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 PEN AND INK 
 
 SKETCHES OF POETS, 
 
 PREACHERS, 
 
 AND POLITICIANS. 
 
 " Quique sui memores alios facere merendo." 
 
 ViKGIL. 
 
 LONDON : 
 DAVID BOGUE, FLEET STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXLVI. 
 

 TO 
 
 R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, D.C.L. 
 
 t< rrXTT am" 
 
 AUTHOB OF "TITIAN, 
 
 THESE SKETCHES 
 
 %i^ziXlv5X'^ ifn£{cribetJ. 
 
 London, — 1846. 
 
TO THE READEE. 
 
 I HAVE no liking for long prefaces, nor indeed for 
 short ones either ; and fortunately no necessity exists 
 for my writing one at all, inasmuch as the following 
 sketches will speak for themselves. 
 
 Regarding it as a mere piece of impertinence for 
 a person to obtrude a work upon the public, and 
 then apologize for so doing, I shall offer no excuse 
 on the part of my book, but allow it to take its 
 chance with others, merely observing, that all the 
 facts narrated are facts, although in some instances 
 the scenes have been shifted, and the subordinate 
 characters varied, for the sake of effect, just as a 
 dramatist, by the judicious use of minor personages, 
 brings into striking relief the heroes of his play ; 
 
TIU TO THE READER. 
 
 or as a painter, by the skilful aids of accessories, 
 heightens the interest of his picture. 
 
 It should be mentioned that, for two or three very 
 characteristic sketches, the author is indebted to one 
 who owns no " 'prentice hand" in the world of 
 letters. 
 
 London^ Aprils 1846. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 Mr. Hall's popularity — Lord Brougham and Sir James 
 Mackintosh — Hall in the pulpit — Anecdotes — His suf- 
 ferings and death — Appearance in his coffin ... p. 1 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 JOHN FOSTER AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 
 
 Mr. Foster's early history — His personal appearance — A 
 pulpit sketch — Visit to Mr. Foster ; his tastes and preju- 
 dices ; his lonely death — Sketches of Rev. Wm. Thorpe, 
 Thomas Roberts, and Dr. Carpenter 25 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 Visit to Barley Wood — Locke's birth-place — Miss Martha 
 More — Sketch of Hannah More — Anecdote of Mrs. Gar- 
 rick — Dr. Aiken and Mrs. Barbauld 53 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PORTRAITS IN PADDY LAND AND A TRANSATLANTIC 
 FATHER MATHEW. 
 
 A mail steamer and its passengers — The O'Connells ; Sheil ; 
 Feargus O'Connor — An Irish ride — Sketch of Father 
 Mathew — Mr. Gough — Touching anecdotes — Sketch 
 of the Father Mathew of America p. 70 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Sketch of Dr. Raffles — Wavertree — Miss Jewsburj — Mrs. 
 Hemans ; her " poetic mint ;" habits of composition — 
 Wavertree re- visited 94 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN AND A CHANCELLOR. 
 
 Oxford — Sketch of Rev. George Crabbe — Anecdote of Legh 
 Richmond — A scene in Oxford; the Chancellor-Duke, 
 Keble, Milman, and Buckland — Sketch of Dr. Pusey . 107 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, AND 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Visit to Rydal Mount — Wordsworth and Jeffrey — The poet's 
 sister — ^Wordsworth and Blackwood — Personal appear- 
 ance of Coleridge ; his conversational eloquence — Charles 
 Lamb and his sister — Remarks 122 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 (ST?. 
 
 CHAPTER Vlir. 
 
 PERSONAL NOTICES OF SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 
 
 Singular introduction to Percy B. Shelley ; his unbounded 
 philanthropy — Reflections on his genius — ^William Haz- 
 litt; his esteem for Jeffrey — Hazlitt and Napoleon — 
 Remarks p. 140 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND JOSEPH COTTLE. 
 
 Byron's remains — Sketch of Robert Southey — !N'otice of 
 Joseph Cottle — Southey's kindness ; his derangement and 
 death — Bristolian apathy 155 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SURGERY AND SCIENCE ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 
 
 Visit to Mr. Abernethy ; his personal appearance and man- 
 ners — A hospital lecture room — Sketch of the lecturer — 
 Anecdotes — Mr. Faraday ; his personal appearance as a 
 lecturer 174 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 SKETCHES FROM A PRIVATE BOX. 
 
 A recollection of Paganini — Comparison with Ole Bull — 
 The first night of " Ion" — J oanna Baillie — ^Wordsworth — 
 Lady Blessington — Count D'Orsay — Thomas Miller 
 the basket-maker 191 
 
XU CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES AND EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 Robert Montgomery ; his works— A visit to Percy Chapel — 
 Sketch of the Author of " Satan ;" his sermon — James 
 Montgomery ; his personal appearance — New poems by 
 Montgomery and Wordsworth — ^Ebenezer Elliott — A 
 scene in Sheffield — The Corn-law Rhymer as a lecturer, p. 209 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 SKETCHES OF A FEW POPULAR PREACHERS, 
 LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 Rev. Rowland Hill in his latter days — Rev. Mr. Sherman — 
 Rev. Edward Irving ; his appearance in the pulpit, and 
 in the parlour — ^Rev. Baptist Noel — Exeter Hall — Mrs. 
 Fry — Rev. John Williams — Rev. Mr. Bickersteth — Rev. 
 Mr. Grimshaw 226 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 First impressions on entering the House of Commons — 
 Sketches of William Cobbett — Henry Hunt— Sir E, 
 Bulwer Lytton — ^Benjamin DTsraeli — T. B. Macaulay — 
 Sir Robert Peel— Sir C.Wetherell— Shell. The Lords : 
 Lord Brougham — Lord Lyndhurst — and the Duke of 
 Wellington 251 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 But a very few years since, the city of Bristol could 
 boast of more pulpit talent than any other place in 
 the three kingdoms. That period might, not unap- 
 propriately, have been termed the Augustan age of 
 the once great commercial emporium ; for at the time 
 to which I allude, some of the most powerful and 
 eminent of modern preachers statedly laboured in 
 the city or its immediate vicinity, and several distin- 
 guished clergymen resided within its precincts. Of 
 these great men, however, few or none remain ; for 
 with the exception of William Jay, of Bath, whose 
 sphere of labour was so near Bristol, that he might 
 almost be considered to have formed one in that 
 brilliant constellation of preachers, none, I believe, 
 remain on the earth. Robert Hall, John Foster, 
 John Ryland, William Thoi-pe, Thomas Roberts, 
 and Lant Carpenter, have all gone from their fields 
 
 B . 
 
2 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 of labour to that " rest which remaineth for the 
 people of God," and their places are filled by men 
 perhaps equally devoted, but certainly not similarly 
 endowed with the gifts and graces of genius. Of 
 these celebrated men I propose penning a few remi- 
 niscences, for popular speakers, as well as popular 
 writers, will form in this volume subjects of notice. 
 With the individuals whom I have particularly referred 
 to I was for many years familiar, and, as I write, 
 each well-remembered face appears, through the mist 
 of years, just as it was when I beheld it in the 
 " long, long ago." Foremost in the rank of modern 
 pulpit orators was Robert Hall, who was scarcely 
 less eccentric as a man than remarkable as a preacher; 
 his works will ever remain an enduring monument of 
 his genius, his piety, and his taste, but it is not of 
 them I intend to speak. To give a sketch of the 
 MAN is my present purpose. With him, therefore, I 
 shall have first to do in this chapter. 
 
 Long before I ever saw this truly gi'eat man, I had 
 heard his name frequently mentioned in my ownfamily, 
 and early learned to associate with it all that was 
 great and extraordinary. My mother would tell me 
 how she had often seen him, when a student in the 
 Baptist Theological College, at Bristol, pacing the 
 streets with only one stocking on, or occasionally 
 with two on one foot. And from all quarters I 
 gleaned such information respecting him, as made 
 me long to behold the man of whom such stories 
 were related. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 3 
 
 It is now many years ago since I first saw him. 
 He was at that time pastor of a church at Leicester, 
 and he visited Bristol, where I then resided, on the 
 occasion of some anniversary; one of the sermons 
 connected with which he had engaged to preach at 
 the Broadmead Chapel, although it was with much 
 difficulty that he had been prevailed upon to do so, 
 for he had an unconquerable dislike to making his 
 appearance on such public occasions. 
 
 In the company of a friend who was connected 
 with the church where Mr. Hall was to officiate, I 
 went, on the evening in question, to the place of 
 worship, and accompanied him, before the service 
 commenced, into the vestry. The building, although 
 it wanted yet an hour to the time fixed for com- 
 mencing the service, was densely thronged in every 
 part ; and perhaps a more intellectual assemblage 
 had never been gathered together. So popular was 
 the great orator at this time, that it was no uncom- 
 mon thing for the Professors, at Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge, to leave their respective Universities on 
 Saturday evenings — post to Leicester, some hundred 
 and fifty miles or so, hear two sermons from Hall, 
 and return to their homes after the evening services — 
 thus sacrificing two nights' rest, for the sake of in- 
 dulging in what was considered to be one of the 
 highest intellectual treats. 
 
