1845--1852.
University life is apt to exert a strong influence upon a man's career.
It comes at the age at which there is probably the most susceptibility
to new impressions. The physical growth is over, and the almost
exclusive craving for exercise and sport is lessening; there is more
voluntary inclination to intellectual application, and the mind begins
to get fair play. There is also a certain liberty of choice as to the
course to be taken and the persons who shall become guides, and this
renders the pupilage a more willing and congenial connection than that
of the schoolboy: nor is there so wide a distance in age and habits
between tutor and pupil as between master and scholar.
Thus it is that there are few more influential persons in the country
than leading University men, for the impress they leave is on the flower
of English youth, at the very time of life when thought has come, but
action is not yet required. At the same time the whole genius loti,
the venerable buildings with their traditions, the eminence secured
by intellect and industry, the pride that is taken in the past and
its great men, first as belonging to the University, and next to the
individual college, all give the members thereof a sense of a dignity to
keep up and of honour to maintain, and a certainty of appreciation and
fellow-feeling from the society with which they are connected.
The Oxford of Patteson's day was yet untouched by the hand of
reformation. The Colleges were following or eluding the statutes of
their founders, according to the use that had sprung up, but there had
been a great quickening into activity of intellect, and the religious
influences were almost at their strongest. It was true that the master
mind had been lost to the Church of England, but the men whom he and his
companions had helped to form were the leaders among the tutors, and the
youths who were growing up under them were forming plans of life, which
many have nobly carried out, of unselfish duty and devotion in their
several stations.
Balliol had, under the mastership of Dr. Jenkyns, attained preeminence
for success in the schools, and for the high standard required of its
members, who formed 'the most delightful society, the very focus of
the most stimulating life of the University,' within those unpretending
walls, not yet revivified and enlarged.
Here Coleridge Patteson came to reside in the Michaelmas term of 1845;
beginning with another attempt for the scholarship, in which he was
again unsuccessful, being bracketed immediately after the fourth with
another Etonian, namely, Mr. Hornby, the future head-master, His friend,
Edmund Bastard, several of his relations, and numerous friends had
preceded him; and he wrote to his sister Fanny:--
'You cannot think what a nice set of acquaintance I am gradually
slipping into. Palmer and myself take regular familiar walks; and
Riddell, another fellow who is the pet of the College, came up the other
evening and sat with me, and I breakfast with them, and dine, &c. The
only inconvenience attaching itself to such a number of men is, that
I have to give several parties, and as I meant to get them over before
Lent, I have been coming out rather strong in that line lately, as the
pastry-cook's bill for desserts will show in good time.
'I have been asked to play cricket in the University eleven, and have
declined, though not without a little struggle, but cricket here,
especially to play in such matches as against Cambridge, &c., entails
almost necessarily idleness and expense.'
The struggle was hardly a little one to a youth whose fame in the
cricket field stood so high, and who was never happy or healthy
without strong bodily exercise. Nor had he outgrown his taste for this
particular sport. Professor Edwin Palmer (alluded to above) describes
him as at this time 'a thorough public schoolboy, with a full capacity
for enjoying undergraduate society and undergraduate amusements, though
with so fond a recollection of Eton that to some of us he hardly seemed
to appreciate Oxford sufficiently.'
Again, Mr. Roundell (his late adversary at Lord's) says: 'He was a
reluctant and half-interested sojourner was ever looking back to the
playing-fields of Eton, or forward to the more congenial sphere of a
country parish.' So it was his prime pleasure and glory that he
thus denied himself, though not with total abstinence, for he played
occasionally. I remember hearing of a match at Ottery, where he was one
of an eleven of Coleridge kith and kin against the rest of Devon. His
reputation in the field was such that, many years later, when he chanced
to be at Melbourne at the same time with the champion English eleven,
one of the most noted professional cricketers, meeting him in the
street, addressed him confidentially, 'I know, sir, the Bishop of
Melbourne does not approve of cricket for clergymen in public, but if
you would meet me in private at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and let
me give you a few balls, it would be a great satisfaction!'
Some resolution thus was required to prevent cricket from becoming a
tyrant, as so often befalls those whose skill renders them valuable.
Tennis became Coley's chief recreation, enabling him to work off his
superfluous energy at the expense of far less time than cricket matches
require, and in this, as in everything active, he soon excelled.
