whoop of a low and sanguinary
multitude, what great, what dire, and what deplorable mischiefs may be
expected, we have too disastrous a proof in the source, progress, and
history of the French Revolution.

It was this false fire which led J⸺ G⸺ astray, and with no ordinary
deviation. It was not like the error of an inconsiderate young man,
who for a time obeys the impulse of some particular passion, but on
reflection sees his danger, retraces his steps, and makes compensation
by acknowledging his indiscretion, and afterwards pursuing the safe and
straight line of duty. G⸺ all at once, like an unbroken colt, burst
every check and restraint, and bounded away over hill and dale, through
woods, over plains and rivers, with the impetuous and ungovernable fury
of the wildest buffalo. The word liberty being once sounded in his ears,
he dressed up her image in the gaudiest hues of a vivid imagination,
and bowed before it, with all the devotion of the most superstitious
idolatry.

In the interval, however, but it is not pretended to be particularly
accurate as to chronological periods, G⸺ returned to the West-Indies,
where he married, and had a son and a daughter. There he left his wife
and children, and coming back to England, immediately took an active
part in the busy and perilous scenes which were then exhibiting. His
former and natural love of literature was totally forgotten, or rather
absorbed, by the boundless prospects presented to his political ambition.
He had made some preparations to be called to the bar, but all ideas of
entering upon any profession, were now contemptuously thrown aside, and
conventions, corresponding societies, committees, delegates, &c. danced
before his disturbed fancy, in all the mazes of political confusion.

Finally, he became a zealous and active member of the Corresponding
Society, and in the year 1793, had, what to his infatuated mind appeared
no ordinary distinction, the high honour of being elected with Maurice
Margarot (_par nobile fratrum_) as a delegate to what was absurdly
denominated the British Convention, which assembled at Edinburgh.

Here be it permitted to pause awhile, and lament the waywardness of this
man’s mind. There was no eminence in any profession to which he might
not have aspired, and had he pursued any other path but the delusive one
which obtained his partial preference, he might have lived in dignified
independence, and left a revered and honoured name behind him. His
temper, it must be confessed, was not of the most conciliating kind, and
like most of the lovers of reform, and advocates of liberty and equality,
he was tyrannical, insolent, imperious, and overbearing.

Among his other qualifications, he had considerable theatrical talents,
and when very young, performed the arduous character of Zanga in
the Revenge, to the admiration and delight, of a numerous and very
enlightened assembly.

The individuals with whom he ostensibly lived in the greatest
familiarity, were his old master, Dr. Parr, Mr. (now Sir James)
Mackintosh, his old school-fellow, the Historian of Hindostan, Mr.
Sheridan, Dr. Raine, and the editors of those papers more particularly
pre-eminent in their opposition to the measures of government, and their
countenance of the French Revolution.

But it is now well known, that he had other unavowed connections;
that, like Jaffier, he had his midnight divan, where he presided as
Autocratist. His principles gave way, either to the contagion of the low
and mean herd, with whom he finally associated, or were made subservient
to his political schemes and projects. He once had the candour to make
this acknowledgment himself; but he ultimately threw off all regard to
decorum; lived in open licentiousness, and indulged in every sensual
irregularity.

His writings of a particular kind were very numerous, but chiefly
consisted of small pamphlets, letters, and paragraphs; all of them
characterized by great vigour and acuteness. His most extensive work was
entitled, “A Convention the only Means of saving us from Ruin,” which was
distinguished by its extraordinary boldness, and contemptuous disregard
of existing authorities.

The melancholy sequel of his story is well known; but it may be a
public benefit, and operate as a beacon to the young and unwary, here
to recapitulate it. The writer of this article saw him for the last
time, when he was about to take his departure for Scotland, to surrender
himself for trial. He evaded the recollection of an old acquaintance.
There was a haggard wildness in his looks, a disorder in his air, a sort
of despondency in his demeanour, which made an indelible impression.

He was for a long time confined in Newgate, on his way from Scotland to
fulfil his sentence of transportation to Botany Bay. Here his pride was
gratified, and his mental exacerbation soothed, by a crowd of visitors,
some of whom were of no mean rank. It is singular to say, but the fact
is indisputable, that while he was in Newgate, orders for Drury-lane
Theatre, with the signature of J⸺ G⸺, were admitted. This may well excite
surprize, but when this was written, there were many living evidences
able to bear testimony to the fact.

Another thing too, which may at first view appear alike difficult of
belief, is, that whilst he was in Newgate, Lord Melville (then Mr.
Dundas) sent to him, and offered to be the instrument of obtaining
his free pardon, on condition of his signing a paper, purporting his
determination to conduct himself for the time to come, as a peaceable and
quiet subject. This he positively and ungraciously refused—refused too at
a moment, when his health was obviously giving way to the irregularities
of his life, and the perturbation of his mind; when he had great reason
to think, that he was going to certain and inevitable death.

Various offers of money were made him by private persons: these also
he pertinaciously rejected. He was well supplied elsewhere. One thing,
however, unfortunately for himself, he did not refuse, namely, that
which undermined and finally destroyed his constitution—he indulged in
the fatal habit of drinking spirits. He departed for the place of his
destination, without any ostensible depression of spirits, and, as might
be anticipated, he returned no more.

The writer of this sketch has heard, and so have many others, Porson
relate a singular anecdote of G⸺. He had occasionally met Porson, but
though perhaps on one or two topics, there might exist something like
community of sentiment between them, intimacy was out of the question. G⸺
was too fierce and boisterous, and had of late years too much neglected
those pursuits which absorbed Porson’s attention altogether, to make them
at all likely to assimilate.

Porson was one morning at his solitary breakfast in the Temple, when
G⸺ called upon him, accompanied by a female. He desired permission
and materials to write a letter. After spending a considerable time,
in reading, writing, altering and consulting his female companion, he
finished his letter, and returning thanks to the Professor, took his
leave.

Porson saw no more of him for an interval of three years, when (and
Porson’s accuracy might always be trusted in what related to memory) on
that very day three years, precisely the same scene was repeated. G⸺
came a second time, at the same hour, accompanied by the same female,
requested leave and materials to write a letter, consulted his companion
as before, and having finished what he was about, in like manner took
his leave, and departed. Porson saw him no more.

G⸺ left a son; by the benevolence of private friends, he was educated at
the Charter-house, and is now occupied in some of the various branches of
the law.



    Desine blanditias et verba potentia quondam
      Perdere, non ego sum stultus, ut ante fui.

CHAPTER XLI.


H⸺ W⸺.

The series of biographical sketches is for a time interrupted, to
revert to the more immediate object of this narrative. Another work of
considerable magnitude, undertaken by the writer of these Fragments, was
proposed to, and accepted by, those most effectual patrons of literary
men—the booksellers. This occasioned on his part a survey and examination
of those more distinguished personages, to whom an introduction had
been obtained from the claim of literary attainments, with the view
of selecting a patron for this new work. After due deliberation,
the individual fixed upon was H⸺ W⸺, of whom more hereafter. He was
accordingly solicited for the honour of his permission to prefix his name
to the meditated publication, and this honour was graciously conceded. A
difficulty now presented itself. An author rising slowly from obscurity,
is apt for a while to be dazzled with the splendour of elevated rank,
and to feel his powers somewhat depressed and awed, in the presence of
rank and grandeur. There must, however, be a dedication to this great
man, the composition of which seemed more difficult and more formidable,
than the execution of the proposed work itself, though of the extent of
several volumes. It was, therefore, after many vain and unsatisfactory
attempts, finally determined to call for external aid. This aid was at
hand, and a Dedication was written by a powerful and friendly hand.

As the Dedication itself, and the manner in which it was refused, seem
to form no incurious literary anecdote, the reader, it is hoped, will
be amused with what follows, and may employ himself, if he shall think
proper, in endeavouring, from a comparison and analysis of the style, to
discover who the friend was that supplied the


DEDICATION.

    My Lord,

    Men of learning will see at a glance, and men of sensibility
    will strongly feel the propriety of the permission which I have
    requested, to dedicate such a work as ⸺ to such a nobleman as
    the Earl of ⸺.

    From the curious researches into antiquities, and the elegant
    disquisitions in criticism which adorn the work I have now
    the honour to lay before the public, under the protection of
    your exalted name, their minds will naturally be turned towards
    those numerous writings, with which you have enlightened and
    charmed your contemporaries, and in which posterity will
    acknowledge, that the most various erudition is happily united
    with judgment the most correct, and taste the most refined.

    Like the worthies of whom we read in Greek and Roman story,
    you find in old age a calm and dignified consolation from the
    continuance of those studies, which, with the lustre of high
    birth, and amidst the fascinating allurements of ambition, you,
    my Lord, have devoted a long and honourable life to the calmer
    and more ingenuous pursuits of literature.

    Perhaps, my Lord, you feel new affiance in the wisdom of your
    choice, when you reflect on the peculiar circumstances of the
    times, which, big as they have been with awful events, and
    fatal as they may be to the fairest forms of society, leave[3]
    in the sacred retreats of science some shelter to the human
    mind, disgusted with the view of human crimes, and damped with
    the prospect of human woes.

                    I have the honour to be, &c. &c.

But all this would not do. The noble Lord declined all these fine things,
in the following letter. _Oh si sic omnia._

    I do beg and beseech you, my good Sir, to forgive me, if I
    cannot possibly consent to receive the Dedication you were
    so kind and partial as to propose to me. I have, in the most
    positive and almost uncivil manner, refused a Dedication or two
    lately. Compliments on virtues which the persons addressed,
    like me, seldom possessed, are happily exploded, and laughed
    out of use.

    Next to being ashamed of having good qualities bestowed upon me
    to which I should have no title, it would hurt me to be praised
    for my erudition, which is most superficial, and on my trifling
    writings, all of which turn on most trifling subjects. They
    amused me while writing them, may have amused a few persons,
    but have nothing solid enough to preserve them from being
    forgotten with other things of as light a nature.

    I would not have your judgment called in question hereafter, if
    somebody reading your work should ask, “What are these writings
    of Lord Orford which this author so much commends? Was Lord
    Orford more than one of the mob of gentlemen who wrote with
    ease?” Into that class I must sink, and I had rather do so
    imperceptibly, than be plunged down to it by the interposition
    of the hand of a friend, who could not gainsay the sentence.

    For your own sake, my good Sir, as well as in pity to my
    feelings, who am sore at your offering what I cannot accept,
    restrain the address to a mean (_sic_) inscription. You are
    allowed to be an excellent ⸺. How unclassic would a Dedication
    in the old fashioned manner appear, if you had published ⸺,
    and had ventured to prefix a Greek or Latin Dedication to some
    modern Lord, with a Gothic title!

    Still less had these addresses been in vogue at Rome, would any
    Roman author have inscribed his work to Marcus, the incompetent
    son of Cicero, and tell the unfortunate offspring of so great a
    man of his high birth and declension of ambition. It would have
    excited a laugh on poor Marcus, who, whatever may have been
    said of him, had more sense than to leave proofs to the public
    of his extreme inferiority to his father.

                   I am, dear Sir, with great regard,

                           Your much obliged,

    [And I hope by your compliance with my earnest request to be
    your much more obliged]

                                        And obedient humble servant,

                                                                  ⸺.

Another Dedication was submitted to the noble Lord’s deliberation, but
neither did this altogether satisfy him, as appears from the following
expression of his opinion.

    Dear Sir,

    I scarce know how to reply to your new flattering proposal. I
    am afraid of appearing guilty of affected modesty, and yet I
    must beg your pardon, if I most sincerely and seriously entreat
    you to drop all thoughts of complimenting me, and my house and
    collection. If there is truth in man, it would hurt, not give
    me satisfaction.

    If you could see my heart, and know what I think of myself, you
    would be convinced that I think myself unworthy of praise, and
    am so far from setting value on any thing I have done, that
    could I recall time, and recommence my life, I have long been
    persuaded, that, thinking as I do now, nothing would induce me
    to appear on the stage of the public.

    Youth, great spirits, vanity, some flattery, (for I was a
    Prime Minister’s son) had made me believe I had some parts,
    and perhaps I had some, and on that rock I split; for how vast
    the distance between some parts and genius, original genius,
    which I confess is so supremely my admiration, and so honest
    is my pride, for that I never deny, that being conscious of
    not being a genius, I do not care a straw in which rank of
    mediocrity I may be placed. I tried before I was capable of
    judging myself, but having carefully examined and discovered
    my extreme inferiority to the objects of my admiration, I have
    passed sentence on my trifles, and hope nobody will think
    better of them than I do myself and then they will soon obtain
    that oblivion, out of which I wish I had never endeavoured to
    emerge.

    All this I allow, Sir, you will naturally doubt, yet the latter
    part of my life has been of a piece with my declaration. I
    have not only abandoned my mistaken vocation, but have been
    totally silent to some unjust attacks, because I did not choose
    my name should be mentioned when I could help it. It will be
    therefore indulgent in a friend, to let me pass away unnoticed
    as I wish, and I should be a hypocrite indeed, (which indeed
    I am not) if it were possible for me to receive compliments
    from a gentleman, whose abilities I respect so much as I do
    yours. I must have been laying perfidious snares for flattery,
    or I must be sincere. I trust your candour and charity will at
    least hope I am the latter, and that you will either punish
    my dissimulation, by disappointing it, or oblige me, as you
    will assuredly do, by dropping your intention. I am perfectly
    content with the honour of your friendship, and beseech you to
    let these be the last lines that I shall have occasion to write
    on the disagreeable subject of ⸺.

                               Dear Sir,

                     Your obedient humble servant,

                                                                  ⸺.

Means were contrived to appease the apprehensions and satisfy the
scruples of the venerable Peer. The work was published under the sanction
of his name, and is now out of print.

That he did like the Dedication in its ultimate form, appears from the
following.

    Dear Sir,

    I beg a thousand pardons for not returning your Preface, which
    I like much, and to which I could find but one very slight
    correction to make, which I have marked with pencil. But I
    confess I waited anxiously for an assurance from you, that you
    would suppress the intended Dedication, which I should have
    been extremely sorry to have seen appear. I have this moment
    received that promise, and am infinitely obliged by your
    compliance.

    I shall be in town on Saturday, and happy to see you in
    Berkeley-square, when you shall have a moment to bestow on

                         Your obedient servant,

                                                                  ⸺.



              Animus quod perdidit optat,
    Atque in præterita se totus imagine versat.

CHAPTER XLIII.


Our Sexagenarian knew and saw Lord ⸺ much and often, both before and
after he came to the title, the accession to which (whatever and however
just may have been the imputation on his vanity) most assuredly was a
vexation to him rather than a pleasure. The first introduction of the
parties in question to each other, was at one of those evening parties,
contemptuously denominated Blue Stocking Club. There was really nothing
in these assemblies to provoke or justify contempt, for they in fact
consisted of a considerable number of very accomplished persons of both
sexes, and except that the entertainment was confined to conversation,
with the occasional introduction of music, they were cheerful,
interesting, and the vehicle of circulating much curious information
on subjects of literature and science. The principal persons were Mrs.
Carter, Mrs. Montague, Horace Walpole, Sir Charles Blagden, the Miss
Baillies, Lady Louisa Macdonald, the Miss Berries, Lady Herries, Mrs.
John Hunter, the two Messrs. Lysons, Mr. (now Sir Everard) Home, Aleppo
Russel, and a great many other very considerable persons both as to rank
and talent. One of the principal houses of resort for these meetings, was
John Hunter’s, and the old Philosopher himself occasionally mingled with
the party, and enjoyed the social conversation.

The first place, however, was, by a sort of common consent, whenever he
appeared among them, which was very often, assigned to H⸺ W⸺. He well
deserved the distinction, on such occasions at least. His resources of
anecdote were inexhaustible; his mode of communicating what he knew, was
easy, gracious, and elegant, as can be imagined. He was the last of the
old school, after the death of the venerable Earl Bathurst, who, when he
left the world, seems not to have had a surviving friend, to record his
various talents and accomplishments. Yet Lord Bathurst was a nobleman
of no ordinary attainments, of admirable taste, acute discernment, and
great learning. When in the decline of life, and his sight began to fail
him, his relation and chaplain, the present Bishop of Norwich, used to
read the classics to him. The Bishop is known to be an excellent scholar,
yet Lord Bathurst would every now and then stop him, and say, “Harry,
you read that passage as if you did not understand it; let me hear you
read it again.” He would then, with the greatest precision, explain
any difficulty which might have occurred, and was pleased with the
opportunity of communicating what he knew.

The reader, it is hoped, will excuse this digression in favour of a great
and good man; but it is time to return to H⸺ W⸺.

As far as verbal communication went, or communication of what he retained
in his memory, availed, all his stores were at the service of literary
men, and many of our modern popular books owe much of their zest and
interest to this sort of assistance received from Lord ⸺. Among others,
Pennant’s London was very particularly indebted to his “Reminiscences.”
The Messrs. Lysons will doubtless not deny their obligations of a
similar kind, nor Mr. Nichols; nor would the late Mr. Gough, nor
Michael Lort, nor Michael Tyson, nor a great many others. Further than
such communication, with perhaps the exception of a scanty dinner at
Strawberry-hill, there is no instance on record of his liberality having
proceeded. He certainly was proud of being considered as a sort of patron
of literature, and a friend to literary men, but he did not choose to
purchase the pre-eminence at a higher price than a little flattery and
praise, and a pudding neither over large nor over solid.

Here two anecdotes occur not to be forgotten. Upon one occasion, a
gentleman of no small literary distinction, who had a sort of general
invitation to his Villa, was induced by a fine summer morning to pay his
respects to Lord O. On his arrival, he was kindly greeted, and invited
to stay and dine. The invitation was accepted. The noble Lord rang his
bell, and on the appearance of his Swiss, enquired what there was for
dinner. “Hashed mutton, my Lord,” was the reply. “Let there be hashed
mutton for two, as Mr. ⸺ is to dine with me.” In a very short time, the
Swiss returned with a long face—“My Lord, there is only hashed mutton for
one.” The visitor made his apologies, engaged to come again at a more
favourable opportunity, and left T⸺m _impransus_.—N. B. His Lordship’s
servants were always on board-wages.

The other anecdote is not much less whimsical, and this relates to the
writer himself.

On his first invitation to dinner with his Lordship, he accompanied Mr.
K. There were no other guests. The Sexagenarian presumed that he should
for once enjoy the luxury of a splendid dinner, and prepared himself
accordingly. Dinner was served, when to the poor author’s astonishment,
one dish only smoked upon the noble board, and that too, as ill luck
would have it, was a species of fish not very agreeable to the palate of
the guest. He waited, however, in patience, and the fish was succeeded
by a leg of mutton. Wae worth the man, who, in the pride and naughtiness
of his heart, presumes to say any thing to the disparagement of a leg
of mutton. The author, however, thought that he might have leg of
mutton at home, and taking it for granted, that at a nobleman’s table,
a second course would succeed, where there would be some tit-bit to
pamper his appetite, he was very sparingly helped. Alas! nothing else
made its appearance. “Well then,” exclaimed the disappointed visitor,
“I must make up with cheese.” His Lordship did not eat cheese. So to
the great amusement of his companion, the poor author returned hungry,
disconcerted, and half angry. He was, however, regaled on his arrival in
Russel-street with a roast duck.

With respect to Chatterton, the less, perhaps, that is said the better.
We are certain of two things, that Chatterton made application to him
for assistance, communicating, at the same time, testimonies of his
necessities, and of his talents. In return, he received—nothing.

The Rev. Mr. L⸺ was his chaplain, but it does not appear that he either
gave him any preferment, or used his interest to procure any thing for
him. He did once indeed put himself a little out of his way. Being called
upon to ask a living for a poor clergyman, who, as he confessed, had
claims upon him, he wrote the following letter to the Commissioners of
the Great Seal, at a particular period, when a Lord Chancellor had not
yet been appointed.

    “To the Lords Commissioners of the Great Seal.

    “The Earl of ⸺, not presuming on having any claim to ask any
    favour of the Lords Commissioners, nor trespassing so far,
    hopes their Lordships will not think he takes too great a
    liberty in this address: but having been requested to give
    an attestation to the character and merit of a very worthy
    clergyman, who is a suitor to their Lordships for the vacant
    living of ⸺, Lord ⸺ cannot help bearing his testimony to the
    deserts of ⸺, whose virtues, great learning, and abilities,
    make him worthy of preferment, which are inducements with
    Lord ⸺ to join his mite to these far more interesting
    recommendations, which he hopes will plead his pardon with
    their Lordships for troubling them by this intrusion.”

This was a true courtier’s letter, and as such it was considered by
the Lords Commissioners, who returned a civil answer, and bestowed
the preferment elsewhere. Yet let us be permitted here to make
an observation on the short-sightedness of man, and the limited
penetration of the greatest human sagacity. Our disappointments are
always in proportion to our hopes; and as the expectation from such
an interposition was very great, so was the mortification and regret
which accompanied the refusal. Yet had the petitioner, in the above
instance, obtained what he so ardently hoped and so eagerly expected,
it would eventually have proved a severe injury and real misfortune.
It would necessarily have removed him from the theatre on which he
was progressively advancing to reputation, and where his exertions
subsequently obtained far greater and more desireable advantages.