 On entering the vestry, I found a large number of 
 ministers, and other gentlemen, assembled, and wait- 
 ing the arrival of Mr. Hall — the scarcely less cele- 
 b2 
 
4 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 brated John Foster, to whom I shall presently have 
 occasion to refer, amongst them/ 
 
 After we had waited for about a quarter of an 
 hour, Mr. Hall made his appearance. He was rather 
 below the average height, stout, and inclining to cor- 
 pulency. His chest was very broad and capacious — 
 the face large, and its features massive. His eyes 
 were large, dark, and full, and his forehead high and 
 broad. The head, which was bald, except at the back, 
 and over the temples, had an indescribable grandeur 
 about it. The worst part of his face was the mouth, 
 which was very large, 'and the under lip somewhat 
 protruded ; the chin was large and projecting. This 
 gave an appearance of heaviness to his general aspect. 
 No one with an observant eye could for a moment 
 gaze on Mr. Hall's majestic countenance without being 
 at once struck with the expression of almost torture 
 which was e^ddent in it. He seemed to be constantly 
 endeavouring to conceal bodily suffering — and it was 
 so, for he was in reality a martyr to one of the most 
 painful diseases that can affect humanity — calculi in 
 the kidneys. 
 
 After he had divested himself o^ his great coat, he 
 had a pipe and some tobacco brought him, and having 
 puffed away for a little time, he pulled off his dress 
 coat, lay down on his back ori the hearth rug, and 
 was soon enveloped in a cloud of smoke. This was 
 his usual habit, before entering the pulpit. The agony 
 he endured compelled him to spend a great portion 
 of his time in a recumbent position, and it was only 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. O 
 
 by the use of tobacco and opium, in large quantities, 
 that he could ever obtain even comparative ease. His 
 custom was to smoke prodigiously until the very 
 moment arrived when it was required of him to com- 
 mence his sermon. He would then rise, and leave his 
 pipe at the door of the pulpit, in readiness for him to 
 resume his Nicotian habit, the moment after he had 
 concluded his discourse. 
 
 I left him on his hearth rug, and reached a seat in 
 the church, whence I was fortunate enough to have 
 a full view of the pulpit. The edifice was literally 
 full, almost to suffocation. The great, the gifted, and 
 the noble were there, all waiting with eager intensity 
 for the commencement of the sermon. The aisles had 
 been carpeted, (an unusual thing, it is necessary 
 to state, in those days,) in order that no scuffling of 
 feet should disturb the preacher, who was nervously 
 sensitive to the slightest noise, and whose voice was 
 so low, and at times tremulous, that unless perfect 
 stillness was kept, it was a matter of difficulty to 
 hear him. 
 
 In a pew beneath the gallery sat, amongst others, 
 two gentlemen, to whom my attention was directed, 
 and I employed the interval before the service com- 
 menced in examining their outward and visible ap- 
 pearances ; for they were both ' men of mark,' and I 
 now saw them for the first time. As I sat in a pew 
 which ran at right angles with theirs, and was within 
 a few yards of them, I had a most favourable oppor- 
 tunity of surveying their features. 
 
6 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 The physique of one of the two was striking enough, 
 and would anywhere have excited attention. His 
 face was plain, almost to ugliness — the forehead, fur- 
 rowed and narrow, towered above his thick eyebrows, 
 which every second were elevated and depressed with 
 astonishing celerity ; two fiery, dark eyes, peered out 
 from beneath these appendages, and flashed with in- 
 tellect. But how shall I describe the most prominent 
 feature of that face — the nose ? It seemed to be not 
 small enough for a nasal organ, nor large enough for 
 a proboscis, yet it partook of the characteristics of 
 each ; it was long, and turned up at its extremity ; 
 and turned up so decidedly that it seemed to have 
 had a violent quarrel with the mouth beneath, 
 and was determined to keep its distance from it. 
 That nose was never still. It seemed as if it had 
 some violent exercise to learn, and so was convulsively 
 drilling for it. First, it twitched slightly — then its 
 whole frame-work would shake, in such a manner, 
 that its destruction seemed inevitable ; then its point 
 would droop, and almost instantaneously rise with a 
 jerk. Occasionally it would go through a pantomimic 
 jig, with the angles of the mouth for partners, and the 
 two fiery, deep set eyes, would gaze down its bridge 
 in a strange manner. No, that nose was never 
 still — perpetual motion was what it seemed in pursuit 
 (rf, and to this day it may be seen twitching with every 
 varying emotion of its possessor. Some years after 
 the period to which 1 am now referring, I strolled 
 into Westminster Hall, and there, in the Court of 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 7 
 
 Chancery, I saw the identical nose, and it was as brisk 
 and lively as ever, whisking away Chancery suits with 
 astonishing rapidity. I saw it again in Exeter Hall, 
 when its noble possessor was delivering his great 
 speech on slavery ; it still possessed its marvellous 
 property of restlessness — and when I last had the 
 pleasure of beholding it, it was wagging scornfully at 
 the Bench of Bishops, in the House of Lords. 
 
 The figure to which this nose, or rather this face, 
 belonged, was tall and spare — and encased in clothes 
 which might have been bought an hour before, in 
 Seven Dials. The coat had been black — and when 
 its wearer afterwards left the Church, I observed that 
 his pantaloons reached half-way down a pair of un- 
 polished Wellington boots. Altogether, the individual 
 I am endeavouring to describe was a most noticeable 
 man. 
 
 And in more senses than one was he so — for, with 
 all his eccentricities, no one will deny to Henry 
 Brougham vast acquirements. Yes, it was Mr. 
 Brougham (as yet untitled) who owned to the face 
 and figure I have portrayed. 
 
 Near him was a gentleman of a far different de- 
 scription. He was rather past the middle age, and 
 had a most kind and benevolent expression of feature- 
 His hair was gi*owing grey, and thought had furrowed 
 her unmistakeable lines between the inner angles oi 
 the eyebrows, which overshadowed a pair of ]ight 
 grey eyes, in whose depths even a casual observer 
 could not look, without feeling that the ow ner of them 
 
8 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 was no common man. It was Sir James Mackintosh, 
 the biographer, historian, and philosopher. 
 
 These two celebrated men presented, in their per- 
 sonal appearances, a most striking contrast. Brougham 
 was eternally iidgetting about on his seat — twisting 
 his face into all manner of shapes — standing up and 
 sitting down again a dozen times in a minute, and 
 looking as though he was a hungry cannibal, or as if 
 he wanted to dissect another Keats — for some will 
 have it that it was Brougham, who penned the critique 
 in the Quarterly, which, it is said, killed the sensitive 
 young poet — and which was alluded to in the follow- 
 ing extract from a parody on the ' Death of Cock 
 Robin.' 
 
 ' Who killed John Keats ? 
 I, said the Quarterly, 
 With Brougham so tartarlyy 
 
 'T "was one of my feats.* 
 
 I say it was a striking contrast to this, to observe 
 Mackintosh sitting, as calmly as a Chinese Mandarin 
 on a mantel piece, and like it, too, only nodding his 
 head gently when Brougham addressed any observa- 
 tion to him. The author of the " History of England," 
 too, was scrupulously neat in his personal appearance, 
 and this was the more noticeable in consequence of 
 the carelessness of his neighbour. 
 
 All this may be unimportant enough, but, even at 
 this distance of time, I seem to see the two great men, 
 as distinctly as if the scene I am describing was one 
 of yesterday — and thinking that there may be many 
 who would like to see such an actor in the great poli- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 9 
 
 tical dramas of our time as Brougham, off the stage, 1^ 
 I have taken the trouble of thus introducing him. 
 With his face, as it now is, Punch has made us pretty 
 familiar; and I may as well say, in passing, that 
 these caricatures give a pretty accurate idea of his 
 Lordship ; indeed, he himself admits that the ^ Punch' 
 likenesses are the best. Of course, they are a little 
 exaggerated — but not so much so as many, with whom 
 I have chatted on the subject, are apt to suppose. 
 
 It is needless to say that Hall's pulpit talents must 
 have been very great, to have attracted such men as 
 those I have just mentioned. Even Ministers of the 
 church from which he dissented, were often to be 
 found amongst his hearers ; and more than once have 
 I seen members of the Bench of Bishops, who, having 
 thrown aside their mitres, crosiers, and lawn sleeves, 
 submitted to be ' hail fellow, well met' with the mem- 
 bers of a humbler community, for the sake of hearing 
 the Cicero of the day. 
 
 Cottle says, " Mr. Hall broke down all distinction 
 of sects and parties. On one of his visits to Bristol, 
 when preaching at the Chapel, in Broadmead^ a com- 
 petent individual noticed in the thronged assembly, 
 an Irish Bishop, a Dean, and thirteen clergymen. 
 
 " The late Dr. Parr was an enthusiastic admirer of 
 Mr. Hall. He said to a friend of the writer, after a 
 warm eulogium on the eloquence of Mr. H., ' In 
 short. Sir, the man is inspired.' Hannah More has 
 more than once said to the writer, " There was no 
 
 B 3 
 
10 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 man in the church, nor out of it, comparable in 
 talents to Robert Hall." 
 
