Our tale is now drawing to its close. The subject clings to the heart,
and is parted with reluctantly. The circumstances attending the close
of his life have been so minutely, and, to all appearance, faithfully
narrated, as to call for no animadversion. His peculiarities and failings
have been by some too harshly pointed out and commented upon, without
due consideration of how exceedingly they were counterbalanced, by the
most extraordinary and most valuable endowments. Of what importance is
it, that when he shaved himself he would walk up and down his room,
conversing with whomsoever might happen to be present; that he knew
the precise number of steps from his apartments to the houses of those
of his friends, with whom he was most intimate, which, by the way, in
the metropolis, must have been strongly indicative of a mind not easily
made to swerve from its purpose; that at one period he was remarkably
fond of the theatre, and all at once, as it were, ceased to frequent it?
The circumstance most remarkable concerning his habits and propensities
is, that he latterly became a hoarder of money, and, when he died, had
not less than two thousand pounds in the funds. All these, however, are
minor subjects of reflection. In him, criticism lost the most able,
most expert, most accomplished support of her sceptre;—learning, one
of its greatest ornaments. His knowledge was far more extensive than
was generally understood, or imagined, or believed.—There are very few
languages with which he had not some acquaintance. His discernment
and acuteness in correcting what was corrupt, and explaining what was
difficult and perplexed, were almost intuitive; and, in addition to all
this, his taste was elegant and correct. His recitations and repetitions
were, it must be confessed, sometimes tedious and irksome, which would
not, however, have been the case, unless they had been too often heard
before; for he never repeated any thing that was not characterized by
excellence, of some kind or other. One talent and quality he had, for
which they who have hitherto exhibited biographical sketches of him, have
not given him sufficient credit:—This was humour.
To prove that he possessed this in no ordinary degree of perfection,
appeal need only be made to the three witty and facetious letters which
he inserted in the Gentleman’s Magazine, with the signature of “Sundry
Whereof.” The occasion was, The Life of Johnson, by Sir John Hawkins—Let
the reader judge from one or two specimens.
Addressing the Editor he says: “Have you read that divine book, ‘The
Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D. by Sir John Hawkins, Knt.?’ Have you done
any thing but read it, since it was first published? For my own part, I
scruple not to declare, that I could not rest till I had read it quite
through, notes, digressions, index, and all. Then I could not rest
till I had gone over it a second time. I begin to think that increase
of appetite grows by what it feeds on, for I have been reading it ever
since. I am now in the midst of the sixteenth perusal, and still I
discover more beauties. I can think of nothing else—I can talk of nothing
else, &c. &c. &c.
“Read Hawkins once, and you can read no more,
For all books hence appear so mean, so poor,
Johnson’s a dunce; but still persist to read,
And Hawkins will be all the books you need.”
Who would have expected this sally of facetiousness from the grave and
didactic Porson?
After proposing to offer, in a future letter, a few corrections and
amendments, the first epistle thus concludes:
“In a statue from the hand of Phidias, I would not, if I could help it,
have a single toe-nail amiss. And since the smallest speck is seen on
snow, I am persuaded that the Knight himself will not be displeased with
a freedom which proceeds solely from esteem.”
The second letter is still more pregnant with the truest humour. It is
to be remembered that Porson was himself an Etonian; Sir John’s book had
been attacked in the Microcosm, a periodical work, by the upper boys at
Eton, which fact is thus mentioned by Porson:
“Soon after the publication of Sir John’s book, a parcel of Eton boys,
not having the fear of God before their eyes, &c. instead of playing
truant, robbing orchards, annoying poultry, or performing any other part
of their school exercises, fell foul, in print, upon his Worship’s
censure of Addison’s middling style; and even sneered at the story of the
Quaker, which I hold to be as good a thing as any in the volume. But what
can you expect, as Lord Kaimes justly observes, from a school, where boys
are taught to rob on the highway?”