    Comis convivis nunquam inclamare clientes,
      Ad famulos nunquam tristia verba loqui;
    Ut placidos mores, tranquillos sic cole manes,
      Et cape ab ... munus—Amice Vale.

CHAPTER XLIV.


About this period, the fever of the French Revolution was beginning to
manifest its effects, in some of those horrible paroxysms of frenzy,
which produced crimes that will for ever throw a stain upon the pages
of French history. The alarm was contagious, and, in every part of
Europe, infected the serious, reflecting, and, more particularly, the
aged part of the community. In this country it was verily believed, that
the apprehension of seeing the French atrocities perpetrated among us,
accelerated the death of many individuals. The amiable and excellent
Mr. C⸺, endured such extreme and constant anxiety on this head, that it
greatly disturbed his tranquillity, threw a gloom over his ordinary
occupations and pursuits, undermined his health, and hastened his
dissolution.

Neither did Lord ⸺ escape the panic.—How great and serious was the
perturbation of his mind, will sufficiently appear from the following
letters, which, in other respects also, appear to be worth preserving.

                                                     Sept. 24, 1792.

    You do me too much honour, dear Sir, in proposing to me to
    furnish you with observations on ⸺, which you are so much
    more capable of executing yourself. I flatter myself you do
    not think me vain enough to attempt it. Your own learning,
    and your familiarity with all the classic authors, render you
    more proper for the task than any man. I, on the contrary, am
    most unqualified. It is long since I have been conversant with
    classic literature—Greek I have quite forgotten; but, above
    all, I hold Seventy-five so debilitating an age to whatever may
    have been taken for parts, and have so long pitied authors of
    Senilia, that I am sure I will not degrade your work by mixing
    my dregs with it; nor, by your good nature and good breeding,
    lay you under the difficulty of admitting or rejecting what you
    probably would find unworthy of being adopted. I have great
    satisfaction in reading what you write; but beg to be excused
    from writing for you to read.

    Most entirely do I agree with you, Sir, on all French politics,
    and their consequences here—it is indeed to be forced to call
    assassinations and massacres, politics. It is my opinion, like
    yours, that homicides should be received no where, much less
    monsters who proclaim rewards for murderers.—What can put a
    stop to such horrors sooner than shutting every country upon
    earth against unparalleled criminals?

    There may be inconveniencies, no doubt, from a vast influx of
    the present poor refugees, but I confess I see more advantages.
    They will spread their own, and the calamities of their
    country—a necessary service, when some newspapers, paid by
    Jacobin, perhaps by Presbyterian, money, labour to defend, or
    conceal, or palliate such infernal scenes, which can only be
    done by men who would kindle like tragedies here. The sufferers
    that arrive, many being conscientious ecclesiastics, must, I
    should hope, be a warning to the Catholics in Ireland not to
    be the tools of the Dissenters there, and of another use they
    may certainly be: they will be the fittest and surest detectors
    of their diabolic countrymen, who are labouring mischief here,
    both openly and covertly. Of their covert transactions we
    have a gloomy proof in the Drawer, who, having subscribed a
    guinea to the defence of Poland, and redemanding it, received a
    guinea’s worth of Paine’s pamphlet in return. This fact evinces
    that the opening of that subscription was not, as it seemed to
    be, the most ridiculously impotent attempt that ever was made,
    but a deep-laid plan of political swindling. Had it produced a
    thousand or five thousand pounds, it would have removed Mount
    Athos as soon as have stopped one Russian soldier. No! under
    colour of pity towards the honest and to be lamented Poles,
    it is evident that it was a scheme for raising a new sum for
    disseminating sedition, and therefore I wish the vile trick
    might be made public.—It may warn well meaning persons against
    being drawn into those subscriptions; and such a base trick of
    swindling should be laid open and exposed in severe terms.

    I am just going to General ⸺ for a few days, and am,

                               Dear Sir,

                     Your most sincere and obliged

                                                     Humble servant,

                                                                   ⸺

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                      Oct. 16, 1792.

    I agree most sincerely and sadly with you, Dear Sir, in being
    shocked at the lamentable change of scene, but am far from
    knowing more than you do, which are general reports; nor
    whether there have been other causes than the evident, constant
    deluge, which have annihilated, for all good purposes, the Duke
    of Brunswick’s army. It is not less horrid to hear that the
    abominations of France, which had made us so rich, and promised
    such security to us, should now tend to threaten us with
    _something_ of similar evils. I say with _something_, for, till
    this year, I did not conceive human nature capable of going
    such execrable lengths as it has done in France; and therefore
    I grow diffident, and dare not pronounce any thing impossible.
    But, alas! the subject is too vast for a letter.—May our
    apprehensions be too quick—may a favourable turn happen!
    Foresight and conjecture we find are most fallible; and I have
    on all emergencies found them so. In my long life I have seen
    very black æras, but they vanished, and the sky cleared again.

    I am very sorry I cannot directly accept the kind offer you and
    Mr. K. are so good as to make me, but you shall hear from me
    again as soon as I am sure of my own movements.

                            I am, Dear Sir,

                            Most sincerely,

                                                                  ⸺.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Extract from a Letter, dated_

                                                       Nov. 2, 1792.

    Dear Sir,

    I thank you for your information on the two Latin words, and am
    persuaded you are perfectly right: Xenophon might be so too, in
    his solution of the Spartan permission of robbery. As he was
    very sensible, it is no wonder he tried to explain so seemingly
    gross a contradiction, as an allowance of theft, where there
    was a community of property.

    But, to say the truth, I little regard the assertions of
    most ancient authors, especially in their accounts of other
    countries than their own; and even about their own, I do not
    give them implicit credit. They dealt little in the spirit
    of criticism, information was difficult to be obtained, nor
    did they pique themselves on accuracy, but set down whatever
    they heard, without examination. With many of the contrary
    advantages, how little historic truth is to be gleaned even now!

    I wish the report of the delivery of the King and Queen of
    France were not still unauthenticated. One did wish to believe
    it, not only for their sakes, but as some excuse for the
    otherwise inexplicable conduct of the King of Prussia.—He still
    wants a Xenophon; so do the Austrians too, who, with four times
    his numbers, do not make quite so sagacious a retreat.

    ... Vain-glory shall not be one of my last acts. Visions I
    have certainly had, but they have been amply dispelled. I have
    seen a noble seat built by a very wise man, who thought he had
    reason to expect it would remain to his posterity, as long as
    human foundations do in the ordinary course of things; alas!
    Sir, I have lived to be the last of that posterity, and to see
    the glorious collection of pictures, that were the principal
    ornaments of the house, gone to the North Pole, and to have the
    house remaining, half a ruin, on my hands.

    Forgive me, dear Sir, for dwelling so long on this article;
    not too long for my gratitude, which is perfect, but perhaps
    too full on my own sentiments. But how could I do otherwise
    than open my mind to so obliging a friend, from whom I cannot
    conceal weaknesses, to which both my nature and my age have
    made me liable? But they have not numbed my sensibility; and,
    while I do exist, I shall be,

                               Dear Sir,

                         Your most obliged, &c.

                                                                  ⸺.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                      Nov. 17, 1793.

    Dear Sir,

    I have been so much out of order for near four months, that
    quiet is absolutely necessary to me; and I have remained here,
    to avoid every thing that could agitate or disturb me, French
    politics especially, which are so shocking, that I avoid all
    discussion of them as much as possible, and have quite declined
    seeing any of the Emigrés in my neighbourhood, that I may not
    hear details. Some of the most criminal have, indeed, brought
    swift destruction on themselves; and, as they have exceeded all
    former ages in guilt, we may trust they will leave a lesson to
    mankind that will prevent their fury from being imitated. Pray
    excuse my saying more than that I am,

                               Dear Sir,

                         Yours most sincerely,

                                                                  ⸺.

Many letters, of course, passed in the interval; but the next which
presents itself as worthy of attention, is the following:

    Dear Sir,

    You would have heard of me before this time, but I have not
    been well since I came hither, and I am going to London
    to-morrow, for a few days, as I am sorry to say the atmosphere
    of the town agrees better with me than the air of the country;
    at least, I find that change now and then is of use. However,
    I think of coming back on Monday, and if you have half an hour
    to spare before that day, I shall be very glad to see you in
    Berkeley-square.

    I approve extremely of ⸺, and its temper, which will contribute
    to establish its reputation; though I do not doubt but he will
    sometimes be provoked to sting those who would wield daggers,
    if they dared.—Though perhaps ridicule may have more effect
    than nettles.—Teach the people to laugh at incendiaries, and
    they will hiss, and not huzza them. Montesquieu’s brief answer
    to the critics of his Esprit des Loix, and Voltaire’s Short
    Summary of the Nouvelle Eloise, were more felt and tasted
    than regular confutations, and are oftener resumed; for the
    world does not supply readers enough for the daily mass of
    new publications: it must expect to be diverted, I mean at
    times, for it has not quick digestion enough to feed long on
    solid food only. Nay, men who have sense to comprehend sound
    reasoning, are too few and too sedate to trumpet the reputation
    of grave authors; and by pronouncing just and temperate
    judgments, (for such men do not exaggerate,) they excite no
    curiosity in the herd of idle readers. The deepest works that
    have become standards, owe their characters to length of time;
    but periodic publications must make rapid impression, or are
    shoved aside by their own tribe; and to acquire popularity,
    must gain noisy voices to their side. This is not the most
    eligible; but as the object of the ⸺ is to serve his country by
    stemming error, and exposing its apostles, the favour of the
    multitude must be gained, and it is necessary to tickle them
    before they will bite.

                            I am, Dear Sir,

                         Yours most sincerely,

                                                                  ⸺.

Lord ⸺ retained, to the latest period of his life, his vivacity
of conversation and powers of memory. The last anecdote which our
Sexagenarian heard him relate, was his explaining the reason which
induced him to seek for a town residence in Berkeley-square. In the
time of Sir Robert Walpole it was the established etiquette that the
prime minister returned no visits: it may probably be so now. But, on his
leaving office, Sir Robert took the earliest opportunity of visiting his
friends; and one morning he happened to pass, for this purpose, through
Berkeley-square, the whole of which had actually been built whilst he
was minister, and he had never before seen it. He stopped the coachman,
and desired to know where he was.—This incident alone prevailed upon his
son, Horace, to take the first opportunity which offered, of purchasing a
mansion in this place.

One of his amusements in the latter part of his life, was to preserve all
the seals of the numerous letters he received, in a china vase, which was
placed upon his writing-table. Once a week he examined them carefully,
and putting aside such as were remarkable or curious, he destroyed the
rest; and thus, as he observed, he obtained, on easy terms, a curious
collection of antique seals and gems.

His breakfast service was of very beautiful Dresden china, which he never
would permit any of the domestics to touch.—He always washed them, and
put them away himself.

His Lordship was applied to in a very complimentary letter from the late
and last King of Poland, for a set of his Anecdotes of Painting. It was
not till this occasion presented itself, that he had any idea of the
scarcity or value of the books, which he printed at Strawberry Hill.

The only copy he had was interleaved, and full of marginal notes,
additions, and corrections. He would often good humouredly relate the
extreme difficulty he found in procuring a copy of the work, suitable, as
to condition, to the rank of the Royal petitioner for it, as well as the
chagrin he experienced in being obliged to purchase it at the enormous
price of forty guineas.

The only classical work Lord ⸺ printed, was a beautiful edition of Lucan.
The proof sheets were corrected by Cumberland, and considerable pains
were bestowed upon it; nevertheless, though exceedingly scarce, and of
high price, it is in no very great estimation for its accuracy.

His establishment at his villa was not very splendid; nor had his
Lordship a very high character for hospitality. It was facetiously said
by an author, who went to dine at ⸺, on invitation, that he returned
as he went—exceedingly hungry. He had, however, his gala days, when
splendour went hand in hand with plenty. But his servants were on
board-wages; and when alone, his Lordship lived on the very humblest
fare, drinking only water. He was a dreadful martyr to the gout, and the
chalk-stones on his fingers were distressing to see: he held his pen with
difficulty between his first and second finger. On the first symptoms
of the approach of gout, he plunged his feet into cold water—by many
thought a most desperate experiment, but from which he, of course, either
received benefit, or conceived that he did.

He was, in the truest sense of the word, a perfect courtier. He was
consummately insincere; and would compliment and flatter those in
conversation, whom, in his correspondence, he sneered at and abused.
This was, in a more particular manner, the case with some literary
acquaintances, who, when he wanted their aid and information in the
prosecution of any pursuit, were ostensibly very high indeed in his
esteem; but, when he had got all he wanted, were either noticed with
coldness, or made objects of his ridicule and contempt. This was
remarkably the fact with respect to Richard Gough, and Cole of Milton.

He was accustomed to speak of those admirable specimens of satire, the
Baviad and Mæviad, in terms of rapture: his expression was, “it is so
soothing.” At the same time, more than one of the objects of that satire
were among his “dearest friends,” and complimented by him on their poetic
talents.

On the first appearance of Dr. Darwin’s celebrated poem on “The Loves of
the Plants,” he was extravagant in his commendation of it—“we had seen
nothing equal to it since the time of Pope.” His Lordship’s admiration
of it cooled afterwards. He certainly had an elegant taste for poetry;
and his smaller compositions of this kind, are models in their way.
He had no great extent of capacity, and very little learning; but he
was undoubtedly a most entertaining companion, and a very polished and
accomplished gentleman.—So much for H. W.



    Tu procerum de stirpe solus prægressus et ipsos,
      Unde genus claræ nobilitatis erat,
    Ore decens, bonus ingenio, facundus—et omni
      Dexteritate vigens.

CHAPTER XLV.


LORD L⸺.

As the reader has been introduced among the nobility, it may be permitted
to linger with them a little longer, and pay a tribute of respect,
esteem, and gratitude to one nobleman, who was learned himself, and a
real friend and patron of learning in others.—Such was Lord L.

This appears no unsuitable opportunity of making mention of an _Opus
Magnum_, in which the Sexagenarian was very materially concerned, and
which, as well it might, had the countenance of the Nobleman of whom
mention is about to be made, and of every other real friend of the
constitution of his country in church and state.

There was a time in England, and a dire time it was, when the contagion
of the French revolution had so infected our purer atmosphere, that the
disloyal, ill-designing, and more profligate part of the community,
dared to use the language of violence, and of menace, to overawe and
intimidate those whose sentiments they knew to be adverse to their own;
who had the presumption to prophesy, that “church and state prejudices
were coming to a speedy issue in this country;” who had the insolence to
use all their efforts to check and suppress the circulation of what the
honest advocates of truth and order, wrote and published in vindication
of their principles; and even proceeded so far as to hold out threats to
the individuals themselves, whom they affected, with equal absurdity and
impertinence, to denominate “Alarmists.”

A sevenfold shield was wanted, beneath the protection of which, the
insidious and poisonous darts of the assailants might be repelled, and
the weapons of those who fought for the good old cause, might be wielded
with boldness and due effect.

Before this, the channels of communication with the public were
preoccupied by a faction; the pure streams of truth were either
obstructed in their progress, or contaminated in the very source; the
representations exhibited of things as they actually were, by the
faithful pencils of loyalty and true patriotism, were misrepresented,
defaced, defamed, ridiculed, and treated with every mark of ignominy.

This powerful shield was at length produced; it was formed with no
ordinary skill and labour, and proved of no common strength. From this
auspicious moment, matters began to assume a very different aspect.
Religion and loyalty were enabled to defy, and to rise victorious over
infidelity and anarchy. The strong clear voice of truth was heard, and
virtue triumphed.

The subject is seducing; and memory lingers with pride and fondness on
the eventful period. Public gratitude followed the manifestation of
public benefit. The individuals who most distinguished themselves in
the effectual extension of this shield, as well as by the ardour, and
fortitude, and dexterity with which they used the weapons entrusted to
them by their country, were not suffered to go without their reward.
But the most grateful of all distinctions, were the praises of such men
as the venerable Archbishop Moore; the protection, and countenance,
and friendship of a Pitt, of Bishops Barrington, Porteus, Tomline; the
courtesies of a Windham; and the friendship of a Loughborough.

Of political connections, prejudices, and pursuits, it is not here
intended to say any more—to do so, would open far too wide a field; yet
one remark ought to be made with respect to this Noble Lord, that he was
not the less reluctant to serve a man of learning, from the circumstance
of his differing in opinion materially from himself, on certain political
questions of great magnitude. For example, nothing is more notorious than
the warm, strenuous, and active part which Lord Loughborough took against
Mr. Hastings; yet he not only endured, but admitted to his table, and, in
some degree, to his confidence, those who he well knew had been zealous
advocates of that illustrious person—had spoken, written, and, if we may
so say, had fought in his behalf. Other instances might be adduced.

Perhaps he is the only Lord Chancellor, at least of modern times, who
gave preferment to literary men, merely as such, and with no other
introduction or recommendation than the merit of their publications. His
predecessor, Thurlow, had the character of being friendly to literary
men; but there is no example on record of his having acted with similar,
and, if the expression be warranted, with such disinterested liberality,
with the exception, perhaps, of Bishop Horsley alone. He gave, indeed,
to ⸺, the translator of Æschylus, a prebendal stall in the Cathedral
Church of Norwich; but this gentleman had the additional claim of having
been his school-fellow, at the very seminary of which he was afterwards
master, namely, S⸺, in Norfolk. Even on this occasion, he did not act
very graciously.

Mr. P. on receiving notice of the favour intended for him, immediately
came to town, to make personal acknowledgments of his gratitude.
He called several times at Thurlow’s house, but could never obtain
admission; at length, he applied to his friend and neighbour, Sir John,
afterwards Lord Wodehouse, and begged of him to see the Chancellor in the
House of Peers, and ask when he might have the honour of waiting upon his
Lordship, as he had been some days in town, and was anxious to return.
Sir John accordingly did this, when the only answer he received was, “Let
him go home again, I want none of his Norfolk bows.”

The manners of Lord Loughborough, on the contrary, were conciliating and
agreeable, and there was a kindness in his manner of granting a favour,
which greatly enhanced its value. He would often say, when he gave away
preferment, and more particularly to those whose merit was their only
recommendation to him, “Go to my Secretary, and desire him to prepare the
presentation for my Fiat immediately; or I shall have some Duke or great
man make application, whom I shall not be able to refuse.”

He was also particularly desirous of so giving his preferment away, that,
if practicable, the parishioners themselves might be satisfied. More than
once, he has disappointed friends for whom he intended to provide, in
consequence of petitions from parishioners, in favour of some meritorious
curate.

He was remarkably acute in discerning characters, and in appreciating
the justice of the pretensions to literary reputation of those who were
introduced to him. No work of particular eminence appeared, without
his desiring to know the author, if he was not already acquainted with
him; and when in the enjoyment of his exalted office, would often deny
himself to individuals of high rank, and prefer spending the evening in
social conversation with literary friends. He was very fond of theatrical
exhibitions, and more particularly so of Mrs. Siddons; his conversation
on such subjects, at his own table, was particularly lively, and
indicative of a refined taste and sound judgment.

He was very curious also, with respect to all new publications of voyages
and travels; but was much inclined to exercise a scrutinizing jealousy
and suspicion on the subject of their accuracy. He knew Bruce well,
and respected him; but often indulged in a good humoured laughter at
some of the more wonderful parts of his narrative. He discovered much
anxiety and curiosity when Park’s Travels first appeared; but as it
was universally known that Bryan Edwards had a principal share in the
arrangement and composition of that work, he without reserve expressed
some doubts on certain passages.

Our Sexagenarian was once reading to him from Park’s book the following
paragraph:

“My guide, who was a little way before me, wheeled his horse round in a
moment, calling out something in the Foulah language, which I did not
understand. I enquired in Mandingo what be meant.—_Wara billi, billi!_
a very large lion, said he; and made signs for me to ride away. But my
horse was too much fatigued, so we rode slowly past the bush from which
the animal had given us the alarm. Not seeing any thing myself, however,
I thought my guide had been mistaken, when the Foulah suddenly put his
hand to his mouth, exclaiming, _Soubah an allahi!_ God preserve us! and
to my great surprise, I then perceived a large _red lion_ at a short
distance from the bush, with his head couched between his fore-paws.”

On hearing this last part of the sentence, Lord Loughborough laughed
heartily, and exclaimed with good humour, “I suppose it was the _Red Lion
of Brentford_.”

He had once a poor scholar at his table, who, among various things, had
published some which were acceptable to his Lordship. He introduced the
subject of the author’s different works, and, addressing him, observed,
“I liked such a book of yours exceedingly—it did you much credit;
but what could possibly induce you to print ⸺” here he named another
book. The guest bowed, and merely replied, “Res angusta domi.” Lord
Loughborough replied, “I am perfectly satisfied with your answer.”