 The services preliminary to the sermon had been 
 nearly gone through, and a hymn was being sung, 
 when Mr. Hall ascended slowly, and, I thought, 
 wearily, the pulpit stairs. Few, on looking at his 
 somewhat unwieldy and rather ungraceful figure, 
 would have been prepossessed inhis favour; and, as he 
 sat down in the pulpit, and looked languidly round on 
 the congregation, I experienced, I know not why, a 
 feeling of disappointment, but that speedily wore off'. 
 Having taken the bible from the desk, and selected 
 the place of the text, he returned it to the cushion, 
 and then leaned back in his seat, his large head 
 drooping, so that his chin reposed on his broad 
 chest. As if in deep reverie, he remained in this 
 position until the last tones of the hymn ceased ; 
 when he rose, and read his text : " The Father of 
 Lights." At first his voice was scarcely audible, and 
 there appeared some slight hesitation ; but this soon 
 wore off, and, as he warmed with his subject, he 
 poured forth such a continuous stream of eloquence, 
 that it seemed as if it flowed from an inexhaustible 
 source. His tones were, although low, beautifully 
 modulated ; but, owing to some affection in his throat, 
 his speech was, at short intervals, interrupted by a 
 short spasmodic cough. During the delivery of his 
 brilliant paragraphs, the most breathless silence 
 reigned throughout the vast assemblage ; but his 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 11 
 
 momentary cessation was the signal for general re- 
 laxation from an attention so intense that it became 
 almost painftil. It was curious to observe how every 
 neck was stretched out, so that not a word which fell 
 from those eloquent lips should be lost ; and the 
 suspended breathings of those around me evinced 
 how intently all were hanging on his charmed words. 
 Mr. Hall's fluency was wonderful, and his command 
 of language unsurpassed. I will not mar the beauty 
 of his discourse by attempting to describe it ; but, as 
 his hearers followed him, whilst, by his vivid imagi- 
 nation, he conveyed his hearers through the starry 
 skies, and reasoned, from those lights of the Uni- 
 verse, what the Father of Lights must be, all became 
 lost in wonder and admiration. But the crowning 
 glory of his sermon was his allusion to the heavenly 
 world, whose beatific glories he expatiated on, with 
 almost the eloquence of an angel. He appeared like 
 one inspired ; and, as he guided us by living streams, 
 and led us over the celestial fields, he seemed carried 
 away by his subject, and his face beamed as if it 
 reflected Heaven's own light. And this was the man 
 who, but an hour before, had lain down on the 
 ground, in the excess of his agony ; and who, from 
 his earliest years, had constantly endured the most 
 excruciating torture which man can be called upon 
 to bear ! For often has he been heard to say, that he 
 had never known one waking hour free from extreme 
 pain. 
 
 Mr. Hall used very little action in the pulpit. His 
 
12 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 favourite — or, rather, his usual attitude — was, to stand 
 with his chest pressed against the cushion, his left 
 arm lying on the Bible, and his right hand slightly 
 raised, with the palm towards the audience. His tones 
 were almost uniformly low, and he rarely raised them. 
 Ideas seemed so to accumulate, whilst he was preach- 
 ing, that they flowed forth without effort on his part. 
 Never did he hesitate; and so pure were his oral 
 compositions, that the most elaborate efforts of the 
 pen would rather have injured than improved their 
 structure. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Cottle says, with reference to his oral 
 and written compositions, " this sermon (on Infi- 
 delity) I was so happy as to hear delivered, and have 
 no hesitation in expressing an opinion, that the oral 
 was not only very different from the printed dis- 
 course, but greatly its superior. In the one case he 
 expressed the sentiments of a mind fully charged 
 with matter the most invigorating and solemnly im- 
 portant, but, discarding notes (which he once told me 
 always ^hampered' him), it was not in his power to 
 display the same language, or to record the same 
 evanescent trains of thought ; so that, in preparing a 
 sermon for the press, no other than a general resem- 
 blance could be preserved. In trusting alone to his 
 recollection, when the stimulus was withdrawn of a 
 crowded and most attentive auditory, the ardent feel- 
 ing, the thought that ' burned,' was liable, in some 
 measure, to become deteriorated by the substitution 
 of cool philosophical arrangement and accuracy, for 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 13 
 
 the spontaneous effusions of his overflowing heart, 
 so that what was gained by one course was more 
 than lost by the other." 
 
 Mr. Hall, like most other men of genius, was some- 
 what eccentric — and possessed powers of sarcasm, 
 which, in frequent instances, he exerted' with tremen- 
 dous force. Few men could say severer things — I will 
 mention an instance or two. 
 
 He had one day attended a church, where a young 
 minister preached on some public occasion. It so 
 happened, that the preacher met Mr. Hall afterwards, 
 at dinner, at the house of a mutual friend. The 
 young man was very anxious to hear Mr. Hall's 
 opinion of his discourse, and very pertinaciously plied 
 the great man with questions respecting it. Hall en- 
 dured the annoyance for some time, with great pa- 
 tience. He did not wish to hurt the young man's 
 feelings — but he could not, conscientiously laud his 
 sermon. At length, worried beyond endurance, he 
 said : — 
 
 ' Well, Sir, there was one fine passage — and I liked 
 it much. Sir — much.' 
 
 The young divine rubbed his hands, in high glee, 
 and pressed Mr. Hall to name it. 
 
 ' Why, Sir,' replied Hall, ' the passage I allude to, 
 was your passage from the pulpit to the vestry. "* 
 
 His " continent of mud" anecdote is too familiar 
 a one to be repeated here ; perhaps the following is 
 less generally known : — 
 
 ' What do you think of Mr. , Mr. Hall ?' asked 
 
14 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 a friend of him one day, when seated in confidential 
 chat with the great preacher in his study. 
 
 ' Why, Sir; replied Mr. Hall, ' Mr. is a re- 
 markable man — a very remarkable man in his line ; 
 mark me, I say in his line, Sir.' 
 
 ' And pray. Sir, what may you consider to be his 
 "line?"' 
 
 ' Why,' said Hall, ' Mr. is a remarkably good 
 
 5A^-preacher, Sir — a ^A^-preacher, Sir ; soft preaching 
 is his line. Sir.' 
 
 Mr. Hall finally left Leicester, and became pastor 
 of the Broadmead Church in Bristol, so that I often 
 had opportunities of hearing him. The chapel was 
 always crowded to excess, and the great man was of 
 course much in request during the week by those 
 who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance. In 
 the social circle. Hall was a delightful companion, 
 when once the formal barriers to intercourse, which 
 he much detested, were broken down. Occasionally 
 he gave the reins to a sportive fancy, and nothing 
 could be more delightful than some of his sallies. 
 In repartee, I never knew any one so brilliant. Of 
 course, his pipe was always provided — and drawing- 
 rooms, which had previously been guiltless of tobacco 
 odour, were gladly subjected to the nuisance in Mr. 
 Hall's case. 
 
 At these parties Mr. Hall gave frequent proofs 
 of that absence of mind which characterized him 
 daring all periods of his life. One evening he was the 
 'Lion' of a large tea party ; during the progress of the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 15 
 
 meal, tea spoons began to grow scarce. No one 
 knew where they went to, and a mystery seemed to be 
 brewing with the Congou. Mr. Hall was an inveterate 
 tea drinker, and attention was directed towards him 
 by his asking, with every fresh cup, for a tea spoon. 
 ' Where can they have gone to ?' murmured the lady; 
 but no solution to the mystery was found. Hall kept 
 on for a long time, talking, sipping, and asking for 
 more. At length he came to a finish, and the tea 
 . things were removed — but where were the spoons ? 
 In about an hour afterwards Mr. Hall left ; and on the 
 sofa where he sat were discovered the missing articles, 
 to the number of seventeen, which corresponded to 
 the number of cups he had swallowed. Of course, a 
 general laugh followed the clearing up of the mystery. 
 On Hall's returning to the room he was informed of 
 his unconscious petty larceny, but he disclaimed all 
 knowledge of the affair. 
 
 During Mr. Hall's residence in Bristol, the album 
 mania raged to a terrible extent, and it was scarcely 
 probable that one so popular as he was should have 
 escaped its consequences — nor did he. One instance 
 of an attack upon him fell under my own notice — and 
 as it is very characteristic of the man I shall relate it. 
 
 A young lady acquaintance of mine, who resided 
 in the country, was extremely anxious that Mr. Hall 
 should contribute something to her albirni, and she 
 begged me to forward it to the great man, with her 
 request backed by mine. I did not much like the 
 matter, but was so circumstanced that I could not well 
 
16 RECOLLECTIOISS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 refuse. So I packed up the precious book^ whose 
 pages were graced with the effusions of small poetas- 
 ters and petty prosers, and despatched it to Mr. Hall's 
 house. There it remained for some time, and when, 
 at last, it was returned, Mr. Hall had written in it. 
 At the bottom of a page he had scrawled, in his almost 
 illegible hand — 
 
 ^It is my humble opinion that albums are very 
 foolish things. Robert Hall.' 
 
 My fair friend was sadly annoyed — but for my own 
 part, I should have much preferred so characteristic 
 an autograph of the eloquent man, to the most com- 
 plimentary lines which could have been penned. 
 
 When Mr. Hall was co-pastor of the Broadmead 
 Church with the Rev. Mr. Evans, a member of his 
 Church, whom we will call W., called on him and 
 stated that he considered himself possessed of preach- 
 ing talents, and begged Mr. Hall to forward his 
 views of getting into the ministry. W. was an igno- 
 rant, conceited man, and Mr. Hall could not but smile 
 at his repeated applications, although he was some- 
 what annoyed by them. On one occasion Mr. W. 
 said he did not like to wrap his talent in a napkin. 
 
