CHAPTER XXI.

Transcriber’s Note: This book was printed with two Chapter XXIs, and no

Chapter XLII. No attempt has been made to renumber the chapters.

The Sexagenarian; or, the recollections of a literary life, in two

volumes. Vol. I.

THE

SEXAGENARIAN;

OR, THE

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.