It has, however, been imputed to Lord Loughborough, that he gave the
literary men whom he distinguished, a mouthful only; and did not, even
with respect to the few for whom he professed the greatest esteem and
regard, make any efforts to raise them to the more elevated honours of
their profession. There may be some truth in this, and more particularly
so, as to one individual, who enjoyed, very deservedly, much of his
society and friendship. Thurlow certainly did not lose sight of Horsley
till he saw him seated upon the Episcopal bench. But at that period, the
public attention was much directed to the controversy between Priestley
and Dr. Horsley: it was well known that Thurlow hated Priestley from
the bottom of his heart; and, indeed, whatever he might be practically
himself, he on all occasions manifested a consistent determination
to support the Established Church. He was familiarly acquainted with
Beaufoy, the Member for Yarmouth, in Norfolk, who was known to be a
strict Dissenter, and the conversation one day turning on the subject of
religion, he said to Beaufoy, “I would support your d⸺d religion, if it
was that of the state.”

Beaufoy ought to have known him better; but having had a Yarmouth
Clergyman very particularly recommended to him by his Norfolk
Constituents, he thought he could not more effectually promote his
clients’ interest, than by introducing him to Thurlow, with whom he
was going to dine. The scheme, however, failed altogether; for after
the first salutations, Thurlow turned to Beaufoy, and asked him why he
brought his d⸺d parson to him.

The contrast between such rude and unfeeling abruptness, and the
courteous and conciliating manners of Lord Loughborough, is particularly
striking. The latter always received the humblest clergyman with
graciousness and affability, and has often been heard to lament that
his situation as Chancellor was very painful to him, from his being
perpetually compelled to refuse petitions which had the strongest claims
on his humanity. He would facetiously observe, that his greater livings
gave him no trouble; their designation was either anticipated, or easily
determined. But for his smaller livings, he had always a multitude of
applications, and seldom or ever one, without “seven or eight small
children at the end of it.”

This tribute of gratitude and sincere attachment, is most willingly
rendered to a man, who, whatever might be his failings in the opinion
of his political adversaries, must have had the unqualified praise of
all, for acuteness, sagacity, and for all the best powers of intellect.
He was also a most polished gentleman; he bore his high honours
without insolence, and without oppressing his inferiors by an affected
condescension, conciliating all who approached him by his affability and
graciousness of manner.



    Asclapone medico, usus sum valde familiariter, ejusque cum
    consuetudo mihi jucunda fuit, tum ars etiam, quam sum expertus
    in valetudine meorum. In qua mihi cum ipsa scientia, tum etiam
    fidelitate, benevolentiaque satisfecit.—Hunc igitur tibi
    commendo. Oh si intelligat diligenter me scripsisse de sese.
    Erit mihi vehementer gratum.

CHAPTER XLVI.


EMINENT PHYSICIANS.

The manuscript of our friend next introduces another class of society;
different indeed from that of the Nobility, but no less estimable, nor at
all less valuable. It may indeed admit of a question, whether, as far as
literary men are interested, the warmest, truest, and kindest friends are
not to be found amongst the professors of medicine. They are enlightened
themselves; they owe their success to talent, cultivated by labour,
and improved by experience. To be accomplished in their art, they must
necessarily be studious, addicted to science, and proficients in the
more elegant arts. They must consequently have a general sympathy with
all who are engaged in scholastic pursuits; and it is manifest that they
have, for there are very few instances in which, when called upon, their
advice is not, when the occasion justifies it, promptly and gratuitously
communicated, and, very often, assistance given of a more extensive and
substantial nature.

Among those who were personally known to our Sexagenary, and who
individually deserve the above tribute of esteem and commendation
bestowed on the profession, were the late Dr. H. Dr. W. P. Drs. M.
(father and son), Sir G. B. Dr. W. Dr. D. P. Dr. B. Dr. A. J. H. A. C.
Sir E. H. and a long list of names besides, who were, and perhaps are, an
ornament to the profession, and a common benefit to society.

The benevolence of Dr. H. was proverbial, long before his death; so was
that of Dr. W. P. and of many others. Sir G. B. was the warm and zealous
patron of Porson; and it probably was not his fault, that he did not
through life, continue his friendly countenance. Some of these worthies
deserve more particular and circumstantial notice, and they shall have
it. To begin with


THE P⸺S.

This ancient and truly amiable family were long resident in the county of
Fife. D. P. the brother of Dr. W. P. and father of Dr. D. was a Minister
of the Church of Scotland, and for more than fifty years presided over
the Church of Dysart, where he was a most exemplary parish priest, and
universally beloved, for he was indeed the father of his flock.

His original destination was the profession of medicine, and he had
visited foreign countries with such intention; but he afterwards went
into the church, and officiated among his parishioners both as pastor and
physician. He was a man of extraordinary abilities, possessed much wit
and humour, and was indeed remarkable for the variety of his talents. He
had a very fine person, and the most agreeable and amiable manners.

One of his brothers went into the army. Poor Major P.! he lost his life
at the age of fifty-two, at the unfortunate battle of Bunker’s Hill,
where he commanded the corps of marines. When he fell, every man of those
whom he commanded cried out, “We have lost our father!” He was carried
off the field on the shoulders of his son.

His next brother, Dr. W. P. was, as is well known, very high in the
profession of physic. Perhaps it may be asserted without fear of dispute
or contradiction, that a more excellent and benevolent character never
existed. On the melancholy death of his brother, the Major, he instantly
became the father of his children: _notus in fratrem animi paterni_.—He
was, in every respect, their protector, their guardian, and their friend.

The fate of the Major’s family was somewhat singular. Mrs. P. the mother
of Dr. David P. lived to a very advanced age, and survived five sons. Of
these, four reached manhood, and all obtained credit in their several
professions.

One of them was in the navy, and Lieutenant of the Aurora frigate,
which was lost in her passage to the East Indies, having on board many
distinguished personages, and among them the Judges, Mr. Vansittart, Mr.
Scroften, &c. Two more were in the army, both of whom certainly died in
consequence of fatigues and hardships suffered in America.

Of Dr. D. P. a great deal more is to be said.

D. P. was the eldest son of Major P. and was brought up in the High
School, at Edinburgh, whither his mother removed after the death of her
husband. He there got great credit; and Mr. French, the master under
whose instruction he went through the first four classes, ever retained
the sincerest attachment to him. When he left school, he removed to the
University of Glasgow, where he continued for a number of years. From
Glasgow he again revisited Edinburgh, where, for some time, he attended
lectures. From Edinburgh he proceeded to Cambridge, and was a member
of Benet College. On taking his degree, he went to London, and became
an inmate in the house of his uncle, Dr. W. P. After the death of his
protector, he progressively rose to the eminence and fortune which his
abilities deserved, and which, from a very early period, they promised.
Unfortunately, and at the very period when his practice was almost as
extensive as it well could be, he ruptured a blood vessel in the lungs,
and, for the benefit of a milder climate, proceeded to Lisbon. Here he
continued for two years, but, though he returned convalescent, he deemed
it expedient and necessary to circumscribe his practice, and, indeed,
almost altogether to limit it to the families of his older friends and
connections, which alone were sufficiently numerous. The reputation,
however, which he universally obtained for sagacity and sound judgment,
compelled him, in a manner, gradually to extend his circle, when, alas!
his career was lamentably shortened. He was constitutionally subject to
sore throat, and generally slept with leeches by his side, to be ready
to apply in case of any unfavourable symptoms. But, at a moment when his
friends and he himself thought his health effectually restored, and he
was again rising fast to the very head of his profession, he complained
of a soreness in his throat. He thought very slightly of it at first,
but, though attended by Dr. Baillie and Sir Everard Home, both of whom
were attached to him by the strongest possible ties of esteem and
friendship, in three days he was a corpse.

There seems to have been some misapprehension of his case; and perhaps
his own suggestion on the subject of his malady, written by himself with
a pencil, when he was unable to speak, might not receive the attention
it deserved. Be this as it may, nothing could exceed the grief of those
who attended him, at the loss of one who, for a long series of years, had
been their counsellor, their companion, and their friend.

What opinion his medical friends entertained of his professional skill,
may best be seen by the tribute of esteem and respect paid to his memory
by Dr. William Heberden, in one of the best Harveian orations ever
delivered at the College.

In one year the world was deprived of the skill and sagacity of Dr. John
Hunter and Dr. David Pitcairn, which Dr. Heberden thus emphatically
deplores:

“Quibus autem lamentis, quo luctu Te Huntere, et te Pitcairne
prosequemur? quos vigentes adhuc mors occupavit, atque ambos unus annus
nobis eripuit? Cognitione, prudentia, moderatione animi prope æquales
fuerunt. Fama quoque utrique par, sed alia alii. Alter militiæ, domi
alter clarus factus est.

“Quod si Hunterus in castris et infamibus Indiæ Occidentalis locis, magna
medendi diligentia celebritatem consecutus sit, non minus Pitcairnus
de patria bene meritus est, qui Valetudinario Sancti Bartolomæi plures
annos singulari laude præfuit: in quo pauperes pene innumerabiles cura
sublevavit, multosque discipulos præceptis ex re natis, ad medicinam
faciendam optimè instituit. Nam fuit in illo gravitas et autoritas quanta
magistrum decet, simul gratia et probitas quibus discentium animos mire
ad se allexit.

“Postea relictis publicis muneribus cum ad privata totum se converterat,
inter summi ordinis ægros occupatissimus vixit, donec adversa valetudo
ut sibi caveret, monuisset. Tum sine mora Ulyssiponem se subduxit, ubi
otium perinde ac salutem reciperet. Inde ut rediit, paucos modo curare
constituit, neque ut antea, mediis negotiorum fluctibus se implicari
sivit. Medicinam tamen adhuc exercebat, crescente etiam ætate vegetior
factus, cum hominem temperantem, summum medicum, tantus improviso morbus
oppresserit, ut præclusis inflammatione et tumore faucibus, vix diem
unum atque alterum superesset Lugeamus amici sortem humanam! lugeamus
socios amissos! vel potius eorum sic meminerimus ut quotiescumque de
clarissimis et beatissimis viris cogitemus, nosmetipsos ad virtutem
accendere, et ad omnem fortunam paratiores præstare videamur.”

There could not possibly be given a more accurate, or more faithful
portraiture of the man, than is exhibited in the above truly classical
extract: of his professional knowledge, skill, and sagacity, it cannot,
therefore, be necessary to add a syllable.

But be it permitted to one of those who knew him in the recesses of
private life, with no ordinary intimacy, for almost forty years, to add
yet a few sentences more. If he had not been precisely the character he
was, he would not have resembled those from whom he descended. He was of
the same family as the celebrated Dr. Archibald Pitcairn, the wit, the
scholar, and the poet. Perhaps he never wrote any thing with the view of
publication; but he very easily might, for his knowledge was extensive,
his discernment acute, his judgment profound. He employed every leisure
hour in reading, and was more particularly fond of voyages and travels.
He was familiarly acquainted with the modern languages, but these, with
numerous other endowments, entitled him merely to respect and esteem; but
all who knew him intimately, and enjoyed the benefit and happiness of his
friendship, loved him with no common affection. More particularly did he
merit the application of the motto applied to the picture of his uncle,
Dr. William Pitcairn; for a more generous, affectionate, kind-hearted
brother never existed: truly might he be said to be “notus in fratres
et sorores animi paterni.” He was occasionally warm in his temper; but
in domestic society, gentle, amiable, facetious, and very much enjoying
conversations in which wit, humour, and vivacity predominated.

In the most disinterested manner, and with the greatest promptitude,
he attended his more intimate friends, their children, and children’s
children.

Nor was he always contented with thus benevolently giving them his
valuable time; in matters of particular urgency and exigence, his purse
was equally at their service. Indeed, his generosity and kindness to
those whom he knew, or thought, to be in need of his assistance, rendered
his fortune far less considerable, than his very extensive and successful
practice, might be presumed to have accumulated.

Farewell, Pitcairn! May the turf lie lightly on your ashes. This tribute
is not paid without great mental emotion in the writer, arising from the
combined feelings of sorrow, affection, esteem and gratitude.

    Και τουτο γουν σοι προσφερω πανυστατως
    Ηδη προσεγγισασ’ αθταις ᾳδου πυλαις.



    O Demea isthuc est sapere, non quod ante pedes modo est videre,
    sed etiam illa quæ futura sunt, prospicere.

CHAPTER XLVII.


The transition seems easy, and, indeed, in a manner natural, from Dr.
David P⸺ to


DR. B⸺E.

Both of them rose to the very height of their profession, by the exercise
of similar talents, and distinguished by similar endowments. It might,
indeed, be said of them, that they were “pene gemelli, neque in ulla re
valde dissimiles.” Both were remarkable for a strenuous diligence in
accomplishing themselves in their profession; both were eminently gifted
with strong sense, sound judgment, acute discrimination, and patient
investigation.—They were, moreover, intimate from very early life, Dr.
David P⸺ being accustomed to spend much of his time, when very young,
with the Rev. J. B. father of Dr. M. B. who was Minister of Bothwell,
in the county of Lanark; he was afterwards Professor of Divinity in
the University of Glasgow. Dr. M. B.’s mother was the sister of Dr. W.
H. the Physician, who founded the Museum well known by his name; the
unfortunate removal of which from the metropolis of England to Glasgow,
furnishes incessant matter of regret to students of every denomination.
This untoward circumstance is said principally to have been occasioned
by the inadvertence or neglect of Lord North, when Prime Minister—a very
culpable neglect, surely. It is affirmed, and generally believed, for
it remains uncontradicted, that Dr. William Hunter would have presented
this most rich, extensive, and valuable collection of manuscripts, books,
coins, medals, subjects of natural history, anatomical preparations, &c.
&c. to this nation, if the Minister would have given him, in any part of
London, a space of ground large enough for the erection of a Museum to be
called after his name. This was either neglected, forgotten, or refused.
The consequence was, that Dr. H. after directing it to be preserved for
the period of thirty years in its original situation, bequeathed it
finally to the University of Glasgow, whither it has, long since, been
removed, and where it may be said, without any disparagement of those
who possess it, that its use is more circumscribed, and, of consequence,
its value less extensive and important.

The management and superintendence of this Museum and its contents,
for the period limited in the will, was assigned by Dr. Hunter to his
nephew, Dr. Baillie, to Dr. David Pitcairn, and Dr. Combe, who were
in common, and, as it were, with one feeling, most kind and liberal
in the accommodation they afforded to literary men; and sometimes,
more particularly on a Sunday, might be seen assembled at the Museum,
foreigners of distinction, eminent also for their learning, with some of
the most illustrious philosophers and scholars of our own country.

Here Dr. B. resided, remarkable for his affability to all strangers who
were introduced to him, and, as ever afterwards, conspicuously eminent
for sound, good sense, and extensive information.

It is believed, that previously to his coming to England, he received his
first rudiments of education at the High School of Edinburgh; so that
every circumstance and period of their lives had a natural tendency to
confirm and cement the intimacy between him and Dr. David Pitcairn.

Dr. B⸺ afterwards became a member of Baliol College, Oxford. And here
let us indulge a good-humoured smile of wonder, in which the Doctor
himself would hardly disdain to join; that, notwithstanding his early
introduction into this country, his familiar and continual intercourse
with the most polished and enlightened Englishmen, he ever and strongly
retained the dialect of his native land.

Connected with Dr. Hunter’s Museum, in Great Windmill-street, was a
Theatre of Anatomy, where Dr. ⸺ gave lectures, which were the delight
and admiration of all who attended them. Perhaps this truly eminent
and amiable man would not be offended at the suggestion, that the
declension of his friend P⸺’s health, and his unavoidable removal to
Portugal, laid the first foundation of his fame, and opened the path
to that extraordinary eminence which he has since attained. One thing
is very certain, that at the period when P⸺’s reputation was at the
highest, and his practice almost without limit, Dr. B⸺ was rather known
and esteemed as a skilful anatomist, than consulted as a physician. P⸺,
however, who well knew and properly estimated his value, always and
strongly recommended him, when circumstances prevented his own personal
attendance; and still more particularly, when he left his practice and
country, for change of atmosphere at Lisbon.

With his subsequent situation all are acquainted; and, if he lives[4],
may he long enjoy the successful eminence which his merit has
attained. In one thing he strictly followed the steps of his friend
and predecessor; notwithstanding his very extensive and most lucrative
practice, he was as prompt as when his business was circumscribed in a
small and narrow circle, to attend to the necessities and sufferings of
his friends. He also appropriated some portion of his valuable time to
the distresses of the poor. Though his fatigue was incessant, and more
particularly so, since the ever to be lamented indisposition of the
Sovereign; and though, as he said of himself facetiously, “I lead the
life of a dog,” he is very abstemious, and never exceeds his pint of
claret.

If the writer were to indulge the strong propensities of his mind with
regard to this eminent personage, many pages might easily be filled.

Those, indeed, were halcyon days, before the Doctor “led the life of a
dog,” and when he condescended to share the frugal and humble repasts of
an obscure author, which however, he enlivened by his good humour, and
enriched by his abundant information upon all subjects.

The subject of this article, if he ever should peruse it, is
affectionately entreated to forgive a little, but very pardonable
instance of nationality, of a nature very general indeed, and therefore
implying no individual infirmity.

It had been remarked in the vivacity of conversation, that the Scotch
were so jealous of literary superiority, that they would not allow it
in any branch of science to an Englishman; and that if a proficient in
chemistry, natural philosophy, mathematics, Greek, or Latin were named,
being a native of any other country than Scotland, if a Scotchman were
present, he would immediately name one of his own countrymen as his
superior. This was discussed with a good deal of pleasantry on all sides,
when, after the introduction of other matters, the subject of Greek
was started by one of the company; upon which, a friend of Professor
Porson observed, that he believed it to be universally acknowledged that
Porson was, without competition, the first Greek scholar in Europe. Our
excellent friend would by no means acknowledge this, but affirmed that
Mr. Professor ⸺, of Glasgow, was fully qualified to dispute the palm with
Porson.—The consequence of the remark was, a general and good-humoured
laugh at the Doctor’s nationality.

There can be no harm in saying a word or two of E. H. perhaps the most
sagacious and most skilful, certainly the most philosophical, of our
surgeons.

He was the son of a Mr. H. who was a surgeon in the army. His mother’s
name was H⸺n; he was educated at Westminster School, and on leaving
it, went to reside with his brother-in-law, the celebrated J. H.; from
him he derived not only his surgical knowledge, but his ardour for
original investigation. But he resided for some time in the family of Sir
Archibald Campbell, in the West Indies, to which region he went, as an
army surgeon. His success in his profession has been deservedly as great
as could have been imagined by others, or expected by himself.—Honour and
affluence have crowned his diligence.

He married a very amiable widow, by whom he had several children.

He has a roughness of manner externally, which is forbidding, and has
offended many, but beneath, he has a heart alive to the warmest feelings
of friendship; and there are a great many who have known him from his
boyish days, who continue most sincerely and affectionately attached to
him.

In his professional character he has been invariably kind and liberal,
frequently having put himself to great inconvenience, and certain loss of
the fair advantages of his situation, to sooth the sufferings of friends,
and whole families of friends, by the interposition of his sagacity and
skill.

If every medical personage were specifically introduced, who was
familiarly known to the writer, and respected by him, either for their
literary distinction, professional merit, or social qualities, the
catalogue would be very long indeed, and the work extended to an undue
length. The list would contain, besides the names already mentioned,
a great many others;—of the late most ingenious John Hunter, Sir
William John Fordyce, Sir Lucas Pepys, Dr. Reynolds, Dr. Creighton, who
afterwards went to Russia, Dr. Pelham Warren, Drs. Monro, father and son,
Dr. Bland, Dr. Taylor, of Reading, Dr. Cruickshanks, &c. &c.

Private friendship pauses awhile, to pay a well deserved tribute to Dr.
A⸺e.

He was educated either in Cumberland or Westmorland, from whence
he removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he so eminently
distinguished himself, that he was the senior wrangler of his year.

Talents and judgment like his could not fail of succeeding in the
metropolis; and accordingly, it appears that when our Sexagenarian left
it, he was progressively ascending to the very height of his profession,
and it could not be easy to determine whether he was more entitled to
esteem for his professional, or to affection for his amiable and social
qualities. There is no situation which Dr. A. would not have improved
and adorned, his knowledge being so various, his information and his
judgment so profound. But he was peculiarly qualified for that in which
he became deservedly eminent. He discriminated the peculiarity of a case
with extraordinary promptitude, and he acted with corresponding decision.
Human sagacity is liable to error, the most perfect of human wisdom is
oftentimes deceived and misled. This was seldom the case with him of whom
we are speaking, nor is there a single memorable instance on record,
marked by the failure of his comprehension, in the injury sustained by
his misapprehension of the case which required his deliberation. Be this
as it may, his assiduous attention, his kindness, his sympathy, when
private friendship called for his interposition, demands a more extended
panegyric than it is compatible with the object of this work to bestow.



    Sur ce vaste sujet si j’allois tout tracer
    Tu verrois sous ma main des tomes s’amasser.

CHAPTER XLVIII.


It will somewhat and perhaps not disagreeably diversify the narrative,
if we here insert a section from the manuscript, composed evidently with
some pains, but wholly detached from every thing else. This is a brief
account of females, distinguished by their love of, or proficiency in,
literature, to whom, in a protracted series of years, our Sexagenarian
was introduced.

