We have been delighted with the perusal of this book, and consider it
one of the most instructive as well as one of the most amusing of
autobiographies. The ruling feature of the work is candor--a candor of
the rarest and noblest description. The author has not scrupled, or
even hesitated, in a single instance to declare, without
prevarication, the truth and the whole truth, however little
redounding to his own credit. Nor in the details so frankly laid
before the eye of the public, are the many--very many other excellent
qualities less manifest, which have exalted the autobiographer to so
enviable a station in the opinions of his fellow-citizens. In the
whole private and public course of Mr. Mathew Carey, from that
chivalrous Essay against Duelling, of which he has rendered so amusing
an account in the commencement of his "Life," to the more important
yet equally Quixottic publication of the Olive Branch, the strictest
scrutiny can detect nothing derogatory to the character of "the
noblest work of God, an honest man." His energy, his high-mindedness,
and his indomitable perseverance, will force themselves upon the most
casual observer. It is not surprising that, with qualifications so
well adapted for success in life, Mr. C. should have been enabled
finally to set at defiance the innumerable obstacles which obstructed
his path. Indeed, although few men have labored under greater
incidental disadvantages, very few have been better prepared to
overcome them by both moral and physical constitution.
There is much in these Memoirs of Mr. Carey, which will bring to the
mind of the reader Benjamin Franklin, his shrewdness, his
difficulties, and his indefatigability. It is therefore almost
unnecessary to add, that apart from its other merits, the
Autobiography now before us has all the value so unequivocally due to
_good example_. Its perusal cannot well fail of having a salutary
effect upon those who struggle with adversity--of imparting a salutary
strength to all who grow feeble under the pressure of the innumerable
harassing cares which encumber and weigh so ponderously upon the "man
of the world." It may, indeed, if rightly considered, have a still
more beneficial influence. It may incite to good deeds. It may induce
a love of our fellow-men, in many bosoms hitherto self-hardened
against the urgent demands of philanthropy. What so likely to bring
about a kindly spirit in any human heart as the contemplation of a
kindly spirit in others?
It is perhaps already known to many that Mr. Carey was born in Dublin
in 1760. His hatred of oppression, which broke out, as early as his
seventeenth year, in the "Essay against Duelling," to which we have
already alluded, and which, in 1779, rendered him obnoxious to the
British Government, and forced him into a temporary exile, at length,
in 1784, made it necessary for him to abandon his country altogether,
and seek an asylum in America. He arrived in Philadelphia, greatly
embarrassed in his pecuniary circumstances; and an incident by means
of which he obtained relief, has proved of so deep interest to
ourselves, that we cannot but think it may prove equally so to our
readers. We copy the following from page 10 of the Autobiography.
Behold me now landed in Philadelphia, with about a dozen guineas in my
pocket, without relation, or friend, and even without an acquaintance,
except my _compagnons de voyage_, of whom very few were eligible
associates.
While I was contemplating a removal into the country, where I could
have boarded at about a dollar or a dollar and a quarter a week,
intending to wait the arrival of my funds, a most extraordinary and
unlooked-for circumstance occurred, which changed my purpose, gave a
new direction to my views, and, in some degree, colored the course of
my future life. It reflects great credit on the Marquess de La
Fayette, who was then at Mount Vernon, to take leave of Gen.
Washington. A young gentleman of the name of Wallace, a fellow
passenger of mine, had brought letters of recommendation to the
General; and having gone to his seat to deliver them, fell into the
Marquess's company, and in the course of conversation, the affairs of
Ireland came on the tapis. The Marquess, who had, in the Philadelphia
papers, seen an account of my adventures with the Parliament, and the
persecution I had undergone, inquired of Wallace, what had become of
the poor persecuted Dublin printer? He replied, "he came passenger
with me, and is now in Philadelphia," stating the boarding house where
I had pitched my tent. On the arrival of the Marquess in this city, he
sent me a billet, requesting to see me at his lodgings, whither I
went. He received me with great kindness; condoled with me on the
persecution I had undergone; inquired into my prospects;--and having
told him that I proposed, on receipt of my funds, to set up a
newspaper, he approved the idea, and promised to recommend me to his
friends, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimons, &c. &c. After half an
hour's conversation, we parted. Next morning, while I was at
breakfast, a letter from him was handed me, which, to my very great
surprise, contained four one hundred dollar notes of the Bank of North
America. This was the more extraordinary and liberal, as not a word
had passed between us on the subject of giving or receiving, borrowing
or lending money. And a remarkable feature in the affair was, that the
letter did not contain a word of reference to the enclosure.
In the course of the day I went to his lodgings, and found that he
had, an hour or two previously, departed for Princeton, where Congress
then sat, having been in some measure driven from Philadelphia, by a
mutiny {204} among the soldiers, who were clamorous for their pay, and
had kept them in a state of siege for three hours in the State House.
I wrote to him to New York, whither, I understood, he had gone from
Princeton, expressive of my gratitude in the strongest terms, and
received a very kind and friendly answer.
I cannot pass over this noble trait in the character of the
illustrious Marquess, without urging it strongly on the overgrown
wealthy of our country, as an example worthy of imitation. Here was a
foreign nobleman, who had devoted years of the prime of his life, and
greatly impaired his fortune, in the service of a country, separated
by thousands of miles distance from his native land. After these
mighty sacrifices, he meets, by an extraordinary accident, with a poor
persecuted young man, destitute of friends and protectors--his heart
expands towards him--he freely gives him means of making a living
without the most remote expectation of return, or of ever again seeing
the object of his bounty. He withdraws from the city to avoid the
expression of the gratitude of the beneficiary. I have more than once
assumed, and I now repeat, that I doubt whether in the whole life of
this (I had almost said) unparalleled man, there is to be found any
thing, which, all the circumstances of the case considered, more
highly elevates his character.[1]
[Footnote 1: It is due to myself to state, that though this was in
every sense of the word a gift, I regarded it as a loan, payable to
the Marquess's countrymen, according to the exalted sentiment of Dr.
Franklin, who, when he presented a bill for ten pounds to the Rev. Mr.
Nixon, an Irish Clergyman, (who was in distress in Paris, and wanted
to migrate to America,) told him to pay the sum to any Americans whom
he might find in distress, and thus "_let good offices go round_." I
fully paid the debt to Frenchmen in distress--consigned one or two
hogsheads of tobacco to the Marquess, (I believe it was two, but am
uncertain,) and, moreover, when in 1824, he reached this country, with
shattered fortunes, sent him to New York, a check for the full sum of
four hundred dollars, which he retained till he reached Philadelphia,
and was very reluctant to use, and finally consented only at my
earnest instance.]
The annexed little anecdote, which Mr. Carey justly considers an
instance of the truest pathos, we must be pardoned for inserting as an
appropriate _pendant_ to the above.
To an importunate mendicant, whom I had sometimes relieved, I said one
day, on giving him a trifle--"_Do not let me see you again for a long
time._" He conformed to the direction, and refrained from applying for
about seven months. At length he ventured to bring and hand me a
billet, of which I annex a copy verbatim et literatim.
"Sir--You desired me, last time you relieved me, not to call _for a
long time_. It was a few days after Easter. To a wretch in distress
'_it is a very long time_.'
Yours gratefully,