As to the desserts upon which the young men in turn were spending a good
deal out of mere custom, harmlessly enough, but unnecessarily; as soon
as the distress of the potato famine in Ireland became known, Patteson
said, 'I am not at all for giving up these pleasant meetings, but why
not give up the dessert?' So the agreement was made that the cost should
for the present be made over to the 'Irish fund.'
Another friend of this period, now well known as Principal Shairp of St.
Andrews', was then in the last year of a five years' residence. He has
been kind enough to favour me with the following effective sketch of
Coley as an undergraduate:--
'Patteson as he was at Oxford, comes back to me, as the representative
of the very best kind of Etonian, with much good that he had got from
Eton, with something better, not to be got at Eton or any other school.
He had those pleasant manners and that perfect ease in dealing with men
and with the world which are the inheritance of Eton, without the least
tincture of worldliness. I remember well the look he then had, his
countenance massive for one so young, with good sense and good feeling,
in fact, full of character. For it was character more than special
ability which marked him out from others, and made him, wherever he was,
whether in cricket in which he excelled, or in graver things, a centre
round which others gathered. The impression he left on me was of quiet,
gentle strength and entire purity, a heart that loved all things true
and honest and pure, and that would always be found on the side of
these. We did not know, probably he did not know himself, the fire of
devotion that lay within him, but that was soon to kindle and make him
what he afterwards became.'
In truth he was taking deep interest in the religious movement, though
in the quiet unexcited way of those to whom such doctrines were only the
filling out of the teachings of their childhood. He was present at that
sermon on the 'Entire Absolution of the Penitent,' with which, on the
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, 1846, Dr. Pusey broke his enforced silence
of three years.
The same evening Coley wrote to his sister Fanny:--
'I have just returned from University sermon, where I have been
listening with great delight to Pusey's sermon on the Keys for nearly
two hours. His immense benevolence beams through the extreme power
of his arguments, and the great research of his inquiry into all the
primitive writings is a most extraordinary matter, and as for the
humility and prayerful spirit in which it was composed, you fancied he
must have been on his knees the whole time he was writing it. I went
early to Christ Church, where it was preached, and, after pushing
through such a crowd as usually blocks up the entrance into Exeter Hall,
I found on getting into the Cathedral that every seat was occupied.
However, standing to hear such a man was no great exertion, and I never
was so interested before. It will probably be printed, so that you
will have no occasion for any remarks of mine. It is sufficient that he
preached the doctrine to my mind in an invincible manner.' The letter
has a postscript--'Easter vacation will be from three weeks to a month.
Hurrah! say I; now a precious deal more glad am I to leave Oxford for
the holidays than Eton, though Feniton is better than either.'
Even in the last undergraduate year, the preference for Eton remained as
strong as ever. Coley intended to remain at Oxford to read for honours
through great part of the Long vacation; and after refreshing himself
with a run to Eton, he wrote:--
'Now for a very disagreeable contrast, but still I shall find great
interest in my work as I go on, and reading books for the second or
third time is light work compared to the first stodge at them. I am,
however, behindhand with my work, in spite of not having wasted much
time here.... I really don't see my way through the mass of work before
me, and half repent having to go up for class.
'...I went to the opera on Tuesday, but was too much taken up by Eton to
rave about it, though Grisi's singing and acting were out and out; but,
in sober earnest, I think if one was to look out simply for one's
own selfish pleasure in this world, staying at Eton in the summer is
paradise. I certainly have not been more happy, if so happy, for years,
and they need no convincing there of my doting attachment to the place.
I go down to Eton on Election Saturday and Sunday for my last enjoyment
of it this year; but if I am well and nourishing in the summer of 1849,
and all goes right with me, it is one of the jolliest prospects of my
emancipation from the schools to think of a month at Eton. Oh! it's hard
work reading for it, I can tell you.'
Thus Coley Patteson's work throughout his undergraduate three years
was, so to speak, against the grain, though it was more diligent
and determined than it had been at Eton. He viewed this as the least
satisfactory period of his life, and probably it was that in which he
was doing the most violence to his likings. It struck those who had
known him at Eton that he had 'shaken off the easy-going, comfortable,
half-sluggish habit of mind' attributed to him there, and to be
earnestly preparing for the future work of life. His continued interest
in Missions was shown by his assisting to collect subscriptions for the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. In fact, his charm of manner,
and his way of taking for granted that people meant to do what they
ought, made him a good collector, and he had had a good deal of practice
at Eton in keeping up the boys to the subscription for the stained glass
of the east window of the Chapel which they had undertaken to give.