                       (_Loquitur amicus noster._)

To such ladies the appellation of “Blue Stocking” has been frequently and
contemptuously, though impertinently applied. Among these personages,
many were or are ornaments to society, patterns to the rising generation
as christians, parents, and friends, endowed with the most amiable
virtues and excellent accomplishments. The first, indeed, of whom
mention will be made, may not, perhaps, deserve a place in the above
distinguished and meritorious class, but she was a most extraordinary
character, and excited, from the eccentricities of her conduct and
manners, much curiosity and attention from her contemporaries. This
person was—


MRS. H⸺.

She was the sister of John Wilkes, of famous memory, had a large portion
of his intellectual endowments, and was very little his inferior in
vivacity, humour, and wit. She was married first to an opulent merchant,
who was succeeded in his business by his head clerk, Mr. Hayley, whose
fortunes were made by his obtaining the hand of the widow. He was
afterwards Alderman Hayley, and was a near relation of Hayley, the poet.
He was a plain, sensible, good sort of man, wholly absorbed in commercial
pursuits, and soon found it expedient, for the sake of a quiet life, to
suffer his _cara sposa_ to do as she liked. She was exceedingly well
informed, had read a great deal, possessed a fine taste, and, with
respect to literary merit, considerable judgment. She accordingly sought,
with much avidity, the society of those who were distinguished in the
world by their talents and their writings. When the expression of _those_
is used, it must be understood to apply to men only, for on all occasions
she was at no pains to conceal her contemptuous opinion of her own sex;
and it was no uncommon thing to see her at table, surrounded with ten or
twelve eminent men, without a single female.

She had great conversation talents, and unfortunately, like her brother,
she seldom permitted any ideas of religion, or even of delicacy, to
impose a restraint upon her observations.

Her disregard of propriety was also and conspicuously manifested on
other occasions. She invariably attended all the more remarkable trials
at the Old Bailey, where she regularly had a certain place reserved for
her. When the discussion or trial was of such a nature, that decorum,
and indeed the Judges themselves, desired women to withdraw, she never
stirred from her place, but persisted in remaining to hear the whole,
with the most unmoved and unblushing earnestness of attention.

She every summer made an excursion to such parts of the kingdom as she
had not before visited, and was always accompanied by a single male
friend, who for a great number of years was an American gentleman,
connected with the house of Hayley by the ties of mercantile interests.
Upon one occasion, she visited the Highlands with this gentleman, and
though accustomed to a very luxurious style of living, she submitted
to the greatest privations and hardships in the indulgence of her
curiosity. This indeed was unbounded; it extended to the manufactories,
manners, high and low, and worse than low, in whatever place she visited.
Her professed object was to see every body, and every thing, which
deserved or excited attention.

The season in which she visited the Highlands proved moreover to be very
wet and tempestuous, and the character of her mind cannot perhaps be more
accurately delineated, than by an extract of a letter which she wrote to
her brother, John Wilkes, from Scotland. It began—

    “Dear Brother,

    “The rain has been and still is so incessant, that I have
    serious intentions of constructing another ark, into which,
    however, I shall be exceedingly scrupulous whom I admit. As I
    know your particular taste, I shall have a cabin for your use,
    fitted up and adorned with _scripture and other prints_. But I
    will on no consideration whatever suffer any unclean animals
    to enter; for example, nothing shall prevail upon me to admit
    either Scotch men or Scotch women,” &c. &c.

The whole of the epistle was of the same strain and character, full of
wit, humour, and ingenious (however unjust) raillery.

She had a house after her husband’s death, and perhaps before, at
Bromley; the measured distance of which from her town residence in Great
Alifte-street, Goodman’s-fields, was precisely ten miles. She had four
beautiful black horses, and on entering her carriage, she never failed
to take her watch in her hand, and her coachman was sure to have a sorry
bout of it, if he exceeded the space of an hour either going or coming.
She had also a strong predilection for the drama, had a box at each of
the theatres, and generally went from one house to another. She was most
particularly fond of Shakspeare, and never failed to be present when any
of his plays were represented. She allowed her coachman but half an hour
to drive from Goodman’s-fields to either theatre. Her remarks on the
performances and performers were ingenious, lively, pertinent, and just,
and very much contributed to the information and amusement of her company.

She was particularly nice in her carriage, which was always built
in the highest and most expensive style of fashion, and kept with
particular neatness. She had one day a rich citizen with her in one of
these excursions to or from Bromley, who, from want of observation or
attention, did not perceive that the glass near which he sate was drawn
up, and he was so thoughtless as to spit upon it. She indulged in much
laughter, and remarked, that her coachman could not possibly have had a
greater compliment paid to his care of the glasses.

She had a daughter, who did not appear to be exempted, by her
relationship, from the general, indeed the universal dislike, or rather
contempt, which she avowed for all her sex.

They were on the very worst terms possible; and so reluctant was she, on
her daughter’s marriage, to perform the stipulations required by old H.’s
will, that the most harsh and rigorous proceedings were found unavoidably
necessary, and she was arrested on a Saturday night on coming from the
play, when she had thousands at her command, and detained, with her male
friend, who always accompanied her, in a spunging-house, till the Monday
morning.

In the end she served this same gentleman a most slippery trick. He
was a native of Nantucket, and as Mr. H.’s commercial connections were
principally in America, he was one of their most intimate and valuable
correspondents. On coming to England, he took up his residence in H.’s
house, and on his death, undertook the conduct of the great and extensive
concern for the widow. He was her most intimate counsellor, confidant,
and friend, embarked his fortunes with her’s, attended her every where,
and on every occasion, and was in all respects the master of her house,
and director of her family. At the conclusion of the American war, it
was found expedient that some confidential person should go over to
America, to see after the property still remaining in that country, and
which was not much less in value than a hundred thousand pounds. Mr.
R⸺ offered himself for the purpose. The lady’s attachment to him was
so strong, that she determined not to part with him, and resolved to
accompany him. Before they embarked, it was determined, on consultation,
that they should be married, and the Archbishop’s license was accordingly
obtained. From some cause or other, the solemnization was deferred, and
they mutually covenanted that it should take place on their arrival in
America. They accordingly set sail lovingly together. When they got
to America, they were much noticed, and feasted, and were hospitably
received, even by General Washington himself, and the most considerable
persons of the country. Still the marriage was not solemnized. Almost
the first letters which came out from England, brought the unwelcome
information that the presence of Mrs. H. or her agent and representative,
was indispensably necessary, to secure the property which was left
behind, no less considerable than that after which they went in search.
The gentleman of whom we are speaking, voluntarily undertook this mission
also; and leaving his friend and mistress, with the promise, and indeed
determination, to return immediately, and perform his contract, he
appointed a young mercantile man to transact his business in his absence,
and departed for England.

But mark the waywardness and inconstancy of some females: he had hardly
set foot on British land, when a packet arrived from a correspondent
in America, with the information, that the lady had found solitude in
that distant part of the globe so irksome, and indeed so intolerable,
that in one short week after his departure, she had united herself in
indissoluble bonds with the young man whom he had left as his mercantile
representative. There were no writings, settlements, or contracts, but
one simple deed, stating that the longest liver should take all the
property.

Before the narrative of Mrs. H. is resumed, the sequel of the fortunes of
this disappointed gentleman, as far as they are known, shall be added.
His grief was probably neither very acute, nor very permanent; indeed
he was already beginning to feel his situation to be a sort of unmanly
thaldrom: and there can be very little doubt, that if he had been either
pressing or importunate, he might _mutatis mutandis_ have been the happy
bridegroom in America, rather than the forsaken lover in England. But
he was a man with a great spirit of enterprize, had seen much of the
world, and was anxious to see more. He had also some very lofty schemes
of mercantile aggrandisement, particularly with respect to the South Sea
Whale Fishery. He was an exceedingly ingenious mechanic, and had invented
a machine for the more certain destruction of whales, which had the
approbation of some of our most accomplished mechanics. With this view,
not meeting in this country, or from our government, the encouragement he
wanted, and the assistance which he asked, he removed to France.

The French Revolution had commenced, and he received from the Ruling
Powers the most munificent promises, and so much immediate and
effectual assistance, that by their aid and countenance he formed
one establishment, upon a very large scale, at Dunkirk, and another
at l’Orient. Here, for some years, he prosecuted his plans with such
success, that he had the fairest prospect of acquiring the greatest
opulence. Unfortunately, one of his partners at l’Orient, laboured
under the suspicion of being an aristocrat, in the atrocious times of
Robespierre. Suspicion was but another term with this sanguinary crew,
for guilt, and the guillotine was (to use their abominable jargon) in
constant requisition. This most worthy and excellent man, with little,
perhaps with no form of trial, was put to death, and his friend and
patron, the American, escaped with life only. All the property was
seized, plundered, or confiscated, and the whole establishment fell to
the ground. Whether he yet survives, or if he does, in what situation he
remains, was unknown when this was written. M. R. had great talents, many
amiable qualities, and, in those respects, deserved a far better fate.

Now to return to Mrs. Hayley. The hours of rapture, even with younger
subjects, (votaries at the Hymeneal shrine) do not always extend beyond
the honeymoon. When a female, approaching to seventy, leads to the altar
a bridegroom who has not seen thirty, these hours of Elysium seldom
continue quite so long. In a very short interval, a separation was
mutually thought expedient. The lady, as before observed, had confided
everything to the generosity of her husband, and, with such an allowance
as he thought proper to make her, she took a very early opportunity of
re-crossing the Atlantic; and after a short residence in London, fixed
herself at Bath, where she passed

    “An old age of cards.”



    Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends
    To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
    And hope that reaps not shame.

CHAPTER XLIX.


MRS. C⸺.

Perfectly contrasted to the preceding personage, in mind, temper, and
manners, and gifted with talents of a better kind, was the individual to
whom a tribute of respect is now about to be paid.

Mrs. C. was distinguished by every domestic and every amiable virtue; and
though her situation in life exempted her from the drudgery of minutely
attending to every particular circumstance of a very large family, yet
she paid the strictest attention to the education of her children, and,
at the same time, found opportunity to cultivate and extend her taste for
literature.

Her maiden name was B. and, as is believed, of an ancient and most
respectable Suffolk family. She married early in life, Dr. C. a
clergyman of whom mention has before been made, as a man of considerable
learning and abilities, of good fortune, as well as preferment. In the
latter part of his life, by some negotiation with the Dean and Chapter
of N. he exchanged his living of B. near Norwich, for that of G. Y. In
this place, he spent with Mrs. C. who survived her husband, the remainder
of an honourable, useful, and amiable life; both of them distinguished
by their great benevolence and hospitality, both of them conspicuous for
their love of literature, and their kindness to literary men. All have
their failings, but bating that our friend, the Doctor, was somewhat
disputative in conversation, and rather too prone to entangle himself
and his auditors in the labyrinths of metaphysical perplexities (for
ne’er could he escape that Stygian gloom, which he still was apt to make
darker by the intermixture of theological subtleties) he was ever mild,
conciliatory, and friendly.

Mrs. C. was the authoress of two novels, one of which was most
successfully published in her lifetime, under the title of the “Exemplary
Mother;” the name given to the other was, “The Wife, or Caroline
Herbert;” which was printed not long since under the sanction of one of
her surviving sons.

Both of these publications have merit far beyond the ordinary run
of novels. The first is in a more particular manner entitled to
commendation. It passed through various editions, and was long a great
favourite with the public. The latter also exhibits an excellent model
for the conduct of a wife, placed under circumstances which too, far too
frequently, occur in the present condition of society.

Mr. A. C. who is so great an ornament to the medical profession, was the
eldest son of this excellent lady. Of him, it must be said in truth and
justice, that, independent of his great sagacity, judgment, and skill, he
is characterized by all the amiable qualities of his mother. Kind to his
friends, compassionate to the poor, an example of benevolence to all.


MRS. M⸺.

Concerning Mrs. M. the writer does not appear to have been qualified to
say a great deal from personal knowledge. It is the less necessary, as
her character, accomplishments, and manners, have been a fertile theme
with a great many modern writers.

In conversation she was lively, communicative, and exceedingly agreeable.
She possessed the highest polish of good breeding, as well indeed she
might, and it was no unpleasant circumstance in the parties which both
frequented, to listen to the sprightly dialogue concerning times which
were gone by, between Horace Walpole and herself. Mrs. M. retained the
dress of the old school, which afforded a whimsical contrast to the
more modern habiliments of those females, by whom she was constantly
surrounded.

Every thing about Mrs. E. C. tended to inspire reverence and esteem.

She possessed dignity without pride, simplicity without affectation,
learning without pedantry, good breeding without any of its tinsel
ornaments. She received the homage, which by common consent was on all
occasions paid her, with ease and gracefulness; and she communicated what
she knew (and she knew a great deal indeed) with affability and good
humour, explained what was difficult with readiness, and never discovered
any impatience of contradiction.

Mrs. C. received unfeigned tributes of admiration from a great many
of the most illustrious characters of her country, but none paid her
more particular attention than the late honoured and revered Bishop
Porteus. He was an excellent judge of mental endowments, both natural
and acquired; and it was the esteem which both combined to conciliate,
that rendered her society so grateful at London-House and at Fulham. She
was always employed on some subject or object of benevolence, and though
her own means of beneficence were circumscribed, her recommendation and
introduction to the great and powerful had no inconsiderable influence,
and from a long catalogue of meritorious names, might Mrs. C. reasonably
expect (as indeed she received) the warmest acknowledgments of gratitude.

But of this illustrious lady it would perhaps be superfluous to say
more. Her literary life and private character have been communicated to
the public by one eminently qualified to form a due estimate of their
value. But the object, at least one object of these Memoirs, is to bring
to recollection the distinguished personages of both sexes, to whom a
personal introduction was obtained, from no other claims or pretensions
than an ardent love and pursuit of learning. The honour of a not
unfrequent meeting with this lady, was too flattering and too gratifying
to be passed over unnoticed and unacknowledged.



    Differ opus livida turba tuum.

CHAPTER L.


With respect to the individual next introduced, the writer appears to
have been conscious how much delicacy was required, and seems to have
distrusted his own ability in the management of his subject.

He commences thus:—As the comet is invariably accompanied by its blazing
appendix, so are malignant envy and the bitterest enmity, everlastingly
found in attendance upon eminent virtue and splendid talents.

To contemplate these four qualities, virtue and talent, enmity and envy,
in their fullest force and energy, it is only necessary to take a view of
the life and character of H⸺ M⸺.

If the esteem and friendship of the wise and good, limited to no
gradation of rank or pre-eminence, denote virtue, piety, and those
more amiable endowments which improve and adorn society, then may the
friends of this excellent female, boldly claim for her every honourable
appellation. At the same time, it must be reluctantly acknowledged, that
envy has been busily employed in ascribing to her, various failings and
imperfections, much at variance with the lofty pretensions asserted in
her behalf. Truth, however, unsupported but by itself, its own firmness,
and its own excellence, boldly defies surmise, insinuation, and falsehood.

With respect to intellectual distinction and superiority, there can be no
occasion for discussion. The catalogue of H. M.’s works speaks a language
which all comprehend, and whose beauties and excellence all without
hesitation, acknowledge. She exhibited claims to popular admiration
and applause at a very early period of life, nor has she written or
published any thing which had not the cause of religion, morality, and
virtue, as its immediate and avowed object. To enumerate them all, with
a concise estimate of the value of each and of the whole, would be a
pleasing occupation, but would unavoidably extend this narrative beyond
the proposed limits[5]. The last of her labours may perhaps be pronounced
the most extensively important, and the most generally useful. By much
practice, she has obtained a style which classes her very high amongst
our best writers of English prose. It is strong without being pedantic,
forcible yet exceedingly perspicuous, elegant but not too elaborate.

Is it not to be seriously lamented, that an individual, so endowed, so
confessedly entitled to the applauses of her countrymen, so constantly
exercised for their benefit, and so perpetually engaged in the most
amiable and useful occupations of social life, should have had active
and zealous adversaries, who have disputed the sincerity of her piety,
and maliciously and injuriously impugned the accuracy of her conduct?
What was termed the Blagden Controversy, can hardly be forgotten; but
notwithstanding the tricks and artifices which were made use of, it
terminated most highly to her honour.

Among other stratagems, the following is not the least curious. One of
her great adversaries published a pamphlet against her, to which he gave
the title of “H. M.’s Controversy on Sunday Schools,” which drew in many
to buy and to read it, thinking it to be written by her. The book was
printed for Jordan, who was the publisher of the notorious Tom Paine’s
works, and at the end were stitched advertisements of all the well-known
Jacobinical publications.

H. M. has moreover been accused of fanaticism and jacobinism, of
disaffection to church and state. Now it must be acknowledged to be a
little hard, that an individual should be accused of failing in those
very points and objects, which it has been the study of a laborious and
protracted life, to vindicate and promote.

How unjust and unfounded these imputations are, any one may be easily and
effectually convinced, who will be at the pains to examine the edition
of H. M.’s works, published in eight volumes, in 1801. Let him but pay
attention to the story of Fantom, in the beginning of the fourth volume,
or to the first chapter of the Fashionable World, vol. 6, with the answer
to Dupont, in this same volume, and he will require no other evidence
or argument, to convince him of the absurdity and falsehood of such
imputations.

Further than this, to impress on the lower classes of people a reverence
for the clergy, this excellent writer has laboured with no ordinary
sedulousness. This must be obvious from the Fictitious Tales in the 4th
and 5th volumes of the edition above-mentioned, where a parish minister
is almost constantly introduced as an example of every virtue. It may be
expedient also to refer to “Village Politics,” at the end of the first
volume.

But this discussion apparently leads to the path which it was determined
to avoid. It may therefore be sufficient to terminate this article, by
the memorandum of our friend, expressed to this effect in the margin of
the manuscript, that he reckoned (he observes) among the most agreeable
circumstances of his life, his personal introduction to H. M. He was
pleased with the unaffected simplicity of her manners, the spirit of her
conversation, which, though instructive, was modest and unobtrusive.
He had also the occasional honour of her correspondence, and he felt
justified in speaking in the highest terms of her knowledge, sagacity,
and judgment.

It ought, however, to be observed, that, during all the virulent attacks
made upon her, in the above-mentioned controversy, H. M. preserved a
dignified and inviolable silence; never suffering herself to be provoked
into contention with those, who so ardently desired to involve her in
it. By this prudence, no less than by her real innocence, she finally
obtained the victory.



    Non ego illam mihi dotem duco esse quæ dos dicitur
    Sed pudicitiam, et pudorem et sedatum Cupidinem.

CHAPTER LI.


The next individual to whom our reader is to be introduced, is a
personage of very congenial feelings, and of similar merits with her who
preceded, though possibly somewhat inferior in ability. But the love
of justice scorns to make invidious discriminations, where the general
claims to approbation are alike, and universally acknowledged; where they
are founded on the noblest and most generous private virtues, continually
exercised for the good of the community. Here let it be remembered, (as
indeed it has before been remarked) that regular and circumstantial
biographical sketches are not to be expected. Had the Sexagenarian
survived, he would in all probability have filled up and compleated these
portraits, of which, unluckily, the outlines only, are to be found in his
notes. Whatever his ultimate intention might have been, in their present
form they seem only intended to call his recollection to those, to whom,
from a congeniality of pursuits, an introduction, more or less familiar,
was obtained, in the progress of a literary life.

Some of these connections and acquaintances were formed at a house,
where, previously to the calamity of the French Revolution, individuals
of all parties and persuasions, political and religious, used to meet in
easy and agreeable familiarity. Here were seen Dr. Priestley, Mr. Henley,
Dr. Price, Horne Tooke, Dr. Aikin, Mrs. Barbauld, Bishop Percy, the
venerable Bishop Douglas, Dr. Gregory, and Mrs. Woolstoncroft, to whom
there could not possibly exist a greater or more striking contrast than
the immediate subject of this article.


MRS. T⸺.

The master of this house (there is no occasion to designate him by name)
was a very austere and rigid dissenter of the old school, but friendly
to literary men, and on all occasions ready to assist in the promotion
of their literary views. The commencement and progress of the French
Revolution seemed to be a signal for the dissolution of those amicable
bonds. The Pater-familias was the devoted friend of Priestley and of
Price, and of consequence took a most active and zealous part in what
he was pleased to call the cause of political and religious liberty, and
what was a very customary and favourite phrase among them, the general
melioration of the state of man.

Vain and illusory ideas! but it was a long, a very long time, before this
misguided man, and his more intimate associates, saw and acknowledged
their error, and that the only consequence of the horrible combustion,
was impiety, cruelty, and anarchy.

Bitterly did he suffer in his own person, from the consequences of
his strong predilection to a class of men, whose sentiments and whose
writings declared open and eternal war against what they foolishly and
impertinently denominated “The Church and King System.”

It was this personage, however, long since no more, who first encouraged
Mrs. T. to systematize and publish her various excellent performances
for the benefit of mankind. At this hospitable house it was, that our
Sexagenarian first met with this lady. The pious, loyal, and amiable
bias of Mrs. T.’s mind, led her, in a very short time, to other and very
different connections; and her exertions in the cause of religion, good
morals, and the safety of the state, were universally acknowledged, and
duly rewarded. For a considerable part of a long life, she was honoured
by the countenance of the Royal Family, as well as by the friendship
and protection of the most distinguished characters of the country.
Among others, the venerable Bishop Porteus, always among the foremost to
discern merit, and to reward it, on every occasion professed the warmest
esteem for her person and character, and to demonstrate the sincerity of
his regard, presented her son to a considerable benefice in his diocese.