 ' Oh, brother W. ,' said Hall, ' don't go to the ex- 
 pense of buying a napkin ; a very small pocket-hand- 
 kerchief will answer the "purpose.' 
 
 Not repulsed by this broad hint, W. still pestered 
 Mr. Hall about his pulpit call, until, finally, the 
 latter appointed a time for him to give a specimen of 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 17 
 
 his preaching capabilities before the church. On the 
 following Monday evening it was Mr. Hall's turn to 
 have officiated, but he gave up the place to his ap- 
 plicant, who, at the appointed time, took the minister's 
 seat. 
 
 Mr. Hall sat below, and as soon as the hymn had 
 been sung, W. rose and proceeded to give out his text, 
 which was, ' Yea, doubtless, and I count all things 
 but loss,' &c. For a short time there was silence, 
 and then the aspirant to pulpit honours commenced, 
 with, ' Yea, doubtless,' — another pause — and then 
 again ' Yea, doubtless,' was repeated. Now a very 
 long pause, and a third time ' Yea, doubtless,' slowly 
 fell from the lips of W. Now, thought the hearers, 
 we shall hoNQ something else; but the preacher once 
 more again stammered out, ^ Yea — doubtless,' and 
 Hall, unable to bear it any longer, rose, and looking 
 the unhappy wight full in the face, said, ' Yea, doubt- 
 less, brother W., thou hadst better come down.' 
 Amidst the titterings of the congregation, he left the 
 pulpit ; and to the day of his death (for I believe his 
 doubts are ended) ' Yea, doubtless' was the name by 
 which he was most generally known. 
 
 I have referred to what Brougham said respecting 
 Mr. Hall's mouth ; it was very large. He was as well 
 aware of this as any one else, and one morning at a 
 breakfast party, in Bristol, on the occasion of family 
 prayers, a young minister, refening to a sermon 
 about to be delivered by the distinguished preacher, 
 prayed that the Lord would ^ open his mouth wider 
 
18 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 than ever.' When they rose from their knees, Mr. 
 Hall said, ^ Well, Sir, why did you pray that my mouth 
 might be opened wider ? It couldn't well be done, 
 Sir, unless it was slit from ear to ear. Sir.' 
 
 The history of l^s marriage was a singular one. 
 It has been related in a dozen different ways, but I 
 believe the following account of it to be correct : — 
 One day, whilst alighting at a friend's door for the 
 purpose of dining with him, he was joked on his 
 bachelorhood. He said nothing, but whilst at table 
 was observed to take particular notice of the servant 
 girl, who came in to replenish the fire. After dinner, 
 as he was sitting alone in the study, the young woman 
 again entered it with the coal-scuttle, when Mr. Hall, 
 whom she had supposed scarcely less than a king, 
 said to her, " Betty, do you love the Lord Jesus 
 Christ ?" The girl replied, that she hoped she did, 
 taking the question merely as an accustomed one 
 from a minister. To her utter surprise and conster- 
 nation, however, Mr. Hall immediately followed it up 
 by falling on his knees and exclaiming, " then, Betty, 
 you must love tw^," and asked her to marry him. In 
 her astonishment she ran away, and said she believed 
 Mr. Hall had gone mad again (he had been once 
 deranged). Her master, like herself, was surprised, 
 and on his speaking with Mr. Hall on the subject, 
 the latter declared his intention of marrying the girl, 
 who he said had taken his fancy by the manner in 
 which she put the coals on. They were married and 
 lived happily together. His widow survives him. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 19 
 
 Mr. Hall continued to officiate in Bristol, but his 
 last residence in that city was destined to be but 
 short. It was known for some time before the fatal 
 crisis of the malady under which he had through life 
 laboured had arrived, that his mortal strength was 
 failing; but the near approach of death was so 
 little anticipated, that when, one evening (I well 
 remember it), it was rumoured through the city that 
 Robert Hall was dead, every one was surprised as 
 well as distressed. He had preached but a short 
 time before, and gave no indications of the coming 
 calamity, so that the account of his death was not in 
 his, as in the cases of many ministers who long cease 
 from their public labours, before they are taken 
 " within the veil," like a sudden burst of thunder 
 after a long, ominous silence ; it rather resembled 
 the peal whifeh immediat^y follows the brilliant light- 
 ning, whose coruscations have scarcely died ere its 
 " thunder is its knell." 
 
 Long before his death, Mr. Hall had been com- 
 pelled to resort to the use of large doses of 
 opium, in order to allay the pain which continu- 
 ally kept him on a sort of rack, but his mind re- 
 tained its accustomed vigour and brilliancy to the 
 last. One long agonizing day was drawing towards 
 its close, when that awful thing which we, for want of 
 a better term, vaguely, but most expressively, call 
 the change for death, was observed. It became evi- 
 dent, that with him, not days, but minutes, were 
 numbered. His medical attendant was summoned in 
 
20 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 haste, and found him with his right hand resting on 
 the mantel-piece, and his left foot spasmodically 
 grasping the edge of a bath; gradually the eye 
 glazed, his magnificent head sunk on the shoulder of 
 his physician, and he died without a groan. 
 
 On a post mortem examination of the body, eight or 
 nine calculi were taken from the kidneys, in which 
 they were embedded. They were of various sizes ; 
 some of them as large as a pea, and having from 
 their sides projecting sharped spires, the eighth of an 
 inch long. These were literally thorns in the flesh, 
 and well explain why, during his whole life, he could 
 only procure partial alleviation of pain, by lying on 
 his back and smoking. So addicted was he to this 
 latter habit, that I have seen him light his pipe, after 
 preaching, at the pulpit lamps, when the congrega- 
 tion had dispersed. 
 
 From an article on Robert Hall's writings, which 
 appeared in the last number of the " North British 
 Review," I am tempted to make the follow^ing ex- 
 tract. The writer, in describing his manner in the 
 pulpit, says : — " The text of his discourse was usually 
 announced in the feeblest tone, chiefly from an in- 
 capacity of voice, and in a rapid manner, so as fre- 
 quently to be inaudible to the majority of his con- 
 gregation. He then introduced the general topic in 
 a calm perspicuous statement, remarkable chiefly for 
 its simplicity, and not often calculated to give a 
 stranger any promise of what was to come. It 
 seemed to be marked by no effort ; frequently con- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 21 
 
 sisting of an exposition of the context, with a few 
 plain observations. At times, however, he would 
 commence with some important sentiment, striking 
 the attention at once, and making the rest of his dis- 
 course a continual development of some fine train of 
 thought which lay imbedded in his own mind, and 
 became every moment more visible as he disclosed it 
 by a course of close, consecutive, and convincing rea- 
 soning. His most metaphysical addresses would gra- 
 dually merge into earnest appeals. After the exor- 
 dium, he would commonly hint at, rather than 
 explicitly announce, the very simple divisions of the 
 subject on which he intended to treat. Then his 
 thoughts would begin to multiply, and the rapidity 
 of his utterance, always considerable, would increase 
 as he proceeded and kindled — evidently urged on by 
 the momentum of his conceptions. He had no ora- 
 torical action, scarcely any kind of motion, excepting 
 an occasional lifting or waving of the right hand; 
 and in his most impassioned moments, an alternate 
 retreat and advance in the pulpit by a short step. 
 Sometimes the pain in his back, to which he was so 
 great a martyr, would induce him to throw his arm 
 behind, as if to give himself ease or support in the 
 long continued, and, to him, afflictive position of 
 standing to address the people. Nothing of the effect 
 which he produced depended on extraneous circum- 
 stances. There was no pomp, no rhetorical flourish, 
 and few, though whenever they did occur, very ap- 
 propriate images; excepting towards the close of his 
 
22 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 sermon, when his imagination became excursive, and 
 he winged his way through the loftiest sphere of con- 
 templation. His sublimest discourses were in the 
 beginning didactic and argumentative, then descrip- 
 tive and pathetic, and, finally, in the highest and best 
 sense, imaginative. Truth was their universal ele- 
 ment, and to enforce its claims was his constant aim. 
 Whether he attempted to engage the reason, the affec- 
 tions, or the fancy, all was subsidiary to this great end. 
 He was always in earnest — profoundly in earnest. He 
 lost himself in the glories of his theme ; and amidst 
 the fervours of his eloquence, the force of his argu- 
 mentation, and the beauty of his diction, it was 
 manifest that his supreme aim was to " win souls to 
 Christ." Notwithstanding many hesitations at the 
 outset, there was a continual flow — a flow of elegant 
 expression, exquisite turns of thought, pure sentiment, 
 and exalted feeling. Among other qualities of his 
 public speaking, it was one of the most extraordinary 
 that, even while the rapidity of the utterance was such 
 as almost to outrun the apprehension of his hearers, 
 every word, though by no means minutely premedi- 
 tated, was as proper in itself, and as beautifully col- 
 located, as if it had been the result of long and la- 
 borious consideration. He could touch at will the 
 inner springs of emotion, dive into the recesses of the 
 mind, expose sophism, vanquish error, and stem the 
 fierce revolt of prejudice ; and with equal success 
 could he speak to the experienced and aged Christian, 
 awakening at a touch his liveliest and holiest sensi- 
 
I 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 23 
 
 bilities, imparting consolation to the troubled mind, 
 unfolding the mysteries, while he breathed the spirit 
 of the gospel, dissipating the influence of evil agency, 
 encountering the efforts of inherent corruption, open- 
 ing Heaven to view, making its glories palpable, and 
 by leading you through the gates of the celestial city, 
 rendering the enchanted hearers conscious of strange 
 joys, which seemed not to belong to earth, but to some 
 more elevated state of existence. Then the bodily 
 organs would appear to be almost incapable of furnish- 
 ing a channel wide enough for the stream of thought, 
 which expanded as it flowed, till it spread as into an 
 ocean glowing with the morning light of eternity." 
 