That Long vacation of study was a great effort, and he felt it tedious
and irksome, all the more from a weakness that affected his eyelids,
and, though it did not injure his sight, often rendered reading and
writing painful. Slight ailments concurred with other troubles and
vexations to depress his spirits; and besides these outward matters, he
seems to have had a sense of not coming up to his ideal. His standard
was pitched higher than that of most men: his nature was prone to
introspection, and his constitutional inertness rendered it so
difficult for him to live up to his own views, that he was continually
dissatisfied with himself; and this, in spite of his sweet unselfish
temper, gave his manner at home an irritability, and among strangers
a reserve--the very reverse of the joyous merry nature which used to
delight in balls, parties, and gaieties.
Though an ardent friend, he became disinclined to enter into general
society; nor was the distaste ever entirely overcome, though he never
failed to please by the charm alike of natural manner and of Christian
courtesy; the same spirit of gentleness and kindness very soon prevailed
in subduing, even in family life, any manifestation of the tender points
of a growing character.
In the autumn of 1849, he obtained a second class in the school of
Literae humaniores, a place that fairly represented his abilities as
compared with those of others. When the compulsory period of study
was at an end, his affection for Oxford and enjoyment of all that it
afforded increased considerably, though he never seems to have loved the
University quite as well as Eton.
As he intended to take Holy Orders, he did not give up his residence
there; but his first use of his leisure was to take a journey on the
Continent with his brother and Mr. Hornby. It was then that, as he
afterwards wrote, his real education began, partly from the opening
of his mind by the wonders of nature and art, and partly from the
development of his genius for philology. Aptitude for language had
already shown itself when his sister Fanny had given him some German
lessons; and even on his first halt at Cologne, he received the
compliment, 'Sie sprechen Deutsch wohl' and he found himself talking to
a German on one side and a Frenchman on the other.
His letters throughout his foreign travels are more copious than ever,
but are chiefly minute descriptions of what he saw, such as would weary
the reader who does not want a guide-book even full of individuality.
Yet they cannot be passed by without noticing how he fulfilled the duty
of study and endeavour at appreciation which everyone owes to great
works of art, instead of turning aside with shallow conceit if he do not
enter into them at first sight.
After the wonders of Vienna and the mines of Salzburg, the mountain
scenery of the Tyrol was an unspeakable pleasure, which tries to express
itself in many closely written pages. Crossing into Italy by the Stelvio
Pass, a sharp but passing fit of illness detained Coley at Como for a
day, and caused him to call in an Italian doctor, who treated him on the
starvation system, administered no medicines, and would take no fee.
The next day Coley was in condition to go on to Milan, where his
first impression of the Cathedral was, as so often happens, almost of
bewilderment. He did not at first like the Lombardo-Gothic style, but
he studied it carefully, and filled his letter with measurements and
numbers, though confessing that no part pleased him so much as the
pinnacles terminating in statues, 'each one a very beautiful martyr's
memorial.' Two more visits of several hours, however, brought the
untutored eye to a sense of the harmony of proportion, and the
surpassing beauty of the carvings and sculpture.
It did not need so much study to enjoy Lionardo da Vinci's great fresco,
of which he wrote long and elaborately, and, altogether, Milan afforded
him very great delight and was a new world to him. It was the farthest
limit of his travels on this occasion. The party returned by way of
Geneva; and Coley, alone with four guides, attempted the Col du Geant.
Then following is his account of the danger in which he found himself:--
'On Monday at 4.15 A.M. we started from the Montanvert, with our
alpenstocks, plenty of ropes, and a hatchet to cut steps in the ice. We
walked quickly over the Mer de Glace, and in about three hours came to
the difficult part. I had no conception of what it would be. We had to
ascend perpendicular walls of ice, 30, 40, 50 feet high, by little
holes which we cut with the hatchet, and to climb over places not a foot
broad, with enormous crevasses on each side. I was determined not to
give in, and said not a word, but I thought that no one had a right to
expose himself to such danger if known beforehand. After about three
hours spent in this way, (during which I made but one slip, when I slid
about twelve feet down a crevasse, but providentially did not lose my
head, and saved myself by catching at a broken ridge of ice, rising
up in the crevasse, round which I threw my leg and worked my way up it
astride), got to the region of snow, and here the danger was of falling
into hidden crevasses. We all five fastened ourselves to one another
with ropes. I went in the middle, Couttet in front, then Payot. Most
unluckily the weather began to cloud over, and soon a sharp hailstorm
began, with every indication of a fog. We went very cautiously over
the snow for about three hours, sinking every now and then up to our
middles, but only once in a crevasse, when Couttet suddenly fell,
singing out "Tirez! tirez!" but he was pulled out instantly. We had now
reached the top, but the fog was so dense that I could scarcely see 30
feet before me, and the crevasses and mountains of snow looming close
round us looked awful. At this moment the guides asked me if I must make
the passage. I said instantly that I wanted to do so, but that I would
sooner return at once than endanger the lives of any of them. They told
me there was certainly great danger, they had lost their way, but were
unwilling to give up. For an hour and a half we beat about in the fog,
among the crevasses, trying every way to find the pass, which is very
narrow, wet to the skin, and in constant peril; but we knew that the
descent on the Chamouni side is far more difficult than that on the
Courmayeur side. At last all the guides agreed that it was impossible
to find the way, said the storm was increasing, and that our only chance
was to return at once. So we did, but the fearful difficulties of the
descent I shall never forget. Even in the finest weather they reckon it
very difficult, but yesterday we could not see the way, we were numbed
with intense cold, and dispirited from being forced to return.