This brief descriptive sketch here concludes, first observing, that in
society her manners were simple, gentle, and unassuming; her conversation
sedate, her pronunciation deliberate, her mind cultivated with a very
strong and leading propensity to subjects of a religious nature, to which
indeed her information was principally confined.



    Εν γαρ τι καὶ τουτο των αλλων καλλωπισματων αυταις δοκει, ην
    λεγηται ως πεπαιδευμεναι τε εισι, καὶ φιλοσοφοι, καὶ ποιουσιν
    ασματα ου πολυ της Σαπφους αποδεοντα.

CHAPTER LII.


Perhaps there may be no fairer occasion of introducing a few words on the
subject of


MRS. W⸺,

than whom a more eccentric and extraordinary character has not in modern
times appeared upon the theatre of the world. Few individuals have
combined qualities and talents so various, and so contradictory; very
few females have experienced more or greater vicissitudes, and none ever
employed their time and abilities on subjects so much at variance with
the common feelings and opinions of mankind.

Her life and memoirs were given at length, by the person whom, after
living with him for some time as his wife, she finally consented to
marry, in condescension to the _foolish_ prejudices of the world. It
cannot be at all wonderful, that these two persons should be brought
together by a strong magnetic attraction; the only matter of surprize
is, that they did not come together sooner: for they seemed to be
inspired with one soul, one common sentiment, one feeling, and one
object. They agreed with the most perfect harmony in contemptuously
disregarding whatever in religion, or morals, or politics, was sanctioned
by the veneration of ages, and in introducing, with the most audacious
perseverance, wild, preposterous, and pernicious theories.

This lady’s first entrance into life was characterized by the most
striking peculiarities, and she seems to have imbibed very unaccountable
notions of political justice, in contra-distinction to those of nature
and of duty.

As long as we continue uncorrupted by the world, the love of parents in
most minds, grows with our growth, and strengthens with our strength.
This good lady, on the contrary, was not eminently distinguished by her
filial piety, and at a very early period of her youth, she left her
father’s house with _abruptness_ and _disgust_.

We next hear of her as having, in conjunction with a friend, the
direction of a day-school; but this friend’s delicate health requiring
her to seek a milder climate, Miss W. soon afterwards gave up her
employment, and crossed the sea to join her companion. On the above
lady’s death, Miss W. returned to England, and became a governess in a
noble family, where, however, she did not continue long; nor with her
fantastical (not to say mischievous) ideas on the subject of female
education, was it likely that she should. She then settled in London,
and, if we mistake not, became an authoress by profession; and it was
at the house formerly mentioned, which at that period was a general
receptacle for the friends of learning of both sexes, that the writer saw
and became slightly acquainted with her.

In London, as indeed every where else, she was characterized by the
wildest extravagance of sentiment, and really appeared to think, that
to obey the first impulses of inclination, uncontrouled by the sobriety
of thought, or interposition of judgment, was the only true wisdom. She
formed at this period the most violent attachment to a man of genius
and talent, who, whatever might be his claims to reputation, was old
enough to be her father, and certainly did not possess those external
recommendations, which usually conciliate the partiality of women. This
circumstance relating to an individual, for whom, on account of his
talents, it is impossible not to feel sentiments of respect, would not
have been introduced, had not the lady’s biographer spoken of the fact
without reserve.

The gentleman alluded to, it may be apprehended, did not return her
predilection in his favour with equal ardour, and therefore to get rid of
the torment of unrequited love, or, as the event proved, to change its
object, she went to Paris, to which place also congenial propensities had
at about the same period attracted others of our countrywomen, as Anna
Maria Williams, Miss P., &c. &c. of whom more hereafter.

At Paris our heroine fell in the way of a plain downright man of business
from America, with no particular recommendation either of fortune,
person, or talent; but strange to tell, she almost instantaneously
conceived for him a passion yet more violent and uncontroulable than
that which she had formerly experienced for Mr. F. To him she sacrificed
every thing, even her modesty; for though she without scruple lived with
him as his wife, she refused to be married to him even according to the
slight and unsatisfactory ceremonial then observed in France. Her reasons
for this conduct were somewhat whimsical. She did not choose that he
should be made liable to debts formerly incurred by her, and she also
entertained the idea, that an avowed marriage with her, would expose him
to certain family inconveniencies and embarrassments.

But alas! for such hasty attachments! neither did our American return
her passion with a suitable enthusiasm. He left her at Paris in a state
of pregnancy, under pretext of business, which required his presence at
one of the sea-ports, and with a promise of speedy return. He did not
perform this promise. She followed him to the sea-side. Here she was
delivered of a daughter. The cold-blooded American pleaded business in
London; but promised her, that if she would go quietly back to Paris,
he would soon return from England, and rejoin her. But though they did
meet again, passion was quite exhausted on his part, never more, by any
arts or exertions of her’s, to be revived. To be brief—he chose another
companion, and recommended to her to do the same. This was rather too
much to be endured. The lady did not indeed, in imitation of Sappho,
precipitate herself from another Leucadian rock; she chose a more vulgar
mode of death; she put some lead into her pockets, and threw herself into
the water. She did not, however, use lead enough, as there was still gas
sufficient left in her head to counterpoise it. She was rescued from the
watery bier, and lived again to experience the feverish varieties of the
tender passion.

The anguish of her grief did not endure any very considerable time, for
within a few months she united herself to a man, whose peculiarities of
opinion were as strange and as preposterous as her own. Mark, reader, she
did not marry him. No! that would have been pitiful, wondrous pitiful,
on both sides. She had already demonstrated her amorous creed, the great
maxim of which was, that

    Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
    Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Her new lover had, on the subject of marriage, already and solemnly
declared, that “so long as he should seek to engross one woman to
himself, and to prohibit his neighbour from proving his superior desert,
and reaping the fruits of it, he would be guilty of the most odious of
all monopolies.”

The mind sickens at the continuation of a narrative, so replete with
folly, and so offensive to every thing which piety, delicacy, and human
obligations render sacred. The lady, on her return to this country, was
considered as the wife of her American lover, and in this character, on
account of her talents, which nobody will presume to call in question,
was visited by several very respectable females. But when in open
defiance, and in contempt of all decency and good order, she cohabited
with the author of P⸺ J⸺, our precise sturdy countrywomen thought that
this was carrying the jest somewhat too far, and accordingly withdrew
themselves from her acquaintance.

Such a proceeding at first excited the astonishment of the lady, and the
scorn of the philosopher; indeed the latter pretended to make it a matter
of ridicule, but all would not do; and it is understood that the lady
condescended to use her influence with her lover, and, in spite of his
public avowed hostility to marriage, he became her legal husband.

The union did not long continue; it was dissolved by that which dissolves
all things—the unrelenting hand of death. Mrs. G. died in child-bed, at
no great distance from the time of the marriage ceremony having been
performed.

No one would surely speak with levity of human sorrows; and it is
impossible not to revere the grief which is excited by the irreparable
loss of relatives and friends. Yet there was something in the dogmas and
maxims of the author of P⸺ J⸺, so very extraordinary, representing so
contemptuously the tender ties of nature, and what have hitherto been
regarded as the strong obligations of duty, that his conduct after his
domestic privation, necessarily excited some degree of wonder.

There were so many vulnerable parts in Mrs. W.’s character and conduct,
the principles which she avowed, and the system of education which she
recommended: the maxims which she vindicated, were so dangerous to female
virtue, and so obnoxious to the universal sentiments of the wise and
good, that on her decease, much and unreserved discussion concerning her
took place. The result was undoubtedly not very honourable to her fair
fame as a woman, whatever it might be to her reputation as an author. To
have been consistent with himself, and with his writings, the philosopher
might have been expected to have disregarded all these animadversions as
unworthy of his notice, and beneath the dignity of his character. Far
otherwise. Nature, it may be presumed, triumphed over philosophy. He was
the victim of rage and resentment. He who had contended that man was a
mere machine, that every thing which happens is the result of absolute
necessity, that gratitude, the relative affections, parental love,
filial duty, &c. are vices—bounced and raved at the “calumnies which the
virulence of a party spirit hitherto unexampled, had, on the occasion of
her death, poured upon the memory of the most excellent and admirable
woman that it was ever his lot to know.” He went even further still. Not
satisfied with his own weapons, he employed those of certain intemperate
and injudicious friends, whose skill and adroitness in wielding
them were not only inferior to his own, but who exposed their own
inefficiency, as well as the weakness of the cause they so precipitately
undertook to defend.

The following character of this extraordinary woman appeared not long
after her death, and with this, the article relating to her may not
improperly conclude.

“She was a woman of strong intellect, and of ungovernable passions.
To the latter, when once she had given the reins, she seems to have
yielded on all occasions with little scruple, and as little delicacy. She
appears in the strongest sense a voluptuary and sensualist, but without
refinement. We compassionate her errors, and respect her talents, but
our compassion is lessened by the mischievous tendency of her doctrines
and example; and our respect is certainly not extended or improved, by
her exclaiming against prejudices, of some of the most dangerous of
which, she was herself perpetually the victim, by her praises of virtue,
the sanctity of which she habitually violated, and by her pretences to
philosophy, whose real mysteries she did not understand, and the dignity
of which, in various instances, she sullied and disgraced.”



    Multa in muliebrem levitatem cœpit jactare. Quam facile
    adamarent. Quam cito etiam Philorum obliviscerentur. Nullamque
    esse feminam tam pudicam, quæ non peregrina usque ad furorem
    averteretur.

CHAPTER LIII.


Of the same school, and not improbably a proselyte to the same doctrines,
was


H⸺ M⸺ W⸺.

What and how great a contrast is exhibited between this female’s first
appearance on the theatre of the public, and her last fatal ending!
Lively, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable, of pleasing person, simple
and gentle manners, without pride, or asserting any pretensions to
distinction, she received the respect and attention of many of the most
considerable persons in this country, both for talent and for rank. What
is she now? If she lives, (and whether she does or not, few know, and
nobody cares) she is a wanderer—an exile, unnoticed and unknown.

The moment that the torch of anarchy was displayed from the turrets of
the Thuilleries, she caught the flame, and, as it were by magic, the
form of every thing was changed to the visual ray of her understanding.
She forgot the lessons of her youth, despised the precepts of her early
instructors, and forsook the land of her forefathers. The perfectibility
of man, the rights of women, the cap of liberty, alone occupied and
overpowered her mind. She must needs go where alone these fascinating
idols received the culture and the homage which in her imagination they
deserved. To France then she hurried, connected herself instantaneously
with the great tragedians of the day, was initiated in their mysteries,
and adopted the whole of their gipsy jargon. She became in every
particular a French woman. Nothing was in her eyes fair, or wise, or
great, or good, but what was French; and as for poor old England, its
inhabitants, and its manners, nothing could be more paltry—nothing more
contemptible.

Her friend, Mrs. W. had taught her, by her example, that female modesty
might be laid aside without any compunctious visitations; and, like
her prototype, she formed an attachment to a Frenchman, who in Paris
was generally considered as a spy of the police; even if he did not
sometimes perform in a far less honourable character. This man had a
wife living at the time, and Miss W. probably knew it; but this opposed
but a trifling obstacle. The morality which then prevailed in the
French metropolis, found a very convenient confederate in the facility
with which divorces were obtained. But it is far from certain, that
even this slight ceremony was observed. Be this as it may, under this
paramour’s benignant auspices, she wrote about France, its politics, its
new-fangled manners, Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat, and all that
Stygian crew, with unrestrained volubility; and with a presumptuousness
and impertinence, a determination to palliate and excuse the horrid
atrocities she had witnessed, such as to excite a mixture of contempt and
resentment.

Perhaps the following may be exhibited as an accurate epitome of her
creed at this period, (we say at this period) for if she yet lives, she
must be a greater fool than we think her, to persist in some of the
articles of her political faith:—

“The guilt of the unfortunate king was clear.”—“The horrid murders and
massacres were partial evils.”—“The French Revolution was destined to
break the fetters of mankind throughout the world.”

This and far worse garbage than this, was the reader compelled to wade
through in the various publications of this perverted writer.

All this is wondrous pitiful, but pity ’tis, ’tis true. When accident
first introduced our Sexagenarian to H. M. W. she was young and lovely,
ingenuous and innocent. By the proper exercise of her talents, she
might have been an ornament to society, and useful to the world. Her
decline of life might have tranquilly been passed under the shadow of
her own vine, honoured and beloved. If she exists, she can have no other
reflections but those which must be truly mortifying. She cannot fail
now to be sensible, that she deserted substance for shadow, real liberty
for ideal dreams about its phantom, a long list of honourable friends,
comprehending some of the fairest names among us—for whom?—for Mrs. W.,
Thomas Paine, Danton, for her friend, or her lover, or her husband, (by
whichever name she wishes him to be distinguished) for Ramond, Madame
Roland, O’Connor, Santerre, &c. &c. To finish in a word, she exchanged
the prospect of honourable fame, for neglect and contempt.

There still remain a few more of this class of females, with whom an
introduction took place, by the means of common friends engaged in
literary pursuits. It may be as well to bring them together and get rid
of them at once. Recollection does not regard them with complacency.
Indeed, they were so amiable on first acquaintance, (and if the
expression may be allowed, they so degenerated afterwards) that memory is
oppressed with looking back upon them.

Another disciple of this fantastic school was—


M⸺ H⸺,

who really, when first known, appeared lively, ingenuous, innocent,
and interesting. It is not pretended to say who or what perverted her
principles, but she was a friend of the Wolstoncroft, a follower of
Helvetius, and a great admirer of Rousseau.

As ill luck would have it, she must needs write a novel, and as her evil
genius prompted, was induced to publish it. What thinkest thou, gentle
reader, was the outline of the story? Why this:—

The heroine, Emma Courtney Hight, falls in love, desperately in love,
with a youth whom she had never seen; at length, she encounters him—worse
and worse!—Passion now boils over, and she exercises every female
artifice to captivate his affection in return. But it will not do; all
her efforts prove ineffectual. What’s next to be done? Why take him by
storm; or, which is much the same thing, she voluntarily offers herself
to live with him as his mistress.

    Make me mistress to the man I love.

But this will not do: his heart proves made of impenetrable stuff, at
length, the heroine, compelled by dire necessity, marries, contrary to
her inclination, a man she dislikes exceedingly. But still she retains
her first passion; and what is more, disregarding the obligations of
duty imposed by her new character, she attends on his dying bed, the man
for whom she first suffered love. The consequence is almost ludicrously
disastrous:—the husband attaches himself to a female domestic, and to
conclude and complete the catastrophe, he finally shoots himself through
the head.

But after all, things might have been yet worse, with respect to this
same M. H. She might, like her friends, Mesdames W. and H. M. W. have
emigrated to France, and disgraced herself and her country.

She had the prudence to stay at home. She might have written other still
more mischievous, and still more foolish things. It pleased Providence to
remove her, and, as we earnestly hope to forgive her.

Some greater degree of reserve is felt necessary in speaking of


MISS P⸺.

The personal acquaintance, on the part of the Sexagenarian, with this
most prolific author, was but slight; but he ever and invariably
expressed the most unaffected regret, that one so endowed, so qualified
to contribute to the improvement of others, should, by pursuing one
undeviating path, have made herself generally obnoxious, to those alone
excepted, who considered all as deserving of the burning fiery furnace,
who did not fall prostrate before the shrine of Bonaparte, and adore the
Briarean Idol of the French Revolution.

The most extraordinary thing, with respect to each and every one of these
doughty females, appears to have been this:—The very moment that they had
made up their minds to acknowledge the wisdom of the French Revolution,
the goodness of its leaders, and the felicity of its operation, they
fancied themselves (as by some magic charm, some irresistible power of
enchantment) converted into grave, subtle, and profound politicians.
They knew every thing which was involved in the great questions of law,
and right, and equity, as it were by intuition, and they pronounced
their fiats _ex Cathedra_, as if it were both impious and treasonable
at all to question their wisdom, their knowledge, and their sagacity.
They became all at once, in their own foolish conceits, as subtle as
Machiavel, profound as Vattel, learned as Selden, and capable as Grotius
himself, to discuss the momentous question _de Jure Belli_ at Paris.

Oh for the good old times! when females were satisfied with feminine
employments, with cultivating their minds so far as to enable them
to instruct their children in useful learning only, and to regulate
their families with judicious economy; to learn those graces and that
demeanour, which obtained and secured love and esteem, nor suffered the
Laban images of foreign vanities to contaminate their tents. Daughters
of England, be not beguiled; be assured that the study of politics is
not essential to female accomplishments, that the possession of this
Machiavelian knowledge will neither make you better mothers, wives, or
friends; that to obtain it, a long life, severe study, and the most
laborious investigation, are indispensably necessary. Must it not excite
the strongest emotions of contempt, to hear pert misses, just escaped
from boarding-schools, harangue in a more peremptory language than
Selden would have assumed, and with the slightest reading, and most
superficial knowledge, presume to pass judgment on the political rights
and conditions of nations?

Miss P. was one of the daughters of a venerable clergyman, who was, at
the same time, Master of a College at Cambridge, and Prebendary of N⸺. It
may therefore be presumed, though nothing at all is known of the matter,
that her education was in every respect correct, and consistent with her
sphere of life.

On the death of her parents, and at the accursed crisis of the French
Revolution, she came to the metropolis. Here she immediately, with
unreserved confidence, threw herself into the kindred arms of H. M.
W. divided her enthusiasm, and partook of all her follies. France,
France, France! Liberty, Liberty, Liberty! occupied their waking
thoughts, and disturbed their midnight dreams. In a word, they became
totally Frenchified; and as Free-masons, when once initiated into their
mysteries, retain the Shibboleth, which admits them beyond the Tyler,
so did these females suffer themselves to be so intoxicated with the
Circean draught, that the phrenzy remained incurable and unalterable.
They determined to drink at the fountain-head, so up and away for Paris.
We have heard of the Englishman at Paris, his prodigality and folly, but
heaven bless us! our English women at Paris beat their countrymen hollow,
or, to use a homely phrase, “out and out.”

“Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever
things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are
lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, if
there be any praise.”

This emphatical and beautiful apostrophe of the apostle, in the judgment
of this lady and her clan, could alone be applied to the French nation,
under the benign influence of the Revolution, and to the Polar star of
all who exercised the supreme authority in France from Robespierre to
Bonaparte.

According to the sagacious and candid inferences of these subtle and
profound Female Machiavels, in this country of England there was no
wisdom, no foresight, no justice, and no public virtue; whilst on the
opposite side, the murders of the King, Queen, Princess Elizabeth,
and the Duke d’Enghein, were acts either of fair retribution, or of
unavoidable necessity; either the just consequences of the imbecility of
the sufferers, or provoked by their profligacy and crimes.

Reader, is not all this truly lamentable? Far other emotions are awakened
by the recollection of what this female, immediately under review, once
was, when she appeared as a candidate for honourable fame in the general
walks of literature. Her talents claimed respect—her diligence deserved
praise. The variety of her information, and the extent of her knowledge,
particularly of languages, qualified her to be useful, and entitled her
to esteem.

Whether she subsequently repented of and restrained the extreme
extravagance of her prejudices; whether Bonaparte, his glory, his wisdom,
his magnanimity, his _religion_, and his clemency, (and, for all these
qualities he had this lady’s praise) continued to any protracted period
the objects of her fond idolatry, could not possibly be known to him,
from whose collection the materials, which appear, in these pages, have
been extracted. It is hoped that she may have seen the error of her ways;
have discovered a less dangerous and obstructed path, and auspiciously
pursued it.



              With pleasures too refined to please,
    With too much spirit to be e’er at ease,
    With too much quickness ever to be taught,
    With too much thinking to have common thought.

CHAPTER LIV.


Different as light from darkness, is the next female, whose character
is introduced in the Recollections. Lively, ingenuous, of various
and elegant accomplishments, of splendid connections, with the most
undisguised and contemptuous scorn of those who could not boast similar
distinction; at no pains to suppress her almost adoration of our own
monarchical government, or her indignation, amounting almost to rage,
against the French Revolution, and all its supporters; of exquisite
taste, sensibility, and refinement; proud, but affable; tenacious of her
rank, but gentle as gentleness itself. Such was the female who will be
described under the name by which she was always distinguished among her
friends. Yes! such was


ELLA.

This lady was first known to the Sexagenarian, and obtained a place in
his Recollections, by one of those singular accidents, which sometimes
bring individuals together, who, entering the world at the opposite ends
of the diameter, with different objects, pursuits, and employments,
have but little seeming probability of ever meeting at the centre. ELLA
was extravagantly fond of poetry; it occupied all her thoughts, and was
seated in her very soul. Among other trifles which our friend had written
for amusement, and which had found their way into the world, a poem,
which had received more of his time and attention than he usually gave
to such things, (for he did not estimate his talents in this line very
highly) was sent to a friend, who happened at this period to be resident
under the same roof with ELLA.