 Before his mortal remains were committed to the 
 dust, an opportunity was afforded to the many friends 
 of the great man, of " looking their last" upon his 
 remains. I availed myself of the permission, and, 
 on arriving at his house, was shown into the darkened 
 room in which the dead preacher was lying. Never 
 was I so impressed with the grandeur of Hall's head, 
 as when I saw it in the coflin — the very majesty of 
 Death was exhibited on that ample forehead. On 
 raising my eyes from the face of the dead, they en- 
 countered the engraved semblance of the living and 
 almost inspired orator, for Branwhite's portrait of 
 him, in his accustomed attitude, hung on the w^all, 
 just over the senseless body, furnishing, as well as a 
 startling contrast, a striking commentary on the text 
 — he " being dead, yet speaketh." There was the 
 pictured preacher, and beneath it the clay, untenanted 
 
24 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT HALL. 
 
 tabernacle of him of whom has been repeated what 
 was originally said of another great man, that " he 
 had the eloquence of a Cicero, the learning of a 
 Parr, and the piety of a Whitfield." 
 
 During a portion of his life, Mr. Hall was de- 
 ranged — excessive study having induced disease of 
 the brain. To the disgrace of the times be it said, 
 that he was subjected, in the Asylum where he was 
 placed, to coercion. This he well remembered, and 
 would often allude to it. He once, in a large party, 
 expatiated eloquently on the necessity of an amelio- 
 ration of the condition of those who were bereft of 
 reason ; ' for,' said he, touchingly, whilst he exhibited 
 some scars on his head, the result of a blow from a 
 keeper — ^ these are the wounds which I received in 
 the house of my friends.' Happily he recovered, but 
 his friends were ever aftei'wards apprehensive of a re- 
 currence of the malady. 
 
 One of Hall's great contemporaries, John Foster, 
 recently followed him to the grave ; and of him and 
 some of his contemporaries I shall, in the next chap- 
 ter, note down a few reminiscences. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 JOHN FOSTER AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 
 
 The greatest of John Foster's Bristol contemporaries 
 was him of whom we have, in the last chapter, penned 
 some reminiscences. In this article we shall give a 
 few pen-and-ink sketches of the distinguished author 
 of the " Essays" himself, and of those ministers who 
 flourished in Bristol during his day. 
 
 As no memoir of Mr. Foster has yet appeared, a 
 few particulars respecting his life may be appro- 
 priately introduced in this place, before we jot down 
 our personal recollections of the man. 
 
 He was born in September, 1770, and baptized at 
 tlie age of seventeen, but of the religious experiences 
 of his youth little is known, for he was then, we are 
 told, " as he was ever afterwards, averse to what he 
 regarded as making a show of religion ;" and hei' 
 seldom or never alluded to the circumstances which 
 attended his conversion. 
 
 When a youth, his manners were marked by much 
 singularity, and his habits were peculiar. He was 
 
 c 
 
26 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 intensely fond of reading, and sometimes indulged in 
 it to the utter disregard of his health. His father was 
 by trade a weaver ; but the future great writer, as 
 may well be imagined, possessed no taste for a 
 merely mechanical operation ; he therefore bungled 
 at the loom, and soon quitted it altogether. 
 
 Dr. Fawcett, of whose church Foster was a mem- 
 ber, kept a large school, and received the young man 
 under his roof, as he observed the bent of his mind, 
 and felt anxious that his great powers should be well- 
 directed. After remaining with Dr. Fawcett four 
 years, he went to the Baptist College, in Stoke's 
 Croft, Bristol, where, however, he did not remain 
 more than twelve months. 
 
 After quitting Bristol, he went to Newcastle-on- 
 Tyne. He subsequently preached for a short time 
 in several other places ; but it was in the neighbour- 
 hood of Bristol that the greater portion of his life 
 wa^ spent. 
 
 He married in 1808, having previously resided for 
 some time at Frome ; and in this place he wrote his 
 celebrated Essays. These were comprised in a series 
 of letters to his future wife. In a brief notice of Mr. 
 Foster, which appeared in one of the religious maga- 
 zines, this lady is thus alluded to : — " How eminently 
 qualified this lady was to become the companion of 
 the Essayist it is needless to say. To a superior 
 understanding, she united fervent piety. To her 
 discerning judgment, in drawing forth Mr. Foster's 
 mind, we owe the first great production of his pen.'' 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 27 
 
 Mr. Foster quitted Frome in an enfeebled state of 
 health, which incapacitated him from preaching, and 
 resided for about seven years at Bourton-on-the- 
 Water, where his pen was not idle. To the " Eclectic 
 Review," which was started in 1805, he was a fre- 
 quent contributor, almost, if not quite, from its first 
 number; and his powerful aid, combined with that 
 of Hall and Montgomery, did much towards esta- 
 blishing that periodical. The "Eclectic" displayed 
 so much talent, that, at that time, it suffered little by 
 comparison with the awful " Critic of the North." As 
 for such small fry as the " Monthly Review" and the 
 " British Critic," their influence was almost totally 
 annihilated. Mr. Foster's latest contribution to the 
 " Eclectic" was a review of Mr. Dix's Life of Chatter- 
 ton. The whole of his articles have been recently 
 published in two volumes ; they are in number about 
 one hundred and eighty, and we need only say, that 
 there are articles on Blair, Beattie, Paley, Chatter- 
 ton, Cumberland, Grattan, Curran, Fuller, Ryland, 
 Fawcett, Whitfield, Chalmers, Selden, Cardinal Wol- 
 sey, Jeremy Taylor, David Hume, Lord Kames, 
 Sidney Smith, Home Tooke, and Charles James 
 Fox, vdth incidental notices of other statesmen, theo- 
 logians, and influential writers, to show that the sub- 
 jects which come under review must be very diversi- 
 fied and deeply interesting. 
 
 From Bourton Mr. Foster removed to Downend, 
 where, his voice and health having improved, he 
 preached continuously for about seven years. After 
 
 c 2 
 
28 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 the year 1822 his ministrations were only occasional, 
 and his hearers were principally plain country people, 
 "to whom he laboured to adapt his style, and not 
 unsuccessfully ; in proof of which, we may mention 
 the fact of his preaching frequently in the villages, 
 and giving addresses to the teachers and children of 
 the Sabbath school at his own place." Many who 
 read his works, little imagined that he was a hard- 
 working Baptist minister, but fancied him to be a 
 mere literary recluse. Even literary men, who did 
 homage to his genius, knew but little respecting their 
 fellow-labourer. One of the London morning papers 
 which announced his death, headed its notice with 
 " Death of John Foster, Esq." And in the city, 
 near to which he lived, hundreds who read his works 
 had no idea but that he was a private gentleman, 
 living at the " Fishponds," as the place of his resi- 
 dence was termed. 
 
 During the year 1822, and the three following 
 years, Mr. Foster delivered a series of Lectures in 
 Broadmead Chapel, Bristol. The audience consisted 
 of persons belonging to various religious communi- 
 ties in Bristol, who highly appreciated Mr. Foster's 
 writings, and the discourses were of an unusually ela- 
 borate character. The leading ideas of each were 
 committed to paper, with occasional hints for am- 
 plification, filling generally twelve or fourteen pages. 
 We have heard, from the lips of a lady who had the 
 privilege of attending these lectures, that they were 
 " magnificent." Another friend, describing Mr. Fos- 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 29 
 
 ter's extemporaneous prayers, made the remark, 
 that they " were Mr. Foster's Essays that we stand 
 up to." 
 
 When Robert Hall consented to succeed Dr.Ryland 
 in the pastoral charge of Broadmead Chapel, Mr. 
 Foster steadily refused to deliver a single lecture 
 more : and he never entered the pulpit after it had 
 been once occupied by the great preacher. As it was 
 on the occasion of his being present during the delivery 
 of a sermon by Hall that we first saw him, we will 
 here note down our recollections of him. 
 
 There are two entrance-ways to Broadmead Chapel, 
 the principal one in the street from which the building 
 takes its name, and the other facing St. James's Church- 
 yard. If any person had taken his stand near the 
 latter on any Sunday morning, during the palmy days 
 of Hall's pastorate, he might have seen approaching, 
 shortly before the appointed hour for commencing 
 the service, a man, tall and somewhat stoutly built, 
 with a very decided stoop in the shoulders, his chin 
 half buried in a thick white cravat, and his figure 
 shaded by an old and enormous sized green gingham 
 umbrella. This of course supposes the weather to 
 be rainy ; but whether wet or dry, sunny or cloudy, 
 whenever Robert Hall was to preach, assuredly that 
 slovenly-looking man would make his appearance at 
 the back door of ' Broadmead' meeting-house. If 
 you looked on that part of his face not concealed by 
 his hat, which nearly rested on his eye-brows, nor 
 enveloped in his neckerchief, you might see a coun- 
 
30 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 tenance of a profoundly meditative cast. On he 
 would go, looking neither to the right hand nor to 
 the left, as he ascended the gallery stairs, and stole 
 quietly to a secluded pew at the left hand of the 
 preacher, which he loved, because there he was, to a 
 great degree, sheltered from observation. 
 