In many places the hail and sleet had washed out the traces we trusted
as guides. After about four hours, we had passed the most dangerous
part, and in another hour we were safely upon the Mer de Glace, which
we hailed with delight: Couttet, who reached the point of safety first,
jumping on the firm ice and shouting to me "Il n'y a plus de danger,
Monsieur." Here we took off the ropes, and drank some more brandy, and
then went as hard as we could, jumping across crevasses, which two days
before I should have thought awkward, as if they were cart ruts. We
reached Chamouni at 8.30 P.M., having been sixteen and a quarter hours
without resting. I was not at all tired; the guides thanked me for
having given so little trouble, and declared I had gone as well as
themselves. Indeed I was providentially unusually clear-headed and cool,
and it was not till the danger was over that I felt my nerves give way.
There was a good deal of anxiety about us at Chamouni, as it was one
of the worst days ever seen here. Hornby had taken all my clothes to
Geneva, so I put on a suit of the landlord's, and had some tea, and at
11 P.M. went to bed, not forgetting, you may be sure, to thank God most
fervently for this merciful protection, as on the ice I did many times
with all my heart.
'On reviewing coolly, to-day, the places over which we passed, and which
I shall never forget, I remember seven such as I trust never again to
see a man attempt to climb. The state of the ice and crevasses is
always shifting, so that the next person who makes the ascent may find
a comparatively easy path. We had other dangers too, such as this: twice
the guides said to me, "Ne parlez pas ici, Monsieur, et allez vite," the
fear being of an ice avalanche falling on us, and we heard the rocks and
ice which are detached by the wet falling all about. The view from the
top, if the day is fine, is about the most magnificent in the Alps; and
as in that case I should have descended easily on the other side, the
excursion would not have been so difficult. I hope you will not think I
have been very foolish; I did not at all think it would be so dangerous,
nor was it possible to foresee the bad weather. My curiosity to see some
of the difficulties of an excursion in the Alps is fully satisfied.'
After this adventure, the party broke up, James Patteson returning
home with Mr. Hornby, while Coley, who hoped to obtain a Fellowship at
Merton, and wished in the meantime to learn German thoroughly in order
to study Hebrew by the light of German scholarship, repaired to Dresden
for the purpose; revelling, by the way, on the pictures and glass at
Munich, descriptions of which fill three or four letters. He remained
a month at Dresden, reading for an hour a day with a German master, and
spending many hours besides in study, recreating himself with German
newspapers at the cafe where he dined, and going to the play in the
evening to hear colloquialisms. The picture galleries were his daily
enjoyment, and he declared the Madonna di San Sisto fully equal to
his anticipations. There is that about the head of the Virgin which
I believe one sees in no other picture, a dignity and beauty with a
mixture of timidity quite indescribable.'
Returning home for Christmas, Coley started again in January 1851, in
charge of a pupil, the son of Lord John Thynne, with whom he was to go
through Italy. The journey was made by sea from Marseilles to Naples,
where the old regime was still in force. Shakespeare and Humboldt
were seized; and after several hours' detention on the score of the
suspicious nature of his literature, Mr. Patteson was asked for a bribe.
The climate was in itself a great charm to one always painfully
susceptible to cold; and, after duly dwelling on the marvels of Vesuvius
and Pompeii, the travellers went on to Rome. There the sculptures were
Coley's first delight, and he had the advantage of hints from Gibson on
the theory of his admiration, such as suited his love of analysis.