It mightily struck her fancy, and she determined on obtaining the
author’s acquaintance. Her mind was of that eager and ardent temperature,
that having once resolved on any measure, she spared no time or pains in
accomplishing it. She accordingly sent him by the post, a copy of verses,
complimenting him on the late production of his muse, in terms like
herself, easy, airy, and elegant. The writer was soon discovered, (or as
Pope said of Johnson, _deterré_) and a familiar acquaintance commenced,
which was only terminated by death.

If ELLA’S mind and talents had been under the regulation of sedate
feelings and sober judgment, she would have been one of the most
delightful and interesting creatures in the universe; but unfortunately
for her, she was in every thing an enthusiast. She obeyed, without
reflection, the first impulse of her mind. She read whatever excited
public attention and curiosity, but she read to little or no effect; she
impatiently hurried over the volumes before her, that she might begin
something else: the consequence unavoidably was, that in a very short
interval, she retained no recollection of the principal features, facts,
and characters, of the books she had recently perused.

She also wrote a great deal, and some specimens of her poetical taste
and talent are really very beautiful; but she wrote with extreme haste,
and revised nothing. She was particularly solicitous, and not always
with sufficient discrimination, to have a personal acquaintance with
those of both sexes, who were distinguished in the world by their
reputation for talents. Unhappily for her, there was no moderation in
her attachments, from which she frequently became the victim of artifice
and fraud. Perfectly artless and unsuspicious herself, she thought that
intellectual superiority necessarily involved ingenuousness, honesty, and
truth; nor was she cured of this infirmity, till her fortunes had been
irretrievably impaired. Her liberality knew no bounds, and she literally
gave, till no more remained for her to bestow.

Her captivating manners, her high birth, her connections, her talents,
necessarily drew a crowd of young men about her, for many of whom, in
their turns, she suffered love; but the flame was transitory in its
effects, nor did she ever seriously entangle herself in an engagement
which had marriage for its object, except with one individual, as unlike
herself, in every possible particular, as the imagination can conceive.

Her playfulness and most bewitching familiarity often, however, were the
cause of her entangling others. Some might be named, who, though grave,
reserved, and dignified personages, were unable to resist the fascination
of her charms and manners, and glided into her net with the easiest
captivity imaginable.

There was one very singular character, whom accident threw in her way,
wild, romantic, and ingenious like herself. Both were devoted to the
love of poetry, and they wrote fine things to one another, till a great
intimacy took place, and the gentleman, who was also an enthusiast in all
things, worshipped her as his idol.

The life of this man would of itself make an entertaining volume; a
short digression upon it therefore may be excused. He was almost the
next descendant from one of the most extraordinary men of talent and
genius that this kingdom ever knew, and apparently inherited many of his
progenitor’s eccentricities. A young man of one of the noblest families
in the kingdom, and immediate heir to a dukedom, conceiving himself
aggrieved by an illustrious personage, of rank higher than his own, sent
him a challenge, and a duel was the consequence. In the rencontre, the
individual challenged, had a very narrow escape, the ball having grazed
his cheek.

The affair necessarily engrossed a considerable share of public
conversation, and among other things of which it was the cause, our
gentleman thought proper to publish a most bitter and exasperating
pamphlet against the young nobleman who had sent the challenge.

The consequence was what might naturally be expected. Col. L. first
enquired whether the author was, from his station in life, worthy of
his resentment. On finding that he was a gentleman, a duel ensued, in
which the Quixotic advocate of Royalty, was shot through the body, but
astonished even his adversary by the courage and firmness with which
he conducted himself. What his motive was, can hardly be imagined; but
as his circumstances were but moderate, he not improbably conceived,
that he might be rewarded with patronage and preferment. This, however,
was not the case, though it must be acknowledged that the illustrious
Personage, whose advocate he had so rashly been, once sent him
compliments of enquiry and condolence.

He was certainly a man of considerable talents, and particularly in
poetry. He published many things, which were well received, and he left a
great deal more behind him.

The following extract from an unpublished poem, called a Hymn to Venus,
occurs in our manuscript, and justifies what has been said of the
author’s abilities.

    “The various world thy various powers delight,
    Thy star precedes the morn, and gilds the night;
    Thee, when Aurora’s fingers paint the day,
    In the pure blush of morning we survey;
    Or throned with Phœbus as he sets in gold,
    Thy warmer glories in the West behold;
    Night’s radiant orbs in love and beauty roll,
    Love rules the sky, and Beauty lights the whole.
      What space contains, what ample air provides,
    What earth unbosoms, or what ocean hides,
    Thy power proclaims; each zephyr of the Spring,
    That fans the season with his purple wing,
    To Love belongs. Then each delightful bower
    Thy presence feels, confessing Beauty’s power,
    And blossoms into joy; the plumy throng,
    Beauty’s glad season welcome with their song,
    As instinct governs they select their loves,
    ’Twas Love thy sparrows paired, and yoked thy doves.”

The conclusion is yet better.

    Hail Beauty, Nature, or whate’er thy name,
    Fair seed of Jove, immortal and the same,
    Informing soul, pure spirit unconfined,
    Pervading law, of matter and of mind,
    Eternal Truth! whose universal light
    Directs to happiness, and points the right!—
    To thee our vows we pay; to thee belong
    The hymn of praise and honorary song,
    Source of each wish, each pleasure, and each hope,
    Till kinder suns the rose of Passion ope;
    A rose without a thorn, that buds and blows,
    And takes the name of friendship as it grows;
    Virtue’s own zephyrs on her bosom play,
    An heaven-born flower, unconscious of decay.
    Then whether in Cythera’s suns you rove,
    Or seek the coolness of the Cyprian grove,
    Or Paphos choose, or wander with thy maids
    Where all Idalia opens all her shades,
    Chaste goddess come! and to our isle retire,
    Where Love at Hymen’s altars lights his fire;
    Where Virtue guards, and Beauty lifts her throne,
    Diana’s crescent with the Cyprian zone;
    Oh still on Britain goddess bend thy smiles,
    The Queen of Empire as the Queen of Isles,
    That takes like thee from silver seas her birth,
    To rule with equal power, and bless the earth.
    Britain for beauty as for arms renown’d,
    Victorious Mars by conquering Beauty crown’d;
    To Britain then thy gracious aid extend,
    And War’s own god shall Beauty’s cause defend.

It is impossible to close our account of this most singular personage,
without giving another example of his waywardness and eccentricity. There
was a wretched creature who molested the streets of London, barbarously
insulting and wounding the females that he met, upon whom the appellation
of Monster was therefore bestowed, as it were, by common consent. On
his apprehension and trial, this gentleman thought proper to throw down
the gauntlet as his advocate; not indeed his advocate with regard to
his crimes, but a sort of legal advocate, pointing out the subterfuges
of which he might avail himself. It was, however, like his insane duel,
ineffectual in its consequences; it neither sheltered the defendant from
universal indignation and contempt, nor tended to diminish the severity
of his punishment.

After various vicissitudes, this unaccountable man returned to Ireland,
where he was involved in a great number of perplexities, animosities, and
litigations, and died at no very advanced age.



    Durius in terris nihil est quod vivat amante
    Nec modo si sapias quod minus esse velis.

CHAPTER LV.


The case of entanglement, on the side of ELLA, alluded to in the former
chapter, was this:—Her limited fortune, notwithstanding her high and
proud connections, made it expedient for herself and sister, to live
with an elderly lady, who had also other female boarders. An officer,
who had been wounded in the service of his country in a distant climate,
with a constitution apparently broken, made application to be received
into the family, of which our heroine was a member. The circumstance
excited great alarm, and occasioned much serious debate. At length, after
many sage discussions, and beds of justice, it was resolved, _nemine
contradicente_, that a wounded officer, somewhat advanced in life, and
with an impaired constitution, was not an object to awaken the scruples,
or alarm the fears of the sisterhood. Things, however, turned out quite
contrary. “Love (as it is said) laughs at locksmiths;” and such a
dart was shot from ELLA’S bright eyes through the thorax of the Major,
where, by the way, there was a ball lodged already, which no medical
skill could extract, that he surrendered at discretion. It is a little
whimsical, that this catastrophe was maliciously predicted to the Lady by
our Sexagenarian; but the prophecy was at first received with something
like indignation. “Could it be supposed that a worn-out soldier, of no
family, fortune, or pretensions, could excite any other emotion than
pity?” Pity, however, it is well known, is next a kin to love, and so
it proved in this instance. The final issue may be narrated in a few
words. Application was made to ELLA’S great and noble friends, for their
consent to this ill-suited union, to which the Horatian adage might
strictly be applied; most certainly might they be termed “_impares formas
atque animos_,” and the _jugum_, had it been worn, would have been truly
_aheneum_.

These mighty people, however, whose generosity never extended beyond
giving their relative an occasional dinner, wrapped themselves in their
magnificence, and in stately terms, forbade the banns. What was to be
done in this dilemma? After due deliberation, it was determined that
they should consider themselves as solemnly pledged, and wait for a
favourable change of circumstances. Month, however, succeeded month,
and year followed year, and no such change took place. At length,
the gentleman’s health appeared to be growing worse and worse, and
it was deemed indispensably necessary for his convalescence, that he
should remove to Bath. Upon this occasion, the lady behaved with a
characteristic nobleness of mind. She thought her friend and lover would
return no more, and that the circumstances in which he was placed, with
respect to herself, might induce him to make a will in her favour. As
soon, therefore, as he had arrived at the place of his destination, she
wrote to inform him, that, after duly considering the little probability
there existed of their ever being happily united, she thought it best for
both, that the engagement should be dissolved, and the connection at an
end. Under this impression, therefore, she was determined positively to
decline any favourable intention he might retain towards her, if induced
to make his will. She added the strongest recommendation in favour of
his nephew, whom he had materially assisted in life, and who had also
experienced many solid benefits from her friendship.



    Negotii sibi qui volet vim parare, navem et mulierem,
    Hæc duo sibi comparato.

CHAPTER LVI.


The lover felt and acknowledged the great good sense and honourable
conduct of his mistress; and thus terminated a connection commenced under
no very auspicious omens, protracted till mutual esteem was succeeded by
the most perfect indifference, and which ever, during its continuance,
was interrupted by jars and bickerings, the unavoidable consequence of
inequality in temper, habits, and age; and presenting at no period, any
favourable prospect of an harmonious union.

The catastrophe of this young lady’s history was very melancholy. With
every talent and accomplishment necessary to adorn the most elevated
station, with every pretension of loveliness, grace, and manners, with a
fortune which, by prudent management, might have secured an honourable,
though not a splendid independence, her final exit was not very much
unlike that so beautifully recorded by Pope, of Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham.

She first of all impoverished herself, by the profuse liberality of
her presents to those to whom she was partial. She was subsequently
induced to lend, with the truest motives of generosity and friendship
on her part, a portion of her capital, on very insufficient security.
This she accordingly lost. There was an enthusiasm in her attachments
bordering on infatuation, and very indiscriminating in the choice of its
objects. Talent was her great idol, before which she bowed, but she often
neglected to examine and investigate the private character and conduct by
which it was accompanied. The consequence was, that she was perpetually
imposed upon, and did not discover her error till it was too late.

Her finances became finally so exceedingly narrowed and embarrassed,
that penury began to stare her in the face. Her friends, in some degree
to ward off this evil, suggested the expediency of her publishing two
volumes of her poems. This was accordingly done, under the inspection
of a most judicious, able, and compassionate friend, whose attentions
cheered and soothed the last sorrowful moments of her life. To him they
were inscribed, with a very appropriate address. The reader may not be
averse to see a specimen. _Ex uno disce omnia._


THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY.

    Proud of its little day, enjoying
      The lavish sweets kind Nature yields,
    In harmless sports each hour employing,
      Ranging the gardens, woods, and fields.
    A lovely Butterfly extending
      Its grateful wing to Sol’s warm beams,
    No dreaded danger saw impending,
      But basked secure in peaceful dreams.
    A wandering Urchin viewed this treasure,
      Of gaudy colours fine and gay,
    Thoughtless consulting but his pleasure,
      He chased it through the live-long day.
    At last the young but sly dissembler
      Appeared to follow other flies,
    Then turning seized the little trembler,
      Who crushed beneath his fingers dies!
    Surprized he sees the hasty ruin
      His reckless cruelty had wrought,
    The victim which so long pursuing
      Scarce raised a wish, or claimed a thought,
    Now bid the tear of genuine sorrow
      O’er his repentant bosom flow,
    Yet he’ll forget it ere the morrow,
      And deal to others equal woe.
    Thus the vain man, with subtle feigning,
      Pursues, o’ertakes, poor woman’s heart,
    But soon his hapless prize disdaining,
      She dies the victim of his art.

Her compositions were all of the same character and tendency—tender,
elegant, and tinged with the most romantic sensibility. Whether their
publication answered the proposed purpose to any effect, may reasonably
be questioned; for in her last illness, if she did not actually want the
necessaries incident to her situation, she had but a very scanty supply
of them.

After her death, when the kind friend above alluded to, undertook the
office of executor, and the superintendence of her funeral, barely
sufficient was got together, to have the last offices performed with due
decency.

She carried the preposterous enthusiasm of her misguided partialities
to the very last. All the valuable trinkets, rings, and jewels, which
she had inherited, had long since been given away, or otherwise disposed
of, one diamond ring excepted, which had for time immemorial remained
in her family. In drawing up her will, she had bequeathed this jewel to
a popular theatrical performer. Her executor having timely knowledge of
this, insisted upon its erasure, and positively declined having any thing
to do with her affairs, unless she bequeathed this ring to her sister.
She was prevailed upon, though reluctantly, to do so.

She died very prematurely, but she had been as negligent of her health,
as of her worldly affairs, and indulged in habits, than which nothing
could be more pernicious in themselves, or more injurious to her
constitution. Being occasionally subject to great depression of spirits,
and habitually a very bad sleeper, she indulged in the use of æther and
laudanum, to an excess that can hardly be credited; by which, and by
various other acts of similar imprudence, she doubtless much accelerated
her end.

Among her intimate friends were many of the most elevated rank, and she
was personally acquainted with all the females of her time, who were in
the least celebrated for their intellectual accomplishments. She was
the correspondent of Anna Seward, much acquainted with Mrs. Piozzi,
Helen Maria Williams, and others who have already been mentioned in this
narrative.

Be it permitted us to lament, yes, deeply to lament, that no friendly
pilot among those upon whom she had the claims of kindred and of blood,
stepped forward, in the progress of her little life, to steer her frail
vessel through the storms and perils of a treacherous world. She was
left, at a very early age, an orphan adventurer, to find her way, as best
she could, o’er unknown seas and regions, and many a pelting did she get
from divers pitiless storms.

Poor Ella! one tear at least is paid to thy memory, by an individual
who knew thy worth, admired thy talents, and loved thee with the truest
warmth of friendship.

Being so poetical herself, and so addicted to the society of those who
had the same disposition, volumes might perhaps be made of the poems
addressed to her. The following is selected, as particularly descriptive
of her character.

    “Wit, beauty, goodness, sentiment refin’d,
    The brightest genius, with the purest mind;
    Quick nerves, to sympathy too nicely strung,
    And sportive innocence for ever young;
    Gay beaming smiles, and each still varying grace,
    Accordant harmony of voice and face;
    Sweet chat, that might despairing anguish soothe;
    A soul all energy, a heart all truth;—
    Give it but wings, ’tis angel, goddess, Elf;
    Or add caprice and—ELLA—’tis thyself.”



    Idem semper erit quoniam semper fuit idem.

CHAPTER LVII.


In the preceding narrative, the name of a very celebrated lady has been
introduced, who, for a long series of years, greatly attracted public
notice, and concerning whom, the loudest praises and the bitterest
censures have been scattered about with unsparing profuseness. This lady
was


MRS. P⸺.

She seems introduced in the Recollections merely as one of those to
whom a certain degree of reputation in the literary world obtained an
easy introduction, but by no means from any admiration either of her
talents, or her conduct. A long interval of time elapsed between the
first commencement of acquaintance with this lady, and its last renewal;
but the impression concerning her, remained the same—unaltered and
unalterable.

Her great characteristic was vanity; acute, ingenious, and variously
informed, she undoubtedly was; but there was a pert levity about her,
which induced a perpetual suspicion of her accuracy, and an affectation
also, which it seems wonderful that Dr. Johnson could ever have endured.

The fraternity who used to assemble at her parties, had certain cant
words and expressions among them, perfectly characteristic of their
numerous but fantastical school.

Every body admitted to their familiarity was termed _Dear_. _Dear_
Anna Seward, _Dear_ Dr. Darwin, _Dear_ Mrs. Siddons, _Dear_ Sir Lucas
Pepys, were terms perpetually vibrated in gentle undulations round the
drawing-room.

No person seems better to have understood this lady’s character than
Boswell. The term _Lively Lady_, in the sense in which he used it,
was admirably descriptive of her mind and manner, both in writing and
conversation. But her works and her character have long been before the
public, who have formed an adequate estimate of both. It is not perhaps
generally known, that her decline of life was characterized with one of
those extraordinary and preposterous acts, that fortunately do not often
occur in society, but when they do, are invariably animadverted upon with
the asperity they deserve.

It is very notorious that Mrs. P. had several children, and many
grand-children. It is equally well known that she possesses considerable
hereditary landed property, to the amount of not much, if at all less
than four thousand pounds a-year.

What does the reader anticipate? Why in course that this property was
bequeathed in just and reasonable proportions to the above-mentioned
children and grand-children. No such thing. Such a humdrum and every
day mode of proceeding would have been unworthy of the poetess, the
authoress, the confidential friend of the benevolent Johnson. Our lively
lady (Boswell, we thank thee for that word) aimed at fairer wreaths and
brighter laurels. No! diligent search was to be made in the Alps, for
some booby relative of the last poor dear man, and the search succeeded.
A young Italian mountaineer turned up, calling himself the nephew to the
never enough to be lamented musician man. He was accordingly imported
to this northern region, educated first at an expensive school, and
afterwards at the University; and upon him, and his heirs for ever, are
the estates and honours of one of the oldest families of Cambrian origin,
irrevocably vested and settled.

The old family mansion, forsooth, was not good enough for his Italian
Highness. This was accordingly pulled down, and a new and splendid
structure erected for his Honour, at an expence of not much less than
twenty thousand pounds. To carry the jest as far as it will possibly
endure to be carried, this paragon of mothers and of widows, constantly
carries her dear boy’s miniature picture in her bosom, and exhibits it,
on all occasions, with the most unnatural and preposterous exultation.

So no more at present, good people, of the worthy hostess of _Johnson_.



    Accede O tinea illa quæ pusillo
    Ventrem corpore tam geris voracem,
    Tene Pieridum aggredi ministros
    Tene arrodere tam sacros labores
    Nec factum mihi denega. Ecce furti
    Tui exempla, tuæ et voracitatis.

CHAPTER LVIII.


Walk in, Ladies and Gentlemen, and you shall see what you shall see.
The next female whom you are to contemplate, sits under that large and
spreading canopy, made, by the way, out of some old bed-furniture; she
is the celebrated authoress of—all manner of things—Translations from
the German, Novels, Sermons, Divinity Tracts, Original Novels, founded
on domestic facts, and what not besides. But to render this lady the
amplest justice, we insert the whole of her history, as recorded by the
Sexagenarian.

    Come then the colours and the ground prepare.

What is here related concerning this very distinguished Lady, must of
course be authentic, for no other reference is necessary than to her own
memorials of herself: these will generally be confirmed by that personal
knowledge, which circumstances enabled the writer to possess. She has
indeed exhibited the portraits of her family, her relatives, her friends,
and herself, rather in uncouth lineaments, and in a somewhat high style
of caricature. This is entirely her own concern, as it also is to settle
the account with her filial piety, for representing parental infirmities
in colours too vivid to be overlooked, and too characteristic to be
misapplied.

But lest we should be mistaken, the reader is entreated, on the very
threshold, to be assured that our friend’s general opinion of this
Lady, is very favourable. She possesses considerable talents; she has
cultivated and improved them by severe study and rigorous discipline.
Her knowledge of languages is very considerable, or once was so, for we
must be understood as speaking of days that are past. She is, or was,
familiarly conversant with German, French, Italian, and other modern
languages, and far from ignorant either of Greek or Latin. Indeed, when
we knew her, she was able to read, and did read, the most popular of the
Latin classics, with considerable facility. With respect to her other
qualities of mind, we know her to be kind-hearted, benevolent, and
hospitable; always ready to listen to, and relieve distress; very anxious
and zealous, without any tinge of fanaticism, on the subjects of religion
and morals.

Now, reader, with whatever reluctance it may be done, it is time to
balance the account _per contra_.

The first and great deficiency, we have to notice, is want of judgment.
In all her original compositions, she seems to write down every thing
which presents itself to her mind, without thinking it necessary to use
subsequent revision and consideration. Hence it is that her sentences
are sometimes expanded to an inordinate length, and her ideas, forcible
and good perhaps in their first conception, are dilated and spun out
to cobweb insubstantiality. In her compositions also, there is the
grossest affectation of learning, and a perpetual use of crabbed,
uncouth, pedantic expressions; so that of two words, where one was
simple, explicit, and perspicuous, and the other of similar import has
a Greek termination, in defiance of all good taste, the latter would
be assuredly preferred. There seems also, or did seem, an irresistible
propensity to take every gossip anecdote and tea-table chatter of Lady
Tittle-tattle, Mrs. Go-about, and Sir Timothy Newsmonger, as authentic
fact, and make them the occasion of some fine moralizing theorems,
and philosophical discussion. There is, or was, but this perhaps may
be sexual, a marvellous pertinacity in adhering to the opinions and
assertions once made and avowed, in defiance of counter authorities, and
the best substantiated facts. It is far more pleasant to contemplate the
other side of the picture.