 Those were the high and palmy days of Broadmead; 
 for, as we have hinted in our notice of Hall, the gifted, 
 the great, and the good, fi-om all parts of the kingdom, 
 repaired thither to listen to the charmed eloquence 
 of the gifted orator. There, in that somewhat heavy 
 looking building, would be assembled, every Sunday, 
 lords, ladies, members of parliament, barristers, 
 authors, and artists; but no one presented a more 
 striking appearance than John Foster, as he sat in the 
 shadow of one of the heavy pillars. He was, as 
 we have said, a tall man, but we had better leave 
 a more minute description of him until we shall 
 have a better opportunity of studying his outward 
 man. 
 
 During the few years which immediately preceded 
 his death, he preached very seldom in Bristol ; but 
 on the occasion of a new chapel being opened, in 
 Thrissell-street, he was with very great difficulty 
 prevailed upon to deliver the morning discourse. 
 We went to hear him, and on arriving at the chapel, 
 found it densely crowded in every part, the audience 
 seeming to consist chiefly of clergymen and dissent- 
 ing ministers, who had been attracted by the extra- 
 ordinary talents of the Essayist. After a hymn had 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 31 
 
 been sung, he ascended the pulpit ; and as we were 
 situated directly in front of him, we had a favourable 
 opportunity for observation. 
 
 Not one of the published portraits give anything 
 like an idea of Foster; the one by Branwhite resembles 
 him when he was younger ; but as we saw him, we 
 should not have recognised in it any traces of the 
 original. Mr. Foster's face was large, and the features 
 massive ; the forehead was very high, and pyramidal 
 in shape, being broadest at its lower portion. His 
 head was covered by a very evident curly wig, which 
 one might at a glance discover was not of the most 
 fashionable manufacture. A huge pair of silver spec- 
 tacles, with circular glasses almost as big as penny- 
 pieces, nearly concealed two dark small eyes, which 
 glistened brightly beneath a couple of shaggy eye- 
 brows ; the face was ploughed with deep lines, and 
 the forehead furrowed all over with "vn-inkles of 
 thought ;" around his neck was a dingy white cravat, 
 and his coat was ill-fitting, and of a rusty black. 
 Altogether he was the most slovenly looking man 
 we ever saw in a pulpit. 
 
 As we are not going to write a critique on Mr. 
 Foster's sermon, we shall not dwell upon it, but 
 confine ourselves principally to the describing his 
 manner in the pulpit. After he had given out his 
 text in a mumbling, gurgling, husky voice, he com- 
 menced somewhat in this way — "Now, I dare say 
 some of you will think I am going to preach a very 
 odd sermon from such an odd text;" and then he 
 
32 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 went on, gradually enlisting the attention of his 
 hearers, whilst he described in magnificent language 
 the idol temples of the East. Soon, his congregation 
 were wrapt in wonder and delight, as they listened to 
 his gorgeous descriptions, and we do not think that 
 one individual present stirred hand or foot until his 
 glowing discourse came to an end. Then long-sus- 
 pended breathing found indulgence in deep-drawn 
 sighs, and every one gazed at every one else, and 
 looked or nodded admiration. Some remained for a 
 time with lips apart and eyes still fixed upon the 
 pulpit, as if spell-bound ; and all felt, on the termi- 
 nation of the discourse, a relief from the pressure on 
 the intellect, which the ponderous stores, heaped on 
 it from the magazine of the orator, had occasioned. 
 
 The Rev. T. S. Crisp, the present principal of the 
 Baptist College at Bristol, in his funeral sermon for 
 Mr. Foster, thus speaks of him as a preacher — " His 
 preaching was not fitted to excite very general interest. 
 The tones of his voice were not sufficiently attractive ; 
 his manner was serious, but not lively or energetic ; 
 and his composition, though he often conscientiously 
 laboured to adapt his mode of expression to hearers 
 in common, was not of a popular cast. His sermons 
 were characterised by the same originality of con- 
 ception, the same strength of consecutive reasoning, 
 the same remarkable felicity in the choice of words 
 and phrases exactly suited to his purpose, as his pub- 
 lished writings; but with less elaboration of style. 
 Indeed, many of his addresses were plain, and even 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 33 
 
 colloquial. He studied to make them so ; and often 
 succeeded, particularly with village hearers, among 
 whom he was quite at ease. I have frequently heard 
 these discourses among country people spoken of by 
 a very intelligent person, who availed himself of 
 almost everyopportunity of hearing them, with delight 
 approaching to rapture. From representations made 
 by him, and by others also, these village sermons ap- 
 pear to have been in a high degree simple, yet rich 
 in very striking imagery, while they exhibited a mighty 
 command, not only of thought but of language ; and 
 they were often delivered with an earnestness and 
 pathos indicating deep and strong emotion." 
 
 Very little is known of Mr. Foster's private life ; 
 he seldom visited any one, and few entered his house. 
 We had the pleasure and privilege of spending an 
 evening with him some years ago, and will briefly 
 advert to the occasion. 
 
 A friend from SheflSield had invited us to accom- 
 pany him to Mr. Foster's residence, and we gladly 
 availed ourselves of the opportunity of seeing the 
 great man " at home." It was in the summer time, 
 and on a calm, bright evening we drove up to his 
 door at Stapleton. The house looked gloomy out- 
 side, and when we entered one of the ft'ont parlours, 
 the deep shade caused by the trees, and, we believe, 
 a boundary wall, caused the apartment to wear a 
 sombre appearance. On the tables and chairs lay, in 
 " admirable confusion," proof impressions of en- 
 gravings and costly volumes, of a character which 
 c3 
 
34 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 plainly enough indicated the fine taste of their pos- 
 sessor ; indeed, while he sought to have everything 
 around him plain and simple, and though in some 
 things, especially his dress, he was regardless of his 
 appearance, even to excess, his relish for the costly 
 and splendid, in books and pictures, was almost a 
 passion, for he was capable, in an extraordinary de- 
 gree, of appreciating and admiring what was elegant 
 in the fine arts. Towards the latter end of his life, 
 he made several journeys to the metropolis, for the 
 purpose of seeing the exhibitions at the academies, 
 and of visiting the various curiosities at the museums ; 
 and these matters he to the last relished, with all the 
 keen enthusiasm of his earlier days. 
 
 After we had been a few minutes in the apartment, 
 Mr. Foster entered it. He was, as usual, very care- 
 lessly attired, wearing an old blue coat with bright 
 brass buttons, which hung haggingly about his large 
 frame, and a pair of corduroy breeches and top- 
 boots. The old brown curly wig, and the pair of 
 large circular spectacles, added not a little to the 
 singularity of his appearance. . His manners were 
 rather forbidding, but they formed no key to his cha- 
 racter, which, it is said, was characterized by simple 
 honesty in his purposes, and straightforwardness in 
 his movements. 
 
 He invited us to remain and take tea, and two 
 ladies soon afterward joined us. His conversation 
 was what might be characterized as odd; certainly it 
 was not brilliant. His eye was the most piercing. 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 35 
 
 with the single exception of Mr. Beckford's, which I 
 ever saw ; it fairly looked into one, and there was no 
 escaping from its scrutiny. Whilst he gazed, one 
 felt that he was reading character, and that one's 
 secret thoughts were laid bare for his inspection. 
 He never smiled, and an indescribable gloom seemed 
 to belong to his character. This, in that shaded 
 room, was felt, almost to an oppressive degree. We 
 remember that he made one or two strange and 
 severe remarks, but as they referred to individuals 
 now living, and were uttered in the privacy of his 
 parlour, we feel that we should be to blame in more 
 explicitly referring to them. 
 
 With reference to this proneness to severe remark, 
 the same authority from which we have already 
 quoted thus speaks : — 
 
 " It might seem that, in some things, he failed in 
 the exercise of charity — especially in the sternness of 
 his judgment, and vehemence of his censure, of public 
 men and public measures. I do not say that it was 
 not so : though, occasionally, what he meant as play- 
 fulness, might be mistaken for grave rebuke. But it 
 is right to observe, that while some indulge in the 
 mere cant of liberality, in him there was a solemn 
 conviction of what was due from man to man ; and a 
 sincere indignation, which he was not sufficiently care- 
 ful to repress, against what he regarded as the invasion 
 of sacred rights. 
 
 " There was an appearance of misanthropy in the 
 tone in which he would sometimes speak of men in 
 
36 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 general, and of the state of the world. But it was an 
 appearance only. He saw the debasement of human 
 nature, and deeply deplored it ; and, if his views of 
 mankind were gloomy — formed, as they were, under 
 the guidance of divine truth, and with the discern- 
 ment of a keen observer — yet, they were those of a 
 compassionate spirit. 
 
 '^ Such was he to his fellow-men. Before God, he 
 deeply abased himself." 
 
 After tea he rose from table, and putting on an old 
 grey frock coat, invited us to walk with him in his 
 garden ; there a spirit of almost cheerfulness seemed 
 to animate him ; every now and then he would draw 
 from his pocket a common round snuff-box, gently 
 tap its lid, and pause for a while, glancing keenly over 
 his huge spectacles, and then giving utterance to some 
 casual observation. The shades of evening falling, 
 we returned to the parlour, where he showed us some 
 of his most precious stores of art, principally fine 
 and rare engravings, and about nine o'clock we quitted 
 his house, to see him no more for ever. 
 
