The vicissitudes of fortune, of principles, and of conduct, which
characterised the individual above introduced, not improbably brought to
the recollection of the Sexagenarian, another personage of still more
eccentric and contradictory qualities. For immediately succeeding the
above sketch, after the erasure of some lines, in which occur the words
_inconsistency_, _unprincipled_, _uncommonly good luck_, we find the
following observations:—
I have often regretted that on leaving his society, I did not constantly
write down the good things said by JOHN WILKES. I transcribe from
memory these few particulars concerning him, and I may perhaps hereafter
increase the catalogue.
He was really a sad dog, but most delightfully amusing, facetious, witty,
well-informed, and with much various, though not profound learning.
He was sometimes so intolerably sarcastic, and more particularly at the
expence of his friends in the city, that the wonder is, how he could
so long continue in their good graces. He never put any restraint upon
himself, when in company, on the other side of Temple-bar, but indulged
in all the satire of his wit, at the citizen’s expence. A few examples,
among a hundred that could easily be given, may suffice.
When confined in the King’s Bench, he was waited upon by a deputation
from some ward in the city, when the office of alderman was vacant. As
there had already been great fermentation on his account, and much more
apprehended, they who were deputed, undertook to remonstrate with Wilkes
on the danger to the public peace, which would result from his offering
himself as a candidate on the present occasion, and expressed the hope
that he would at least wait till some more suitable opportunity presented
itself. But they mistook their man; this was with him an additional
motive for persevering in his first intentions. After much useless
conversation, one of the deputies at length exclaimed, “Well, Mr. Wilkes,
if you are thus determined, we must take the sense of the ward.” “With
all my heart,” replied Wilkes, “I will take the non-sense, and beat you
ten to one.”
Upon another occasion, Wilkes attended a city dinner, not long after his
promotion to city-honours. Among the guests was a noisy vulgar deputy, a
great glutton, who, on his entering the dinner room, always with great
deliberation took off his wig, suspended it on a pin, and with due
solemnity put on a white cotton night-cap. Wilkes, who certainly was a
high-bred man, and never accustomed to similar exhibitions, could not
take his eyes from so strange and novel a picture. At length, the deputy,
with unblushing familiarity, walked up to Wilkes, and asked him whether
he did not think that his night-cap became him? “Oh! Yes, Sir,” replied
Wilkes, “but it would look much better if it was pulled quite over your
face.”
Wilkes’s dislike of the Scotch was sufficiently notorious, yet he was
very partial to Boswell, and often sought his society. I dined with him
once, (_loquitur Sexagenarius noster_) when, among some enlightened
people, was present a heavy, stupid, consequential fellow, who held
some city office, and who often, in the course of the conversation,
treated Wilkes with much rudeness. It seemed that Wilkes and Boswell
had met in Italy, and had ascended to the top of Vesuvius together.
They recapitulated various circumstances of their expedition with much
pleasantness and good-humour: and among other things, Boswell reminded
Wilkes, with no ordinary satisfaction, of the exquisite Lacryma Christi,
which they had found at a hermitage for the accommodation of travellers,
half-way up the mountain: “Pray brother Wilkes,” said the citizen, “what
is Lacryma Christi?” The answer which is here omitted, joined the most
perfect wit, to the grossest blasphemy.
But neither would Wilkes spare Boswell, or conceal before him his
prejudices against the Scotch nation. He seemed to seize, with particular
avidity, every opportunity to play upon Boswell, when any thing relating
to Scotland was introduced. “You must acknowledge, my friend Wilkes,”
observed Boswell one day, “that the approach to Edinburgh from the London
road, presents a very picturesque and interesting picture.” “Why so it
perhaps may,” returned Wilkes, “but when I was there, the wind was in my
face, and it brought with it such a confounded stink, that I was obliged
to keep my handkerchief to my nose, the whole of the way, and could see
nothing of the prospect.”
Not long afterwards, Boswell was speaking of some Scotch nobleman, who
was very fond of planting, and had ornamented his domain with some very
fine and beautiful forest-trees. “Where could this possibly be,” said
Wilkes; “I travelled through the country with an American servant, and
after we had visited various places in different parts of Scotland, I
enquired of him what his general opinion was of the country?” “Oh, Sir!”
replied the American, “it is _finely cleared_.”
There was a heavy Lord Mayor in Wilkes’s time, who, by persevering
steadily in the pursuit of one object, accumulated an immense fortune,
and rose progressively from the dignity of Common-councilman to the
State-coach, and the Mansion-house. His first entrance into life was as a
common bricklayer. At one of the Old Bailey dinners, his lordship, after
a sumptuous repast on turbot and venison, was eating an immense quantity
of butter with his cheese—“Why brother,” said Wilkes, “you lay it on with
a _trowel_.”
There is a singular anecdote of this same Lord Mayor, demonstrative of
the parsimonious principles, by the exercise of which he doubtless rose
to opulence. His only son was brought up in the same mean profession, and
one day fell from a scaffold, and was killed by the fall. The father, who
was present, on seeing the accident, only exclaimed, “Take care of his
watch.”
