Our Sexagenarian knew and saw Lord ⸺ much and often, both before and
after he came to the title, the accession to which (whatever and however
just may have been the imputation on his vanity) most assuredly was a
vexation to him rather than a pleasure. The first introduction of the
parties in question to each other, was at one of those evening parties,
contemptuously denominated Blue Stocking Club. There was really nothing
in these assemblies to provoke or justify contempt, for they in fact
consisted of a considerable number of very accomplished persons of both
sexes, and except that the entertainment was confined to conversation,
with the occasional introduction of music, they were cheerful,
interesting, and the vehicle of circulating much curious information
on subjects of literature and science. The principal persons were Mrs.
Carter, Mrs. Montague, Horace Walpole, Sir Charles Blagden, the Miss
Baillies, Lady Louisa Macdonald, the Miss Berries, Lady Herries, Mrs.
John Hunter, the two Messrs. Lysons, Mr. (now Sir Everard) Home, Aleppo
Russel, and a great many other very considerable persons both as to rank
and talent. One of the principal houses of resort for these meetings, was
John Hunter’s, and the old Philosopher himself occasionally mingled with
the party, and enjoyed the social conversation.
The first place, however, was, by a sort of common consent, whenever he
appeared among them, which was very often, assigned to H⸺ W⸺. He well
deserved the distinction, on such occasions at least. His resources of
anecdote were inexhaustible; his mode of communicating what he knew, was
easy, gracious, and elegant, as can be imagined. He was the last of the
old school, after the death of the venerable Earl Bathurst, who, when he
left the world, seems not to have had a surviving friend, to record his
various talents and accomplishments. Yet Lord Bathurst was a nobleman
of no ordinary attainments, of admirable taste, acute discernment, and
great learning. When in the decline of life, and his sight began to fail
him, his relation and chaplain, the present Bishop of Norwich, used to
read the classics to him. The Bishop is known to be an excellent scholar,
yet Lord Bathurst would every now and then stop him, and say, “Harry,
you read that passage as if you did not understand it; let me hear you
read it again.” He would then, with the greatest precision, explain
any difficulty which might have occurred, and was pleased with the
opportunity of communicating what he knew.
The reader, it is hoped, will excuse this digression in favour of a great
and good man; but it is time to return to H⸺ W⸺.
As far as verbal communication went, or communication of what he retained
in his memory, availed, all his stores were at the service of literary
men, and many of our modern popular books owe much of their zest and
interest to this sort of assistance received from Lord ⸺. Among others,
Pennant’s London was very particularly indebted to his “Reminiscences.”
The Messrs. Lysons will doubtless not deny their obligations of a
similar kind, nor Mr. Nichols; nor would the late Mr. Gough, nor
Michael Lort, nor Michael Tyson, nor a great many others. Further than
such communication, with perhaps the exception of a scanty dinner at
Strawberry-hill, there is no instance on record of his liberality having
proceeded. He certainly was proud of being considered as a sort of patron
of literature, and a friend to literary men, but he did not choose to
purchase the pre-eminence at a higher price than a little flattery and
praise, and a pudding neither over large nor over solid.
Here two anecdotes occur not to be forgotten. Upon one occasion, a
gentleman of no small literary distinction, who had a sort of general
invitation to his Villa, was induced by a fine summer morning to pay his
respects to Lord O. On his arrival, he was kindly greeted, and invited
to stay and dine. The invitation was accepted. The noble Lord rang his
bell, and on the appearance of his Swiss, enquired what there was for
dinner. “Hashed mutton, my Lord,” was the reply. “Let there be hashed
mutton for two, as Mr. ⸺ is to dine with me.” In a very short time, the
Swiss returned with a long face—“My Lord, there is only hashed mutton for
one.” The visitor made his apologies, engaged to come again at a more
favourable opportunity, and left T⸺m _impransus_.—N. B. His Lordship’s
servants were always on board-wages.
The other anecdote is not much less whimsical, and this relates to the
writer himself.
On his first invitation to dinner with his Lordship, he accompanied Mr.
K. There were no other guests. The Sexagenarian presumed that he should
for once enjoy the luxury of a splendid dinner, and prepared himself
accordingly. Dinner was served, when to the poor author’s astonishment,
one dish only smoked upon the noble board, and that too, as ill luck
would have it, was a species of fish not very agreeable to the palate of
the guest. He waited, however, in patience, and the fish was succeeded
by a leg of mutton. Wae worth the man, who, in the pride and naughtiness
of his heart, presumes to say any thing to the disparagement of a leg
of mutton. The author, however, thought that he might have leg of
mutton at home, and taking it for granted, that at a nobleman’s table,
a second course would succeed, where there would be some tit-bit to
pamper his appetite, he was very sparingly helped. Alas! nothing else
made its appearance. “Well then,” exclaimed the disappointed visitor,
“I must make up with cheese.” His Lordship did not eat cheese. So to
the great amusement of his companion, the poor author returned hungry,
disconcerted, and half angry. He was, however, regaled on his arrival in
Russel-street with a roast duck.
With respect to Chatterton, the less, perhaps, that is said the better.
We are certain of two things, that Chatterton made application to him
for assistance, communicating, at the same time, testimonies of his
necessities, and of his talents. In return, he received—nothing.
The Rev. Mr. L⸺ was his chaplain, but it does not appear that he either
gave him any preferment, or used his interest to procure any thing for
him. He did once indeed put himself a little out of his way. Being called
upon to ask a living for a poor clergyman, who, as he confessed, had
claims upon him, he wrote the following letter to the Commissioners of
the Great Seal, at a particular period, when a Lord Chancellor had not
yet been appointed.
“To the Lords Commissioners of the Great Seal.
“The Earl of ⸺, not presuming on having any claim to ask any
favour of the Lords Commissioners, nor trespassing so far,
hopes their Lordships will not think he takes too great a
liberty in this address: but having been requested to give
an attestation to the character and merit of a very worthy
clergyman, who is a suitor to their Lordships for the vacant
living of ⸺, Lord ⸺ cannot help bearing his testimony to the
deserts of ⸺, whose virtues, great learning, and abilities,
make him worthy of preferment, which are inducements with
Lord ⸺ to join his mite to these far more interesting
recommendations, which he hopes will plead his pardon with
their Lordships for troubling them by this intrusion.”
This was a true courtier’s letter, and as such it was considered by
the Lords Commissioners, who returned a civil answer, and bestowed
the preferment elsewhere. Yet let us be permitted here to make
an observation on the short-sightedness of man, and the limited
penetration of the greatest human sagacity. Our disappointments are
always in proportion to our hopes; and as the expectation from such
an interposition was very great, so was the mortification and regret
which accompanied the refusal. Yet had the petitioner, in the above
instance, obtained what he so ardently hoped and so eagerly expected,
it would eventually have proved a severe injury and real misfortune.
It would necessarily have removed him from the theatre on which he
was progressively advancing to reputation, and where his exertions
subsequently obtained far greater and more desireable advantages.
Comis convivis nunquam inclamare clientes,
Ad famulos nunquam tristia verba loqui;
Ut placidos mores, tranquillos sic cole manes,
Et cape ab ... munus—Amice Vale.