 Foster was a man of strong prejudices. In the 
 year 1838, Robert Southey paid his last visit to his 
 native city ; and Mr. Foster was invited to meet him 
 at the house of a mutual friend, but he declined doing 
 so, and accompanied his refusal with some very se- 
 vere remarks on what he called the Laureate's apostasy 
 from his former principles. His antipathies did not, 
 however, extend to Southey's loritings. Take, for ex- 
 ample, his review of the " Chronicles of the Cid," in 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 37 
 
 which he does ample justice to the genius and in- 
 dustry of its author. 
 
 For some months before Mr. Foster's death, his health 
 failed him. The shock occasioned by the deaths of his 
 wife and only son he had never entirely recovered ; 
 at length, pulmonary consumption attacked him, and 
 although he suffered comparatively little, the disease 
 gradually undermined his frame. During the last 
 twelve months of his life his health was considerably 
 impaired ; and for some weeks previously to his death, 
 he was much debilitated. The last time of his visiting 
 Bristol, was on the occasion of the usual examination 
 at Bristol College, and then it was observed that his 
 gait was more stooping, his step feebler, and that his 
 shadow was evidently falling upon his grave. 
 
 The death-scene of Mr. Foster was eminently cha- 
 racteristic of the man, — the almost hermit. On the 
 morning of Saturday, the 14th of October, 1843, 
 he complained to those about him, that he felt an un- 
 usual confusedness in his head, and experienced a 
 difficulty in breathing. It had been his habit to have 
 some one to read to him, a custom he much enjoyed, 
 and for many years he had been in the habit of spend- 
 ing several hours every day with his family, listening 
 whilst one of them read aloud ; on this occasion he 
 declined his usual practice, and requested to be left 
 quite alone during the afternoon and evening. On 
 retiring to rest, he steadily refused to allow any one 
 to sit up with him, particularly desiring that all would 
 go to bed as usual. They did so, but an attendant 
 
38 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 stole quietly in once or twice during the night to look 
 at him ; she did so towards the dawn of the Sabbath, 
 when he lay in a peaceful slumber. An hour after- 
 wards she went in and found him a corpse ; his hands 
 stretched out, and his countenance so tranquil as to 
 make it unquestionable that his spirit was dismissed 
 " without a struggle, and probably without any suffer- 
 ing whatever." 
 
 It had been thought, says a friend, that his request 
 to be alone originated in an anticipation of death, 
 as likely to take place that night ; it was evident, how- 
 ever, that it was not so. At the same time his friends 
 were persuaded that his mode of departure was such 
 as he himself would have desired. He had been heard 
 to speak of such a death as enviable. There were 
 no weeping friends beside his bed, to distress his 
 sensitive spirit; no one witnessed the strife with 
 death (if there really was any) ; no one noticed the 
 lingering and the shivering on the brink of mortality ; 
 he entered the dark valley alone ! Whilst morning 
 was chasing the gloom of night from his solitary 
 chamber ; whilst the members of his family reposed, 
 he gently " slept the sleep which knows no waking ;" 
 and when they arose, his spirit had already woke in 
 the morning light of eternity's endless day. What 
 he, in the following extract fi'om his own writings 
 described, he thus realized : — 
 
 " An aged Christian is soothed by the assurance 
 that his Almighty friend will not despise the enfeebled 
 exertions, nor desert the oppressed and fainting weak- 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 39 
 
 ness, of the last stage of his servant's life. When 
 advancing into the shade of death itself, he is animated 
 by the faith that the great Sacrifice has taken the 
 malignity of death away, and that the divine presence 
 will attend the dark steps of this last and lonely en- 
 terprise." 
 
 ** Thus, at the shut of ev'n, the weary bird 
 Leaves the -wide air, and, in some lonely brake, 
 Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, 
 Then claps his well fledged wings, and bears away." 
 
 Although, as we before hinted, it forms no part of 
 our plan to criticise the works of the subjects of our 
 sketches, we cannot refi-ain from extracting the fol- 
 lowing well written and just notice of Mr. Foster's 
 merits as an author. It occurs in a review of his 
 Lectures and Critiques, in the Baptist Magazine for 
 July, 1844:— 
 
 " Mr. Foster was emphatically a thinking man. To 
 think was at once the pleasure and the business of 
 his life. He was not a man of activity ; he was not 
 fond of public speaking; he was not addicted to 
 writing : indeed the gravest allegation to be consi- 
 dered by those who attempt to form an impartial es- 
 timate of his character is, that he did not make due 
 use of the talent intrusted to him, by illuminating his 
 contemporaries with frequent productions of his pen. 
 His delight was to think. Whoever opened one of 
 his publications might feel a pleasing certainty that 
 it had been printed, not because the time was come 
 for Mr. Foster to make a book, but because he had 
 
40 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 some thoughts to communicate. And the subject on 
 which he was most prone to expatiate was one on 
 which the thoughts of a quiet, retired, contemplative 
 observer, are peculiarly worthy to be treasured up. 
 His favourite subject was man. Individuals of the 
 human species, he loved to analyze and classify ; 
 society, he loved to consider as it was, as it had been, 
 and as it ought to be. Physical science, he only 
 valued in its relation to man. Inspired scripture, he 
 studied, and doubtless received thankfully the infor- 
 mation it imparted respecting the invisible Creator, 
 and the grace displayed in his arrangements and pur- 
 poses ; but it yielded to him habitually an especial 
 pleasure, as furnishing an insight into the nature, 
 habits, and capabilities of man. The uninspired 
 books in which he found most gratification were his- 
 tories, biographies, travels, voyages; and his writings 
 are picture galleries, abounding with portraits, evi- 
 dently the productions of a master. A deceased friend 
 even, he seemed to regard as a subject ior post mortem 
 examination ; and in more than one instance he pub- 
 lished to the world, in a rather startling manner, 
 the results of the autopsy. His own language in re- 
 ference to another is justly applicable to himself: 
 ^The author is a sharp observer of mankind, and 
 has a large portion of knowledge of the world. What 
 is more, he has exercised much discriminative obser- 
 vation on the human heart, and often unfolds a cor- 
 rect view of its movements, especially the depraved 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 41 
 
 William Thorpe was another celebrated preacher 
 in Bristol during the times of Hall and Foster. 
 Some one, Coleridge, we believe, who was intimate 
 with all three, said that " Hall's mind was a fountain 
 exhaustless in its resources, and Thorpe's a reservoir 
 vast in its capacity." Mr. Thorpe possessed a pro- 
 digious memory, but he was by no means an original- 
 minded man. Fancy, reader, a person of amazing 
 bulk — a very Daniel Lambert, in canonicals, and you 
 will have a general idea of Mr. Thorpe. Physically 
 considered, he was indeed a " great man ;" and if the 
 term were applied, too, to his mental organization, it 
 would be by no means inapplicable. His face was 
 large, and so fleshy, that the superabundant fat 
 seemed to have availed itself of the laws of gravita- 
 tion, and fallen down in huge folds beneath his chin. 
 His head was partially bald, covered on the temples 
 with short curly black hair ; his eyes were dark and 
 bright, and the mouth possessed a very sweet ex- 
 pression. Most bishop-like was his person, which, 
 when attired in the gown, looked like a large ter- 
 restrial globe, with an equator of black silk girdling 
 its majestio proportions. His arms, short, hung like 
 the flippers of a moilstrous turtle by his side, and, 
 whenever he moved, the very pulpit creaked again. 
 Mr. Thorpe's voice, as might be expected, from the 
 depth and breadth of his chest, was sonorous and 
 melodious ; and occasionally, when he poured forth 
 a very torrent of eloquence, it produced a most 
 solemn impression. His forte was gorgeous descrip- 
 
42 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 tion, and the exposition of the prophetic books. No 
 one surpassed him in this respect. We have heard 
 him hold an audience enchained for two mortal 
 hours, by his wonderful power of word-painting, if 
 such a word may be coined, to express just what we 
 may mean. On one occasion, we well remember 
 the prodigious impression which he produced by a 
 sudden question ; he had been describing the angel 
 of death as hovering over the vast audience, with a 
 scroll in his hands, on which was inscribed the names 
 of those who would be his next victims. After a 
 powerful passage, he suddenly paused, and then 
 with solemn emphasis exclaimed, " And who amongst 
 you has his name written on that scroll ?" This will 
 not, perhaps, tell in narration, but the effect at the 
 time was electrical. 
 
 Mr. Thorpe died some years since ; he wrote but 
 little, and his works are almost unknown. Like 
 those, therefore, whose reputation depends on their 
 oral efforts, his fame will not outlive the memories of 
 those who heard him. 
 
 Thomas Roberts deserves mention, in connexion 
 with Thorpe, Foster, and Hall, for he was the friend 
 of and fellow-worker with all three, and a man of 
 original and powerful mind. In person he was com- 
 manding, and no one could look on his majestic 
 head, and listen to the deep harmony of his voice, 
 without feeling that he was no common man. 
 
 Out of Bristol he was too little known to render 
 any lengthened remarks respecting him necessary. 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 43 
 
 and we merely thus allude to him, because his name 
 is frequently associated with those of Foster and 
 Hall. Neither will our limits permit us to refer to 
 a rather voluminous author, and for many years a 
 very popular clergyman of Bristol, the Rev. T. T. 
 Biddulph, as an able memoir of him has already 
 appeared. 
 