It is therefore with no common satisfaction we relate, that this lady’s
perseverance, determination, and consistent steadiness, in the earlier
period of life, overcame the most formidable difficulties which were
interposed between her and the cultivation of her mind; the fortitude
with which she resisted the mean and cruel attempts which were made
to keep her in a state of ignorance, and to withhold from her every
opportunity of improvement, is in the highest degree honourable to her,
and marks very superior intellectual endowments.

Her mother, a low-minded creature, was actually jealous of her, and could
not endure the idea that her daughter should know any thing of which she
herself was ignorant. She constantly insulted and depressed her. Her
father, a proud consequential man, had some talents. But let us pause.
The lady has herself told all these things of herself, of her mother and
father also, though under the ingenious veil of fictitious names and
characters. We shall therefore satisfy ourselves by the recapitulation
of a few things, which she has not related of herself.

In the first place, her persevering industry and determination to obtain
somewhat of scientific accomplishments, was, in her early youth, beyond
all example. No obstacles intimidated her, no interruptions relaxed her
ardour, no unkindness turned her from her purpose.

She would read by the scanty and pernicious light of dying embers;
she would submit to the most serious privations; she would alike defy
cold, and heat, and hunger, and thirst, in pursuit of her object; and
she (as she deserved to do) obtained it. She qualified herself in case
of accident or misfortune, though she had no reasonable grounds for
expecting the necessity to operate, to obtain the means of livelihood,
either as a teacher of others, or as a translator and author. She
actually did, when in her father’s house, without the knowledge of her
parents, undertake a work for a bookseller, and successfully performed
it; by which she obtained a sum of money sufficiently large to procure
some indulgence she had in view, either of learning German, or of
purchasing books, or something of the kind, which might extend her
knowledge, and improve her mind.

Since she became her own mistress, independent, end opulent, the same
habits of diligence have remained; a certain portion of every day is now,
as before, regularly allotted for a particular study and employment.
These habits are perhaps (or were) characterised by a precision,
convenient undoubtedly to herself, but in a certain degree offensive and
troublesome to such of her inmates, as may not, like herself, happen to
move with the regularity of a watch. The anticipation or delay of five
minutes before or after the time precisely fixed for any particular
object, was wont to occasion a feverish irritability, and discompose the
whole mental machine for a long interval.

To finish this sketch, it behoves us to say, that in all the various
works which have been produced by this Lady’s pen, every thing good, and
wise, and virtuous, and pious, is inculcated with all the force of her
talents. We believe that her writings, as they have had a very extensive,
so have they had also a very salutary circulation. The few faults which
we have deemed it necessary to point out, are exceedingly venial in
themselves, and not of importance from their number; whilst her valuable
qualities, her abilities, and her usefulness, entitle her to a very
considerable place among those females, who in modern times have been
distinguished by the attention of the public.



    Vobis ergo sacra ferenda, Musæ
    Sed quæ victima grata? quæ Camœnis
    Dicata hostia? parcite O Camœnæ
    Nova hæc victima, sed tamen suavis
    Futura arbitror, admodumque grata.

CHAPTER LIX.


The next female who makes her appearance in our “Recollections,” is
delineated under the name of


ELFRIDA.

She was the daughter of a humble Suffolk farmer, and her education as
limited as possible. Nevertheless, she so strongly felt within herself
the consciousness of talents, and the desire of independence, that,
though young and lively, and though in seeming contradiction to all the
precepts of discretion, she rushed to the metropolis, without either
recommendation or protection. Her very first adventure on her arrival,
though in the highest degree romantic, and indeed almost incredible,
proved her security, and procured her a guardian and a husband.

Not knowing whither to go, she made some accidental enquiry of a
passenger, who, as apparently much older than herself, she presumed
would not deceive and mislead her. Thus the event happened. This same
person finding her, on enquiry, artless, ignorant of the town, distressed
and unhappy, compassionated her situation, found her a home, and soon
afterwards married her. As her person was remarkably good, and she
appeared to have a turn and talent that way, it was resolved that she
should try her fortune on the stage, where she accordingly made her
appearance. There was an invincible impediment to her success, in a
certain defect of enunciation, which all her endeavours were unavailing
to overcome.

She accordingly left the stage, retaining the esteem of all the most
considerable performers, and without the slightest imputation on the
accuracy of her conduct. Ere long she was left a widow, and commenced
author.

At this period she was introduced to our Sexagenarian, and a familiar
acquaintance subsisted for some years between them.

Previous to this acquaintance, Elfrida had been so far unfortunate, that
her principal and most intimate connections, were among those who opposed
the measures of government, were warm friends of the French Revolution,
and some of them tainted with the contagion of the most extravagant
democracy.

She had also another error. She was herself of the Roman Catholic
persuasion; and whether the idea had been communicated from others, or
she had imbibed it from her own observations and course of reading, she
fancied that all the Ecclesiastics of the established church, of whatever
rank or situation, were remarkable only for sensuality or selfishness.
Among the various ingenious things which she published, these two most
absurd prejudices will be found exceedingly to predominate—an extravagant
conception of liberty, and a foolish misapprehension with respect to the
Clerical profession of different tenets from her own.

As it is said of those who are notorious for circulating falsehoods,
that they at last themselves believe what they propagate, so is it with
respect to errors and prejudices early received, and allowed for a long
continuance to influence the conduct; they are seldom if ever totally
laid aside.

Whether the conversation and society of our friend had any tendency
to meliorate her sentiments on these subjects, is uncertain, for the
acquaintance was interrupted by the removal of each to situations distant
from one another. Our memorandums inform us, that some exertions were
made to convince the Lady, that all Bishops were not sensualists; that
they did not confer distinctions and rewards inadvertently, and without
due discrimination; that virtue, piety, and learning, were to be found
in members of the English, as well as of the Roman church. Her love of
liberty was less likely to be prejudicial to the community, and when this
subject was introduced, it was without seriousness.

The other error of detracting from the value of a venerable body of men,
inasmuch as it violated the interests and the dignity of truth, tended
very considerably to diminish her reputation.

Elfrida’s publications were very numerous, and of different descriptions.
She wrote a great deal for the stage: in some of these attempts she was
eminently successful, in others she failed altogether. Some of her works
of imagination were exceedingly and deservedly popular, whilst others
were of the humblest pretension, and betrayed the extremest ignorance of
the characters she undertook to describe.

She managed, however, on the whole, to realize a very considerable sum of
money, which would have enabled her to enjoy the residue of life in ease
and independence. Unluckily, in some evil hour, a foolish and chimerical
dread of poverty took possession of her fancy, and had such influence
upon her mind, that she abruptly gave up her acquaintance, retired into
an obscure lodging, deprived herself of the ordinary comforts she might
well have afforded, and spent her time in the most sordid manner.

She had a brother, who, from feelings congenial with her own, scorned
the humbler employment of a farmer, and would not that the “horn should
any longer call him up in the morn.” Accordingly, he joined himself to a
company of strolling players. Here, after a time, he married one of the
party, an amiable and accomplished woman, and of considerable theatrical
talents. She appeared with reputation at many of the provincial theatres,
particularly at Bath, Norwich, and York. Her husband was a good-natured,
but imprudent man, of no abilities, being retained in the different
companies which they joined, principally on account of his wife’s merit.

It is believed that having involved himself in pecuniary difficulties, he
found it expedient to retire to the continent. He went to Hamburgh, where
being one day engaged in a dispute at a billiard-table, a duel ensued, in
which he forfeited his life. What became of his unfortunate wife is not
known.



    Vera incessu patuit dea.

CHAPTER LX.


It has been remarked, in the course of these Memoirs, that the manuscript
document from which the substance of what has been communicated was
drawn, was distinguished by any thing rather then regularity, or
chronological accuracy. Some pains have been taken in our progress, to
form the materials into shape, but not always to our satisfaction.

We come now to a remarkable proof, that these Memorandums were noted
down, as they presented themselves to the recollection, for the two
females about to be mentioned, should, in point of time, have taken the
lead of the class to which they belong. Both are mentioned in terms of no
ordinary esteem or regard. We shall first introduce


MRS. YATES.

To this distinguished lady, our Sexagenarian appears to have been
introduced, on his first arrival at the metropolis. He could not
well have been more fortunate, for at her house he immediately became
acquainted with some of the most distinguished literary characters of
the time. There he met Murphy, Home, the Author of Douglas, Richard
Cumberland, Hoole, the Translator of Ariosto, the Adelphi Adams, old
Macklin, Mrs. Lennox, Mrs. Brook, and various other eminent individuals,
all of whom, alas! have now paid the last awful debt of nature.

Of Mrs. Yates’s talents in her profession, it would be unavailing and
useless to speak here. The few who remember her, cannot but allow,
that in characters which required majesty, dignity of person, and of
manner, she was incomparable. It is rather our province in this place
to render the justice which is due to her pre-eminent intellectual
endowments, her very highly cultivated mind, her polished manners, her
graceful and elegant elocution, her urbanity, and universal benevolence.
It was utterly impossible for a young man, hitherto ignorant of the
world, and but little acquainted with the higher cast of society, to
have been placed in a better school. Where she took a liking, (and no
recommendation was so effectual to her as a desire of improvement) she
enjoyed a particular pleasure in making a young person acquainted with
those little, but inexplicable essentials, about which Lord Chesterfield
has written volumes, and which the French emphatically denominate
_petites morales_, _agremens_, and _bienseance_. Nobody understood them
better, or practised them with greater effect. She was particularly
partial to young clergymen, and as she was in no common degree delighted
with the church service, and remarkably punctual in her attendance at
public worship, she derived great satisfaction in instructing her young
friends in the art of reading with emphasis and effect. She herself read
the liturgy in the most impressive manner, and there were many clergymen
who were not reluctant to acknowledge, that if they possessed this
valuable accomplishment to any degree of excellence, it was imputable
principally to her suggestions, taste, and judgment.

For a considerable period, Mrs. Yates, in conjunction with her most
intimate and beloved friend, Mrs. Brook, (hereafter to be mentioned)
was manager of the Opera-house. Under the direction of their taste,
the undertaking flourished to no common degree. This circumstance also
increased the satisfaction of being an inmate at her house, which
consequently became the resort of many distinguished foreigners.

Mrs. Yates was, however, remarkably circumspect with respect to the
characters of those, whom she admitted, and at that period, gave no mean
proof of her discriminating sagacity, by the utter rejection of some
Italian and French miscreants, who, though their services were found
expedient in the Haymarket, could never find admission to the elegant
parties in Stafford-row. Some of these wretches afterwards conspicuously
signalized themselves on the theatre of the French Revolution, and
ultimately met the fate they richly deserved. The taste of this Lady was
remarkably correct, in her table, her furniture, her library, and indeed
in every thing.

At the period of her retiring from the stage, Mrs. Siddons was gradually
rising to the acme of public favour; but this did by no means excite in
her any thing like envy or discontent, and she on all occasions readily
bore testimony to the merit of her rival. On one occasion only, did she
express herself in a manner, which might have led the hearer to suspect,
that her opinion of Mrs. Siddons was not exactly conformable to that of
the public.—She was in a box at the theatre, on some occasion when Mrs.
Siddons appeared in one of her most popular characters, and immediately
behind her were two Gentlemen, who were extravagantly loud in their
applause. Among other specifications of her excellence, one of them
highly extolled her voice, observing that her voice was like that of a
man. Upon this, Mrs. Yates turned round, and said with a smile, “It is
the first time I ever heard it remarked, by way of compliment to a lady,
that her voice resembled that of a man.”

It seems indispensable in one, who knew her for many years with the
greatest familiarity of friendship, to render, as far as possible, an
act of justice. It was maliciously reported, and too generally believed,
(for the most unsupported calumnies, like the wildest aberrations from
the simplicity and purity of the gospel, are always certain of meeting
with friends and proselytes) that in the decline of life, she indulged in
habits of inebriety.

The writer of this article may boldly assert, that he never witnessed
the smallest appearance of any such irregularity, nor could discover any
propensity to improper indulgence of any kind. One fault she had, which,
with respect to the unfortunate object concerned, was attended with
very fatal consequences. Mr. Yates had a niece, who was educated at his
expence somewhere in France. On her removal to England, she was received
into the house of her uncle, and was a sort of humble companion to the
Lady.

Mrs. Yates was hasty and passionate, and, on the least provocation
from this poor girl, she would, by way of punishment, order her into
the kitchen. The consequence may easily be anticipated—she married the
footman. The calamities in which she was afterwards involved, exceed the
ordinary degrees of human suffering. She was discarded by her relations,
her husband turned out exceedingly worthless, and she was left a widow
and a beggar with several children.

Miss Yates had a brother, who was a lieutenant in the navy, an amiable
and ingenious man; but his story would carry us beyond our bounds, and
has little to do with our more immediate object. He was shot in his
attempts to get into his uncle’s house, to whose property he thought, as
heir at law, he had just claim. He also left a widow in distress. What
the ultimate fate was of these truly unhappy people, was not known when
this was written.

To return to Mrs. Yates. She was afflicted, towards the close of life,
by a most painful illness, and her sufferings were exceedingly severe.
She endured them with a pious and Christian-like constancy; regularly had
the prayers of the church read to her when she was not able to read them
herself, and died with the greatest composure and resignation.



    Hortus alat violis te volo, inde rosis.

CHAPTER LXI.


Mrs. Yates, in her last illness, and indeed for a considerable period
which preceded it, had the consolation and the society of her beloved
friend, Mrs. Brook. Her testimony, declared in the strongest and most
unequivocal manner, is also to be added to that of the narrative, in
contradiction of the aspersion on the fame of Mrs. Yates, to which there
has before been allusion.

Mrs. Brook was a very distinguished woman; she had excellent and
highly cultivated talents, and made the best use of them. She was
very highly esteemed by Dr. Johnson, who frequently visited her, and
she also reckoned among her friends, some of the most distinguished
literary characters of her time. The friendship between her and Mrs.
Yates, commenced at an early period, and was only terminated by death.
Her husband was Chaplain to the English garrison at Quebec, and she
accompanied him thither. Previously to her departure for Canada, she gave
an entertainment to her particular friends, among whom was Dr. Johnson.
On the breaking up of the company, the Doctor, with the rest, took leave
of their hostess with the customary good wishes. After a little interval,
the servant came to the drawing-room, to inform Mrs. Brook, that Dr.
Johnson wished to speak with her in the parlour below. She accordingly
went down to him. “Madam,” said the Doctor, on her entering the room,
with his usual solemnity of manner, “I thought I might never see you
again, so I wished to salute you before we parted, which I did not choose
to do before company.” The Doctor accordingly saluted her, and took his
leave. This anecdote was communicated to the writer by Mrs. Brook herself.

On her return from Canada, she wrote and published Emily Montague, which
was universally admired, as well for the story as for the very beautiful
descriptions of the scenery she had just visited. It is not, however,
intended in this place, nor indeed would it be expedient, to enter into
any critical discussion concerning this excellent woman’s various works.
They were all well received, except, perhaps, one or two of her pieces
for the stage. She had been on good terms with Garrick, but she conceived
that he had treated her ill, by the rejection of a tragedy; and though
one of the mildest and gentlest of human beings, she took her revenge in
a novel called “The Excursion.” She retired from the world on the death,
of her friend, Mrs. Yates, and finished her career at the house of her
son, who was a clergyman in Lincolnshire.

Her husband, Dr. Brook, was a very extraordinary personage, and in no
one instance bore the smallest resemblance to his partner. He was one
of the finest figures for an artist that can be imagined, having a
most impressive countenance, and hair as white as snow. He was one of
the greatest _bon vivants_ of his time, had considerable conversation
talents, and a very numerous circle of friends. But the deity of the
table was almost the only one he worshipped with consistent devotion, and
in pursuance of this object, he was a member of a club which was called
Number Six. It consisted of six members; they met at six in the evening,
and never parted till six in the morning.

Notwithstanding his habitual indulgence in the festivities of the table,
the old Gentleman lived to a very advanced age, and died within five days
of his wife.

The son was an amiable man, of no very remarkable talents, except for
music; he was an admirable performer on the German flute. He was
educated at St Paul’s school, from whence he went to Cambridge, and
afterwards to reside on a small piece of preferment purchased for him by
his mother. There he died early.



    Et sum pulchra licet, tabula imperfecta, reliquit
      Diffidens arti, me rude pictor opus.

CHAPTER LXII.


The manuscript now reverts to another, and a much more modern period, and
speaks of an individual, surely not less entitled both to admiration and
esteem, than any who have preceded.

When the name of J⸺ B⸺ is introduced, we do not apprehend that our friend
will incur the suspicion of being too lavish in his commendation, or will
be censured for being too circumstantial in his communication.

Unfortunately, there exist too few sources of intelligence. There is
but little more to detail, than that at a very early period, and long
before she was a candidate for literary fame and distinction, our
Sexagenarian met her familiarly at the house of her very excellent,
amiable, and accomplished brother, Dr. B.; as well as at other social
places of intercourse, where literary people were made welcome. The
great characteristic by which she was pre-eminently distinguished, was
an unaffected diffidence and modest reserve; not at all prominent in
conversation, always desirous of information, never making display of the
powers she herself possessed, but courteously and agreeably inviting the
unfolding of those sources of instruction, which she knew appertained to
others.

It does not appear that the high reputation she has deservedly acquired,
has in this particular at all diminished her claims to respect and
esteem. She bears her faculties meekly; or at least she did, when he who
writes had the opportunity of duly appreciating her estimable qualities.
Her talents are before the public; and if this work were intended as an
arena for the display of critical acumen, the opportunity would readily
be embraced, of paying the tribute of esteem which is most unaffectedly
felt, and in this place sincerely acknowledged. But we must be satisfied
with the declaration, that the short and passing acquaintance with J⸺ B⸺,
was a circumstance upon which the Sexagenarian has, in his manuscript
notices, expressed himself with particular earnestness of satisfaction.



    Les passions les plus violentes nous laissent quelquefois du
    relache, mais la vanité nous agite toujours.

CHAPTER LXIII.


The transition from J⸺a B⸺e, is to a female of as different a description
and character as can well be imagined. In making this assertion, we would
not, in the slightest degree, be understood to depreciate the merits, the
virtues, or the talents of


MRS. ⸺.

The Sexagenarian has taken occasion to speak of female personages equally
respectable in society, equally estimable for their talents, and perhaps
equally amiable in private life, but still as opposite as possible in
character, temper, and manners. Let the reader oppose in imagination,
Mrs. Cooper to Mrs. Yates, Mrs. Hannah More to Mrs. Wolstoncroft, Mrs.
Hayley to Mrs. Trimmer, and the only conclusion to be drawn is, that from
the mixed characters of life, we must extract as we can, what is useful,
convenient, and grateful.

The subject of Mrs. ⸺, therefore, who was known to the Sexagenarian from
childhood, is entered upon without feeling the necessity of apology, (if
any thing shall find its way from our notes not altogether acceptable)
to the Lady herself, if she may yet survive to read these Memoirs, or to
any of the numerous friends whom she has necessarily and meritoriously
acquired.

From a child she gave indications of talents above the ordinary level,
but her earliest propensity was for music, in which she soon became a
proficient; and in the provincial town where she resided, frequently
entertained and enlivened numerous parties with her concerts. From music
to poetry, the transition is natural and easy; she wrote, when very
young, many elegant and beautiful things, which perhaps have not been
excelled by any of the productions of her maturer years.

Her natural connections, her education, and the principles in which she
had been brought up, gave her an unavoidable predilection in favour of
those, who, on the breaking out of the French Revolution, vainly imagined
that a glorious opportunity was presenting itself, for the melioration of
the condition of mankind.

She was, however, steady and consistent, and did not, like her friends,
Mrs. Wolstonecroft and Helen Maria Williams, expose and disgrace
herself. On one occasion, indeed, her enthusiasm got the better both
of her prudence, and the natural delicacy of her sex. She attended the
trial of her admired—what shall we call him? Patriot!—Well then, Patriot,
if you please, Horne Tooke, for High Treason. When the verdict of “Not
guilty” was pronounced, she scrambled over seats and benches as she
could, and hastening to where he stood, kissed him in the public court.

When young, she was of a very lively and cheerful temper, of which
character her earliest compositions exhibited the amplest testimony.
It may be conjectured, that about this period, her sensibility and
tenderness must have received some very acute wounds, for almost all her
subsequent publications were of the most melancholy cast and tendency.
Misery, deep and dreadful misery, seemed alone to be her favourite
subject, to call forth all her talents, and to occupy the whole of her
imagination.