He poured forth descriptions of statues and pictures in his letters:
sometimes apologising.--'You must put up with a very stupid and
unintelligible sermon on art. The genius loci would move the very stones
to preach on such a theme. Again: The worst is, that I ought to have
months instead of days to see Rome in. I economise my time pretty well;
but yet I find every night that I can only do a little of what I propose
in the morning; and as for my Italian, an hour and a half a day is on
an average more than I give to it. I suffer a good deal from weakness in
the eyes; it prevents my working at night with comfort. I have a master
every other day. I tried to draw, but it hurt me so much after looking
about all day that I despair of doing anything, though I don't abandon
the idea altogether.'
There are many letters on the religious state of Rome. The apparently
direct supplications to the Saints, the stories told in sermons of
desperate sinners--saved through some lingering observance paid to
the Blessed Virgin, and the alleged abuse of the Confessional, shocked
Patteson greatly, and therewith he connected the flagrant evils of the
political condition of Rome at that time, and arrived at conclusions
strongly adverse to Roman Catholicism as such, though he retained
uninjured the Catholic tone of his mind.
It was art which was the special attraction to Coley of all the many
spells of old Rome. He spent much time in the galleries, and studied
'modern painters' with an earnestness that makes Ruskinism pervade his
letters.
At Florence, Coley wrote as usual at much length of the galleries, where
the Madonna del Cardellino seems to have been what delighted him most.
He did not greatly enter into Michel Angelo's works, and perhaps hardly
did their religious spirit full justice under the somewhat
exclusive influence of Fra Angelico and Francia, with the Euskinese
interpretation. The delight was indescribable. He says:-- 'But I have
written again and again on this favourite theme, and I forget that it is
difficult for you to understand what I write, or the great change that
has taken place in me, without seeing the original works. No one can
see them and be unchanged. I never had such enjoyment.' His birthday
presents were spent on a copy of the beloved Madonna del Cardellino, of
which he says:--'though it does not reach anything like the intensity
of feeling of the original, is still a very excellent painting, and will
always help to excite in my imagination, and I hope to convey to you,
some faint image of the exceeding beauty of this most beautiful of all
paintings.'
Readers chiefly interested in the subsequent career of the missionary
would feel interrupted by the overflowing notes on painting, sculpture
and architecture which fill the correspondence, yet without them, it is
scarcely possible to realise the young man's intense enthusiasm for the
Beautiful, especially for spiritual beauty, and thus how great was the
sacrifice of going to regions where all these delights were unknown and
unattainable. He went on to Venice, where he met a letter which gave a
new course to his thoughts, for it informed him that the deafness, which
had long been growing on his father had now become an obstacle to the
performance of his duties as a Judge, and announcing his intention of
retiring.
In the fulness of his heart he wrote:--
'Venice, Hotel de la Villa: May 2, 1851.
'My dearest Father,--I have not been in Venice an hour yet, but little
did I expect to find such news waiting for me as is contained in Jem's
letter, and I can lose no time in answering it. It is indeed a heavy
trial for you, that, in addition to many years of constant annoyance
from your deafness, you should be obliged now, in the full vigour of
your mind, and with the advantage of your experience, to give up a
profession you so thoroughly delight in. I don't deny that I have
often contemplated the possibility of such a thing; and I had some
conversation with Uncle John last winter in consequence of my fancying
your deafness was on the increase, though the girls did not perceive it;
I hope with all my heart I was wrong. I told him what I know you feel,
that, painful as it will be to you to retire from the Bench, if any
dissatisfaction was expressed at your not hearing sufficiently what
passed, you would choose rather to give up your seat than to go on
under such circumstances. His answer, I remember, was that it was most
difficult to know what to do, because it was no use concealing the fact
that your infirmity did interfere with the working of the Court more
or less, on Circuit especially, and at other times when witnesses were
examined, but that your knowledge of law was so invaluable that it was
difficult to see how this latter advantage could fail to outweigh the
former defect; and everybody knew that they can't find a lawyer to fill
your place, though another man might do the ordinary circuit work with
greater comfort to the Bar; though therefore nobody is so painstaking
and so little liable to make mistakes, yet to people in general and in
the whole, another man would seem to do the work nearly as well, and
would do his work, as far as his knowledge and conscientiousness went,
with more ease;--this was something like the substance of what passed
then, and you may suppose that since that time I have thought more about
the possibility of your retirement; but as I know how very much you will
feel giving up an occupation in which you take a regular pride, I do
feel very sorry, and wish I was at home to do anything that could be
done now. I know well enough that you are the last man in the world to
make a display of your feelings, and that you look upon this as a
trial, and bear it as one, just as you have with such great patience and
submission (and dear Joan too,) always quietly borne your deafness; but
I am sure you must, and do feel this very much, and, added to Granny's
illness, you must be a sad party at home. I feel as if it were very
selfish to be in this beautiful city, and to have been spending so much
money at Florence. Neither did Joan, in her last letter, nor has Jem
now, mentioned whether you received two letters from Florence, the first
of which gave some description of my vetturino journey from Rome to
Florence. I little thought when I was enjoying myself so very much
there, that all this was passing at home.... Your influence in the Privy
Council (where I conclude they will offer you a seat) might be so good
on very important questions, and it would be an occupation for you;
and I have always hoped that, if it should please God you should retire
while still in the prime of life for work, you would publish some great
legal book, which should for ever be a record of your knowledge on these
subjects. However it may be, the retrospect of upwards of twenty years
spent on the Bench with the complete respect and admiration of all your
friends, is no slight thing to fall back upon: and I trust that this
fresh trial will turn to your good, and even happiness here, as we may
trust with safety it will hereafter.