It is with genuine humour that Mister Sundry Whereof affects to doubt the
genuineness of some pages in Sir John’s book. “The Knight’s style,” he
observes, “is clear and elegant, whilst that in which the circumstance
is narrated of Dr. Johnson’s parchment-covered book, _is_ cloudy,
inconsistent, and embarrassed. He therefore begs to propose a few
queries, of which the first is,
“Would a writer confessedly so exact in his choice of words, as the
Knight, talk in this manner: ‘While he was preparing;’ ‘An accident
happened?’ As if one should say of that unfortunate divine Dr. Dodd, _an
accident_ proved fatal to him; he _happened_ to write another man’s name,
&c.”—The whole of this epistle is full of the happiest irony.
The point and humour of the third and concluding epistle is of a similar
character. After premising certain canons of criticism, in which it
is assumed, that “Whenever Sir John Hawkins, in quoting any part of
Johnson’s works, adopts a reading different from the editions, it is to
be replaced in the text, and the other discarded. Thus, in the vulgar
edition of London, vol. xi. of Johnson’s Works, p. 319, we read,
‘And fixed _on_ Cambria’s solitary shore,’
How much better is Sir John’s reading,
‘And fixed _in_ Cambria’s solitary shore!’
“I would not believe that Johnson wrote otherwise, though Johnson himself
should affirm it.
“Again, in the last number of the Rambler, Johnson says, or is made to
say, ‘I have endeavoured to refine our language to grammatical purity.’
How tame, dull, flat, lifeless, insipid, prosaic, &c. is this, compared
to what the Knight has substituted—‘_grammar_ and _purity_!’ A fine
instance of the figure, _Hen dia duoin_, like Virgil’s _pateris et auro_,
or like—; but I will not overpower you with my learning,” &c.
The whole of this is admirable, and expressed in a style of the purest
humour.
Much of this same quality is also conspicuous in Porson’s character
of Gibbon, as it is given in his Preface to the Letters to Travis;
which character, notwithstanding its great severity, induced Gibbon
to solicit an interview with Porson. This accordingly took place, by
the intervention of honest Peter Elmsley, and was once repeated, but
no acquaintance or further communication ensued. Porson was not of a
disposition to pay court even to the most eminent characters; and Gibbon
then stood on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, and probably did not
take the necessary steps to secure Porson’s further correspondence.
With respect to the other branches of Porson’s family, some errors have
found their way into the public prints. His younger brother’s name was
Thomas. He is mentioned first, because he received the same benefit,
with respect to education, under Mr. Hewitt and Mr. Summers, as his
elder brother, the Professor. His talents were thought by no means to be
inferior; he was certainly an excellent scholar, or possessed the faculty
of becoming such. No efforts were, however, made in his favour to obtain
for him similar advantages. He became assistant to the Rev. Mr. Hepworth,
a very respectable clergyman, and amiable man, who kept a school first
at Wymondham, in Norfolk, and afterwards was master of the free grammar
school at Northwalsham. Thomas Porson, on leaving Mr. Hepworth, opened
a school at Fakenham, which is likewise in Norfolk. Here he married, and
died young. The second brother, Henry Porson, was not a scholar, but an
admirable accountant. Mrs. Hawes has already been mentioned.—She has
five children. The eldest son was for a time a member of Benet College,
Cambridge; but he also had his scruples on the subject of subscription
to the articles of the Church of England, and declined entering into
orders. Though not disinclined to literary pursuits, he thought, and
thought justly, that literature as a profession, was but an indifferent
speculation; he resolved, therefore, to enter into more active life.—He
is now at Buenos Ayres.
Now, then, alas! the moment is come, when we are to take a final leave
of our illustrious friend.—Whatever were his errors, his failings, and
his infirmities, he was, as far as talent, learning, and intellectual
distinction is concerned, a GREAT MAN. His loss will ever be deplored by
those who intimately knew him; and the tenderest regret will, as long as
life shall endure, be everlastingly excited, when memory brings to the
view of him who writes this narrative, the instructive, interesting, and
pleasing hours spent in his society.
Hunc unum Plurimi consentiunt
Doctorum doctissimum fuisse
RICARDUM PORSONUM.
ΕΑΝ ΔΕ ΤΙ ΦΑΙΝΗΤΑΙ ΥΜΕΝ
ΠΡΟΣΘΕΙΝΑΙ Η ΑΦΕΛΑΙ
ΕΥΧΑΡΙΣΤΩΜΕΣ
ΕΡΡΩΣΤΕ.
Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas, Harpyiasque
Invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit.