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 3000l., 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!...”