In the riots of the year 1780, which at the same time endangered and
disgraced the metropolis, Wilkes was lamenting the ungovernable violence
of a London mob;—upon this, some brother citizen took him up shortly,
and reminded him of the disturbances of which he had formerly been the
occasion. “Sir,” returned Wilkes, “I never was a Wilkite.”
He was not apt to express outwardly any thing like chagrin or
mortification, but he certainly took his disappointment at Brentford,
the last time that he offered himself as candidate for Middlesex, very
heavily to heart. “I should much have liked,” he would say, “to have died
in my geers.” Upon a similar occasion he exclaimed, “I can only compare
myself to an exhausted volcano.”
Among other peculiarities and contradictions which marked Wilkes’s
character, was a passion he had for collecting bibles, of which he
had certainly obtained a great number of curious editions. But he was
nevertheless consistent in his profligacy, and whenever the subject of
religion or scripture was introduced, treated both with the keenest
ridicule.
He called one morning upon a friend who resided in a very close and
retired situation in the city, but who had a small opening before his
house, of a few yards square, and two plants, which once looked like
lilacs, in large tubs, adorned his windows. Men were employed in painting
the outside of the house. “Brother,” said Wilkes to his friend, “suffer
me to plead in behalf of these two poor lilacs in the tubs; pray let them
be painted too.”
Wilkes was particularly fond of the society of learned men, though not by
any means profoundly erudite himself. On some distinguished Greek scholar
being named to him, he expressed a great desire to have his acquaintance.
“Pray make me know him,” says Wilkes, “and tell him I should very much
like pergræcari[1] with him.” To which the person alluded to would have
made no kind of objection.
There were other broken and unfinished scraps in the Manuscript about
Wilkes, which in appearance were intended to revive the recollection of
circumstances to be detailed at some hour of leisure. There is, however,
this remark at the end.
Wilkes was of that distinguished eminence for facetiousness and humour,
it may indeed be said for wit, that it was the fashion of the day to
ascribe any very striking and popular bon mot to him, and about the time
of his disappearing from the stage, to him or Jekyll. They have both, in
all probability, had the reputation of saying what neither of them ever
uttered; though both were eminently distinguished for saying naturally
and unaffectedly innumerable good things.
A few of these children of questionable parentage are preserved. No
matter to which of the above, or to whom, they belong.
Querist.—Where, observed a Roman Catholic, in warm dispute with
a Protestant, where was your religion before Luther?
Q. Did you wash your face this morning?
A. Yes.
Q. Where was your face before it was washed?
* * * * *
I wish you at the devil, said somebody to Wilkes.
I don’t wish you there.
Why.
Because I never wish to meet you again.
* * * * *
Where the devil do you come from? said Wilkes, to a beggar in
the Isle of Wight.
From the devil.
What is there going on there?
Much the same as here.
What’s that?
The rich taken in, and the poor kept out.
The following may with greater probability be assigned to Jekyll than to
Wilkes.
Your friend N. is married.
To whom?
The tall Miss G.
What to that thin lankey piece of furniture: it could not be
from the lust of the flesh, for she has not an ounce upon her.
* * * * *
At a dinner where great satisfaction was expressed, it was
facetiously proposed that the president should proceed to the
kitchen, and kiss the cook.
That, observed ⸺, would be a salute at Spithead.
* * * * *
When a certain popular nobleman was appointed to the green
ribband, he met his facetious friend, who warmly congratulated
him on his new dignity, and green ribband. Yes, said the
nobleman, but you will find me the same man still. Why, then
returned the wit, you shall be the Green Man and Still.
A pert young lady was walking one morning on the Steyne, at
Brighton, when she encountered our facetious friend. You see,
Mr. ⸺, I am come out for a little sun and air.
You had better, Madam, get a little husband first.
The above are a few of the facetious apopthegms, which seemed, in the
opinion of the Sexagenarian to merit preservation. There are others in
the Manuscript, but they are either more familiar, or less interesting.
Contrasted to the above, are two extraordinary instances of ignorance,
which appear to have been written down as marvellous examples of a total
want of comprehension and intelligence.
A woman of decent appearance came into a stationer’s shop, where the
Sexagenarian was present, and desired to purchase a pen, for which she
paid a penny. On receiving it, she returned it with the observation, that
it was good for nothing. Another was given her, but she gave this also
back again, with the same remark. On being asked what fault she had to
find with them—“Why how,” she returned, “could they possibly be good for
any thing, when both had a slit at the end.”
The other instance is no less curious, and also happened in the presence
of our friend.
A female came into a bookseller’s shop with a slip of paper in her hand,
upon which was written a verse from Scripture, with the proper reference
to the place from whence it was taken.
“I want,” said she, “_the sermon_ on that text, and two of my neighbours
will each be glad of one also.” The bookseller surprised, enquired whose
sermon it was. “Our curate’s,” she replied, “and he preached it last
Sunday.” On being asked whether she knew if it had been printed, she was
a little displeased, and pettishly observed, “how could it be preached
if it had not been printed.” No explanation or remonstrance availed to
satisfy, and she left the shop, convinced that the bookseller could, if
he had thought proper, have accommodated her with what she wanted.
Temeritas est videlicet florentis ætatis, prudentia senescentis.
Adolescentia sola est invalida viribus, infirma consiliis,
vitio calens, fastidiosa monitoribus, illecebrosa deliciis.