'Ever your very affectionate and dutiful Son,
'JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON.'
In this winter of 1852, Mr. Justice Patteson's final decision to retire
was made and acted upon. The Judge delighted in no occupation so much as
the pursuit of law, and therefore distrusted his own opinion as to the
moment when his infirmity should absolutely unfit him for sitting in
Court. He had begged a friend to tell him the moment that the impediment
became serious; and this, with some hesitation, was done. The intimation
was thankfully received, and, after due consideration, carried out.
On January 29, 1852, after twenty-two years on the Bench, and at the age
of sixty-two, Mr. Justice Patteson wrote his letter of resignation to
Lord Truro, then Lord Chancellor, petitioning for the usual pension. It
was replied to in terms of warm and sincere regret; and on the 2nd of
February, Sir John Patteson was nominated to the Privy Council, as
a member of the Judicial Committee; where the business was chiefly
conducted in writing, and he could act with comparatively little
obstacle from his deafness.
On February 10, 1852, he took his leave of the Bar. The Court of Queen's
Bench was crowded with barristers, who rose while the Attorney-General,
Sir Alexander Cockburn, made an address expressive of the universal
heartfelt feeling of respect and admiration with which the retiring
Judge was regarded.
John Patteson's reply, read with a voice broken by emotion, is so
touching in its manly simplicity and humility that a paragraph or two
may well be quoted:--
'Mine,' he said, 'is one of the many instances which I know that a
public man without pre-eminent abilities, if he will but exert such
as it has pleased God to bestow on him honestly and industriously,
and without ostentation, is sure to receive public approbation fully
commensurate with, and generally much beyond, his real merits; and I
thank God if I shall be found not to have fallen entirely short in the
use of those talents which He has entrusted to me.' Then, after some
words on the misfortune that necessitated his withdrawal, he continued,
'I am aware that on some, and I fear too many, occasions I have given
way to complaints and impatient expressions towards the Bar and the
witnesses in Court, as if they were to blame when, in truth, it was my
own deficiency; and heartily sorry have I been and am for such want of
control over myself. I have striven against its recurrence earnestly,
though not always successfully. My brethren on the Bench, and you, and
the public, have been very kind and indulgent to me; the recollection of
which will remain with, and be a great solace to me for the rest of my
life.
'And now, gentlemen, I bid you farewell most affectionately. I wish
you many years of health and happiness, of success and honour in your
liberal profession; the duties of which have been and are and I trust
ever will be performed, not only with the greatest zeal, learning, and
ability, but with the highest honour and integrity, and a deep sense of
responsibility to God and to man, and which being so performed, are, in
my humble judgment, eminently conducive, under the blessing of God,
to maintain the just prerogative of the Crown, and the true right,
liberties, and happiness of the people.'
He then rose from the Judges' seat, and bowed his farewell to the
assembly, who stood respectful and silent, except for some suppressed
tokens of emotion, for in truth to many the parting was from an old
familiar and much trusted friend.
Private letters poured in, expressive of deep regret, esteem, and
affection, and not only were gratefully read at the time, but became to
the family valuable memorials of the heartfelt appreciation gained by a
high-minded and upright course of life, and evidences that their father
had done that which is perhaps the best thing that it is permitted to
man to do here below, namely, 'served God in his generation.'