Her union with a celebrated artist, could not, as one should think, be
entirely congenial to her natural habits and propensities. They who knew
her from her childhood, held up their hands in astonishment; but Venus
delights in these vagaries. At his decease, it seemed for a time as if
other and higher destinies awaited her; but she was still a widow when
these Memorandums were committed to paper.

When it is added, by way of conclusion to this sketch, that she was
a most affectionate and dutiful daughter, warm and animated in her
attachments, lively and agreeable in conversation, steady and consistent
in her principles, if she could have known who it was that bore this
testimony in her favour, she would perhaps have been more than satisfied.

This also may tend to soften the resentment to which she may be inclined
to give way, when it is still further added, that the flattering
attentions she received from her childhood, so far spoiled her, that
whatever she does, or says, or writes, is somewhat tinged with vanity and
self-conceit, and that perhaps no more perfect picture was ever exhibited
in society, of a _Precieuse_.



    Ite procul, sacer est locus, ite profani.

CHAPTER LXIV.


Very high in the circles of taste and elegance, stood the female who is
next commemorated. Herself possessed of no inconsiderable portion of
talents of various kinds, she had the happy knack of bringing together,
on a very pleasant footing, the most distinguished literary characters.

At the house of Mrs. J. H. there were found once in every week, elegant
individuals of both sexes, whose acquaintance was generally cultivated
for their abilities, their knowledge, or their taste.

Horace Walpole, Chief Baron Macdonald, and his very accomplished wife,
Lady Louisa, Mrs. Montague, Mrs. Carter, Lady Henries, Joanna Baillie,
Sir Charles Blagden, Mr. Matthias, Dr. P. Russel, the Lady’s husband,
the eminent J. H⸺ her brother, the no less eminent E. H. with a long
catalogue of other names of greater or less celebrity.

They were for the most part conversation parties, though music was
occasionally introduced. The Lady Hostess possessed an excellent taste
for poetry, and at a certain period after the death of her husband,
published a very elegant octavo volume of her compositions. Of these,
many had been set to music, and became exceedingly popular; one in
particular, the “Song of the Dying Indian Chief,” was universally and
deservedly esteemed.

The society above alluded to, as has been slightly observed before, was
by certain sapient folks, treated with ridicule, and denominated a Blue
Stocking Club. It had nevertheless a very beneficial tendency. It was an
excellent school for good manners. It gave a pleasing and a useful bias
to the minds of young people, and of females in particular; encouraging
them, by seeing the deference paid to accomplished minds, to cultivate
their own. The conversation, though easy and unaffected, was always
of an instructive kind; and it was impossible to leave the meeting,
without gaining either knowledge, or at least a direction where farther
information on matters of science, might be obtained. The merits of new
books were discussed, the pursuits and designs of authors, literary
undertakings proposed; nor on the other hand, did there appear any thing
in the conduct or constitution of these meetings, to require or deserve
ridicule—very far the contrary.

The Lady President was lovely in her person, of the most captivating
manners, and on all occasions exhibited a salutary exemplar for the study
and imitation of the young people about her.

It is neither to be wondered, considering the spirit of the man, nor much
to be lamented, that she was not left in a state of affluence by her
husband; since the nation, by purchasing the truly curious and valuable
museum, collected by Mr. H. and arranged scientifically by him, with the
assistance of his brother-in-law, Mr. H. at the same time secured her
honourable independence, and provided for the public, an admirable school
of natural history and comparative anatomy.

We are fast approaching at length to the limits we had prescribed to
ourselves, for the discussion of these sketches of female biography. Not
that our catalogue is by any means exhausted—very far otherwise. In the
course of a protracted literary life, it appears from our notes, that
there were not many females who, by general consent, claimed and were
allowed ascendancy and distinction, on account of their talents, to whose
society, our Sexagenarian had not access. Indeed, the manuscript from
which these Memorials are derived, contain a number of anecdotes, the
communication of which would probably afford as much amusement as any
which may have preceded. But there is still such abundance of materials
before us, that compression seems beginning to be necessary. We shall
therefore close this head with a brief description of a Lady, who may
rank with the proudest and the highest, in the scale of intellectual
endowments; who has also afforded no unavailing assistance in works
requiring great and various erudition, sound judgment, and much critical
acuteness.

Though educated in the principles of Dissenters, she was in the early
part of her life engaged to be married to a clergyman, who was preceptor
to one of the branches of the Royal Family. He unfortunately died,
and she afterwards united herself to a Dignitary of the Church, whose
learning, abilities, and virtues, have since deservedly obtained for him
a seat upon the Episcopal Bench.

She was ever and invariably distinguished for the assiduous cultivation
of her mind, her extensive and various knowledge, and indeed for her
general love of literature; but she was more particularly remarkable for
her fondness of theological studies, in which she became an extraordinary
proficient. Indeed it has often been asserted, (nor has the assertion
ever been from authority contradicted) that a popular work on Prophecy
was very materially indebted, not merely to this Lady’s suggestions and
assistance, but that no inconsiderable portion of it was actually written
by her pen.

That she has composed many other things, there can be no doubt; and that
they are alike distinguished by extensive information, judgment, and
acuteness, must be equally certain. But this is not her only praise.
In the higher and more important offices of private life, she has done
honour to an elevated station, and effectually and usefully fulfilled
every duty in the circle of female obligation.



    Principibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est.

CHAPTER LXV.


We must now go back, and revert to the period at which we were, when the
expediency of introducing a discussion on the characters and qualities
of eminent female personages, suggested itself from our notes. Our
digression commenced at the time when we were about to notice, that
the presumed usefulness of our Sexagenarian’s literary labours and
pursuits, occasioned his being introduced to Archbishop Moore, to Bishops
Barrington, Porteus, Dampier, Tomline, and Burgess, &c. and others of the
Episcopal Bench. All treated him with kindness. Of all, if he has not
said it already, he has something to say, and of some not a little.

Of Archbishop Moore, the distance of rank was too great, and the
opportunities of forming any judgment too limited, for him to ascertain
much about the extent of his intellectual powers and accomplishments. But
there was a graciousness, an affability, a benevolence, tempered with
dignity, which could not fail strongly to impress, and effectually to
conciliate those who were admitted to his presence. There was, moreover,
obviously conspicuous, an ardent desire to discharge vigilantly and
accurately, the duties of his exalted station.

When the writer of these Recollections first saw him, the mighty monster
of the French Revolution was rearing its infernal brood of assassins,
infidels, and miscreants; and the Archbishop sagaciously foresaw and
predicted, the horrible calamities which would be produced, by letting
those hell-hounds loose upon society. It was his peculiar province and
duty, to guard against the circulation of the poison in this country,
as far as religion was concerned. He felt the full importance of his
station. The steady advocates of loyalty and truth, found in his Grace,
a friend, protector, and counsellor. He collected the ablest among
them under one banner, and by animating their zeal, encouraging their
efforts, and rewarding their exertions, formed a bulwark for the defence
and preservation of the church as connected with the state, which alike
defied the open and avowed attacks of foreign adversaries, and the more
formidable, because more disguised and secret, machinations of domestic
conspirators.

Peace to his memory. On the first introduction of our friend, he
anticipated him by graciously saying—“I know how assiduously and how
usefully you have exercised your time and talents, and acknowledge
your claim on the country and myself. Consider me as your friend.” He
testified his friendship and good opinion by something better than words.

Alike in their sense of the duties of their high stations, equally
attached to the constitution and ecclesiastical establishment of their
country, and resolved by every effort to support and defend both, in
the same degree administering protection and encouragement to those,
who in arduous and perilous times avowed their loyalty, and strenuously
vindicated their faith, Bishop B⸺, as far as talents and learning are
concerned, was cast in a yet higher mould. No further comparison need
be made. Without entering into any political disquisitions, which might
eventually lead to contrariety of opinions, it may be confidently
asserted in this place, without apprehension of dispute, that Bishop
B⸺’s character has been invariably and consistently, that of the
friend and patron of all who claimed his notice from the merits of
learning, talents, or virtue. In the different situations which he has
so honourably filled, his first care seems to have been to single out
those who merited his distinction, and without regard to the incidental
circumstances of rank, or external recommendation, to confer his favours
and his bounty, promptly and substantially upon them.

There are but few individuals who, within the last fifty years, have
been esteemed for their parts and learning, who have not been honoured
by his notice, and admitted to his table. But this is not all. His
Lordship has not unfrequently conferred rewards upon learned and useful
men, with no other knowledge of them than their works, communicated
with no other recommendation than their good name. Perhaps there is
not an instance beyond the limit of his own family, where there was
any excitement or inducement to the communication of his favours, but
the decided and unequivocal testimony of the merits or virtues of the
objects receiving them. This too at a time when it was too generally
understood, and it is to be feared too justly believed, that political
and parliamentary interest and interposition, presented almost the only
path to ecclesiastical promotion. The term _almost_ is used, because
there are some noble exceptions to the contrary in the conduct of Bishop
Porteus more particularly, hereafter to be mentioned, as well as of some
other ornaments to the Episcopal Bench.

But Bishop B⸺ must not be considered and estimated as the mere patron
of literature; he always and successfully cultivated it himself, was
ever deemed an excellent scholar; and the different Charges, Sermons,
and Tracts, which he has at various times given to the world, are to be
classed among our happiest specimens of elegance, purity, and simplicity
of diction.

If his Lordship had ever condescended to do, what is here, it is feared,
very imperfectly attempted, what an admirable miscellany he must have
produced. Having lived familiarly with the most learned, and most
eminent; learned himself, and by his example, courtesy, and affability,
inviting his friends to unfold their intellectual treasures, a Common
Place-Book from such a hand, must have afforded hints for many desirable
works; might have detected the sources of error, so as to prevent
their repetition, and correct their tendency; and must have preserved
innumerable anecdotes for the instruction and delight of posterity.

We leave this article very reluctantly, for nothing could be more easy,
from the knowledge communicated in these Recollections, of instances
on the part of the Bishop, of extraordinary zeal in the cause of
learning, and of most generous and benevolent interposition in behalf
of oppressed and suffering merit, than to extend these Remarks to an
almost indefinite length. No work of learning requiring patronage, which
promised illumination of what was before obscure, improvement of any
scientifical pursuits, increase of utility in any department of the arts,
was ever known to solicit Bishop B⸺’s countenance in vain. No case of
benevolence, where the circumstances claimed and merited assistance, ever
came before him without being relieved.

Two individuals who afterwards adorned the Episcopal Bench, were first
introduced to notice as his domestic chaplains. The stalls of Durham bear
strong and satisfactory evidence of his unlimited liberality in rewarding
learning and virtue. But we must turn aside from this agreeable and
cheering prospect, to contemplate another, which, if inferior at all in
any of the requisites to make a moral picture perfect, can only be so in
points of comparative unimportance.



    Quid favor aut cætus, pleni quid honoribus anni
    Profuerunt, sacris et vita quid artibus acta?
    Abstulit una dies ævi decus, ictaque luctu
    Conticuit Latiæ tristis facundia linguæ
    Unica sollicitis quondam tutela salusque:
                                      ille senatus
    Vindex, ille fori, legum ritusque togæque.

CHAPTER LXVI.


Mild, pious, good, and amiable, beneficent almost beyond example, candid
in the construction of error, lenient even to those whose conduct he
disapproved, but strenuous, firm, and courageous, in his vindication
of the causes of religion and loyalty; extensively, if not profoundly,
learned himself, but vigilant in discovering merit, anxious and generous
in the universal encouragement of science; active in promoting the cause
of benevolence, steady in his friendships, constant in his engagements,
extremely cautious of inspiring hopes which it was not his determined
purpose to gratify—such was Bishop Porteus; such is the impression of
his character and virtues in the breast of one who knew him, if it may
be permitted so to say, with great intimacy for twenty years; saw him
under different circumstances, which put his judgment, discernment, and
temper to the proof, and who never knew him in the least defective in
those essential qualities which ought to characterize a Christian Bishop.

Yet as all have their infirmities and failings, he was not without his.
He was timid with respect to the general opinion, and was sometimes
diverted from his purpose, by an impudent paragraph in a newspaper, or
by an anonymous letter. Altercation and dispute were so abhorrent from
his nature, that he has on certain occasions compromised his dignity,
to avoid them. But let that pass—he had no other weakness. Nothing so
delighted him as the communication of happiness, and the exercise of
benevolence. He who writes this, had on various occasions the high honour
of being his almoner; and it is really difficult to imagine, the remote
situations, and various circumstances of indigence, to which the stream
of his bounty was directed.

His situation as Metropolitan Bishop, exposed him to a prodigious
number of applications, from the poorer order of clergymen. London is
the point to which all direct their way, when matters have gone wrong
in the provinces, either from misfortune, misconduct, or disappointed
speculation. He attended to all, and relieved most. One peculiarity he
had, which his successors, however amiable, or deserving they may be,
would do well to imitate. He considered every clergyman as entitled to
personal respect and attention; nor did he ever permit any letter to
remain for more than a day unanswered. If he could not comply with the
solicitation, he tempered his refusal with kindness and complacency.
Nothing more highly gratified him, than an opportunity of indulging his
wishes and intentions with respect to those whom he allowed to look to
him with expectation.

In many instances he conferred preferment unexpected and unsolicited. The
present D. of C. had never been introduced to him, when he received a
letter, offering him the living of St. James’s, Westminster. He gave in
the same manner, one of the best Prebends of his Cathedral Church to Dr.
Paley. He was solely influenced, as he often said, in the first instance,
by the deserved reputation of Mr. A. as a preacher, and in the second by
the excellence and utility of Dr. Paley’s writings.

He demonstrated the very high estimation in which he held the venerable
Mrs. Carter, by bestowing preferment upon her nephew; and he marked the
great value which he put upon Mrs. Trimmer’s meritorious exertions and
literary labours, by conferring a similar favour upon her son. His noble
behaviour and generous intentions towards Dr. Beattie, are sufficiently
detailed in the life of that amiable man, and excellent writer, by
Forbes. He gave, with a very slight personal knowledge of the individual,
a considerable benefice to Mr. Twining, the learned Translator of
Aristotle’s Poetics, from no other inducement than his esteem for his
talents and erudition.

As a reward for protracted, active, and useful service, in the
laborious office of Curate of Fulham, he bestowed a valuable living
upon ⸺, the Secretary of the Bible Society. Many, a great many other
instances of the kind, might easily be specified; indeed it was very
obvious to all who knew him, that having provided for those to whom
the ties of consanguinity and relationship, gave claims upon him, his
earnest employment was to seek out those, who for their piety, their
usefulness, or their learning, were suitable objects of his patronage.
There is probably no example, at least in modern times, of any Prelate’s
distinguishing, with such solid marks of kindness, so great a number of
literary characters.

His last act of beneficence of this kind, was that perhaps which most of
all occasioned his judgment to be called in question; but his motives
were as pure, and his intentions as laudable, as in any instance,
in which he had ever been called upon to exercise his discretion. He
had often and seriously lamented, that Oriental literature was not
sufficiently cultivated by those who were destined for the ministerial
office in the church, and he always wished for an opportunity of
demonstrating his wishes and feelings on this subject.

About the year 1808, a person was introduced to him who had been born in
Prussia, educated in Koningsberg, and had a licence for preaching granted
him according to the ecclesiastical ceremonies of that country. He was
afterwards elected by the people of Dantzick to the situation of Pastor
to the Evangelical German Community settled at Smyrna.

Here he employed his leisure in the study of the Oriental languages, and
here also he learned English; and having occasionally been permitted
to perform the duty in English, at the chapel of that nation, he was
afterwards appointed to that office by the Levant Company. From Smyrna
he visited Egypt, from thence went to Syria and Jerusalem, and the more
memorable places specified in Scripture. He next visited Damascus,
Balbec, and the monastery of St. John. From thence he travelled to
Tripoli and Aleppo, and visiting some of the Islands in his way,
returned to Smyrna by sea. Having resided here some time, he went to
Constantinople, and indulging his curiosity with respect to all the
Greek islands of repute, he again returned to Smyrna. In 1795, he was
introduced to Mr. Wilbraham, in whose company he examined the site of
ancient Babylon, and crossing the Euphrates and the Tigris, visited
Bagdad. From Bagdad the travellers made a journey through Hamedan, the
ancient Ecbatana, to Ispahan, and to Persepolis and Shiraz. From the
last place they went to Bussorah, and crossing the desart, after various
deviations in different directions, once more took up his abode at Smyrna.

His subsequent adventures were not a little extraordinary. A dreadful
insurrection of the Turkish mob compelled him to leave Smyrna, from which
place he departed with two pupils, on his way to Europe, on board an
Imperial ship. They had hardly entered the Adriatic gulph, before they
were taken by a Tripoline corsair, and carried to Modor. At Modor he and
his pupils were released by an English renegado, who had the command of
the Tripoline squadron, and who remembered having seen them at Smyrna.

From Modor, therefore, they took their departure for Zante; but the
French, who were then masters of the Seven Islands, detained them as
prisoners of war. They were carried before General Chabot at Corfu,
who treated them with civility, and gave them permission to proceed to
Venice; thence they got to Vienna, Berlin, Hamburgh, and finally to
England.

At this point, and not without reason, the individual, from whose short
account of himself, printed at the Bishop’s expence, and distributed to
his friends, this is taken, emphatically exclaims,

“How happy was I to see that most enviable country!”

In England he had recommendations from the Levant Company to the Bishop
of London.

The sequel is very short. In this person the good and amiable Bishop
thought he had found the very man he wanted, viz. one who was well versed
in the Oriental languages, and who, with suitable encouragement, would
devote his time and knowledge to the elucidation of Scripture.

He did not perhaps consider that other qualities are indispensably
necessary for this high and important office, than the mere knowledge
of Arabic, with some acquaintance with Syriac, in addition to having
personally visited many of the places described in Scripture. Be this
as it may, the most desirable living in his diocese becoming vacant,
one which had been filled at different times by some of the greatest
ornaments of the church, he gave it to this same personage. It would
be invidious to enter into any discussion on the merits of the person
who was thus distinguished; but it may be observed, that the good
Bishop’s views do not appear to have been altogether answered. Two
things are certain:—first, that no publication has yet appeared from
this quarter, illustrative of the Sacred Writings, or demonstrative of
intimate acquaintance with the Oriental languages; and secondly, that
much discontent was excited by this proceeding among the clergy of the
diocese, who very naturally suggested the enquiry, whether there was not
among those who were personally known to the Bishop; whose services to
the church had been conspicuous, their utility manifest, their talents
exercised, and their merits proved, any one, upon whom this mark of
favour would not have been more consistently and more properly bestowed.

It must be perfectly unnecessary to enter into any critical discussion
of the Bishop’s merits as a writer. His works have been long before
the public, and universally admired for their force and elegance. As a
preacher he was incomparable, and so evidently felt every syllable he
uttered, that he could not fail, nor did he ever fail, to make the most
strong and lasting impression on his hearers. For other and more detailed
particulars of his life, the reader is referred to the Biographical
Sketch of Archdeacon Hodgson. One or two things present themselves to
the recollection, which, as they have not a place in that volume, may be
admitted here. They were communicated, it seems, to the Sexagenarian by
the Bishop himself.

When at Cambridge, and just after being admitted into orders, he made
several efforts to obtain a curacy, but in vain. He used with much
good humour to relate the circumstance, which it did not become him,
he observed, to forget, that there was a time when he did not possess
interest enough to obtain a curacy. At length, it was proposed to him to
read prayers to the family of the Maynards, at Easton Lodge. This was
a considerable distance from Cambridge, but he was so pleased with the
appointment, that, to use his own words used to say, “I thought I had got
a Bishopric.”

After having been Bishop of Chester for many years, in which interval he
used laughingly to say, he had never interest enough to procure a good
Cheshire cheese, he was appointed to the Bishopric of London, not only
without any solicitation on his own part, or on that of his friends, but
without the most remote expectation of such an event. He was sitting
after tea in the garden with Mrs. Porteus, at his favourite place of
retirement in Kent, when a letter arrived from Mr. Pitt, notifying the
appointment.

Notwithstanding the obligation which he always avowed to the Queen,
whose Bishop he was customarily, and perhaps not improperly called,
he certainly, on one occasion at least, had the firmness to refuse
compliance with a Royal recommendation, in favour of an individual, who
was not in his judgment adequate to fulfil the duties of the situation
required.

Much more was said in the Manuscript on the subject of this excellent
personage, but as it appeared to be rather expressive of private feeling
and individual attachment, than to comprehend further and interesting
anecdotes, it is here omitted.


END OF VOL. I.

_Printed by R. & R. Gilbert, St. John’s Square, London._



FOOTNOTES


[1] It must not be forgotten that this was long since written.

[2] In allusion to the Bacchanalian women, who struck every one they met
with a Thyrsus;—oppose them, they will hit the oftener.

[3] _Aliter._

Leave in the sacred retreats of science some shelter to wise and good
men, disgusted with the view of surrounding crimes, and alarmed at the
prospect of impending woes.

_Or thus_,

Leave some shelter to the contemplative scholar and the dispassionate
philosophist.

[4] It is to be remembered that these memoranda were written in
some situation remote from the metropolis, and some time after the
Sexagenarian had lived in obscure retirement.

[5] The reader is again reminded, that the manuscript which speaks thus,
was written many years since.




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