 Another noted Bristol contemporary of Hall's was 
 Dr. Lant Carpenter, a man of extraordinary abili- 
 ties. It must be now nearly sixteen years since we 
 first heard him ; but not then as a preacher ; it was on 
 the occasion of his delivering a series of lectures in 
 the theatre of the Bristol Philosophical Institution. 
 We remember, as if it were but a thing of yesterday, 
 the crowded lecture room, the delighted audience, 
 and the person of the lecturer. All the intellect that 
 Bristol could muster w^as there, but the greater por- 
 tion of it consisted of members of Dr. Carpenter's 
 own religious community, for few among those wor- 
 shipping at other churches in Bristol would have 
 ventured to listen to an Unitarian, although only 
 poetry was his theme ; but it may be said, by w^ay of 
 excuse for such, that poetry then was, as it is now, 
 considered to be an unprofitable thing, which does 
 not possess any remarkable rate or value. 
 
 The reader must imagine the lecturer; he was 
 what might be called a " little man," by which I 
 mean, one rather under the middle size, as it is 
 termed. His frame was so remarkably slender and 
 attenuated, that, at the first glance, his head seemed 
 
44 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 to be strangely disproportioned to it in size ; and 
 seldom has any eye looked upon a more splendid 
 cranium, or one which, phrenologically speaking, in- 
 dicated a more accurately -balanced mental organi- 
 zation. The forehead was singularly high and ex- 
 pansive, bald, or nearly so, on its upper portion, and 
 the temples were thinly covered with lightish hair. 
 His eyes were grey in colour, and possessed an in- 
 expressible calmness and sweetness in their expres- 
 sion. The nose was very, nay, remarkably long, but 
 not by any means aquiline, and the mouth was be- 
 nevolently formed. So very remarkable was the 
 breadth of the forehead on the summit, that the whole 
 face somewhat resembled, when seen in full, a pyramid 
 in shape, the apex being formed by the point of the 
 long chin, just the reverse, in fact, of the facial appear- 
 ance of his Majesty, Louis Philippe, whose pear-shaped 
 head and face, the stem part upwards, has afforded 
 such abundant and ludicrous material to caricaturists. 
 A simple white cravat encircled his coUarless neck, 
 and, of course, the doctor's attire consisted of plain, 
 clerical, sober black. 
 
 The voice of Dr. Carpenter was remarkably striking 
 and beautiful; and, says his son, in a memoir of his 
 father, " from its peculiar qualities he was able, in a 
 remarkable degree, to combine solemnity with the 
 cheerfulness of confiding faith in his addresses to the 
 Deity. In his reading of the Scriptures, and the 
 hymns, he often conveyed thoughts which were not 
 before connected with the words." We can bear willing 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 45 
 
 testimony to the truth of these remarks, for never 
 have we heard hymns " given out" as they were by 
 Dr. Carpenter. Well do we remember hearing him 
 recite that beautiful hymn of Chatterton's, com- 
 mencing with — 
 
 " O God ! whose thunder shakes the sky, 
 
 Whose eye the atom-globe surveys ; 
 To thee, my only rock, I fly, 
 
 Thy mercy in thy justice praise.** 
 
 And distinctly, too, do we recollect the repetition of 
 an admirable prose poem, which we shall presently 
 allude to. It was said that, as a boy, he was dis- 
 tinguished as a beautiful reader : and the deafness of 
 his adopted mother obliged him to cultivate the im- 
 portant habit of speaking clearly. " None who ever 
 listened to him, are likely," says a friend, " to forget 
 his reading of poetry: and one of his hearers re- 
 marked, that the manner in which he read the hymns, 
 inspired in him emotions, and called up thoughts, 
 which a whole service from another often failed to 
 excite." In the lecture to which we have especially 
 referred, Dr. Carpenter read some of Wordsworth's 
 noble sonnets, which poems have ever since seemed 
 to us to be the most beautiful ever penned by the bard 
 of Rydal Mount ; but the crowning glory of that 
 lecture was a piece of prose-poetry from an unknown 
 hand, which the Doctor read, and which is so re- 
 markably beautiful, that we offer no excuse for making 
 the reader acquainted with it. To us it will ever be 
 
46 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 associated with remembrances of him, who we first 
 heard read it. Here it is: — 
 
 FAITH AND HOPE. 
 
 A PARABLE. 
 
 One morning as the sun arose, two spirits went 
 forth upon the earth. 
 
 And they were sisters ; but Faith was of mature 
 age, while Hope was yet a child. 
 
 They were both beautiful. Some loved to gaze 
 upon the countenance of Faith, for her eye was serene, 
 and her beauty changed not: but Hope was the de- 
 light of every heart. 
 
 And the child sported in the freshness of the morn- 
 ing ; and as she hovered over the gardens and dewy 
 lawns, her wings glittered in the sunbeams like the 
 rainbow. 
 
 " Come, my sister," she cried, " and chase with me 
 this butterfly from flower to flower ? " 
 
 But her sister was gazing at the lark as it arose 
 from its low nest and warbled among the clouds. 
 
 And when it was noon, the child said again, "Come, 
 my sister, and pluck with me the flowers of the 
 garden, for they are beautiful, and their fragrance is 
 sweet." 
 
 But Faith replied, " Nay, my sister, let the flowers 
 be thine, for thou art young, and delightest thyself in 
 their beauty. I will meditate in the shade till the 
 heat of the day be past. Thou wilt find me by the 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 47 
 
 fountain in the forest. When thou art weary, come 
 and repose on my bosom." And she smiled and de- 
 parted. 
 
 After a time Hope sought her sister. The tear 
 was in her eye, and her countenance was mournful. 
 
 Then Faith said, " My sister, wherefore dost thou 
 weep, and why is thy countenance sad ? " 
 
 And the child answered, " Because a cloud is in 
 the sky, and the sunshine is overcast. See, the rain 
 begins to fall." 
 
 " It is but a shower," Faith replied, " and when it is 
 over the fields will be greener than before." 
 
 Now the place where they sat was sheltered from 
 the rain, as it had been from the noontide heat. And 
 Faith comforted the child, and showed her how the 
 waters flowed with a fuller and clearer stream as the 
 shower fell. 
 
 And presently the sun broke out again, and the 
 woods resounded with song. 
 
 Then Hope was glad, and went forth to her sports 
 once more. 
 
 After a time the sky was again darkened, and the 
 young spirit looked up, and behold! there was no 
 cloud in the whole circle of the heavens. 
 
 Therefore Hope marvelled, for it was not yet night. 
 
 And she fled to her sister, and cast herself down at 
 her feet, and trembled exceedingly. 
 
 Then Faith raised the child, and led her forth from 
 the shade of the trees, and pointed to the sun, and 
 said. 
 
48 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 " A shadow is passing over the face thereof, but no) 
 ray of his glory is extinguished. He still walketh in 
 brightness, and thou shalt again delight thyself in his 
 beams. See, even yet his face is not wholly hidden 
 from us." 
 
 But the child dared not look up, for the gloom struck 
 upon her heart. And when all was bright again she 
 feared to wander from her sister, and her sports were 
 less gay than before. 
 
 When the eventide was come, Faith went forth from 
 the forest shade, and sought the lawn, where she might 
 watch the setting of the sun. 
 
 Then said she to her young sister, "Come and 
 behold how far the glories of the sunset transcend the 
 beauties of the morning. See how softly they melt 
 away and give place to the shadows of night." 
 
 But Plope was now weary, her eye was heavy, 
 and her voice languid. She folded her radiant wings, 
 and dropped on her sister's bosom, and fell asleep; 
 
 But Faith watched through the night, she was never 
 weary, nor did her eyelids need repose. 
 
 She laid the child on a bed of flowers, and kissed 
 her cheek. She also drew her mantle round the head 
 of the sleeper, that she might sleep in peace. 
 
 Then Faith looked upwards, and beheld how the 
 stars came forth. She traced them in their radiant 
 courses, and listened to their harmonies, which mortal 
 ear hath not heard. 
 
 And as she listened, their music entranced her 
 soul. 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 49 
 
 At leng-th a light appeared in the east, and the 
 sun burst forth from the portals of the heavens. Then 
 the spirit hastened to arouse the young sleeper. 
 
 "Awake! O my sister! awake!" she cried; "a new 
 day hath dawned, and no cloud shall overshadow it. 
 Awake ! for the sun hath arisen which shall set no 
 more." 
 
 Dr. Carpenter often lectured on scientific subjects 
 at the Bristol Institution, for he was a man of 
 almost universal attainments; and, as might be sup- 
 posed, his courses were extremely popular. These 
 exercises, however, did not interfere with his pulpit 
 or pastoral labours, in both of which he was un- 
 ceasing. 
 
 The last time we ever heard Dr. Carpenter preach, 
 was on the occasion of his delivering a sermon on the 
 duration of future punishment, which he held not to 
 be eternal. This discourse attracted much attention, 
 and from those opposed to him in doctrine, great 
 censure. One of the Bristol ministers (the Rev. 
 Mr. Jack) announced a sermon on the following 
 Sabbath evening, when we attended the Castle Green 
 Chapel. We had been in our pew but a few minutes, 
 when we observed a stir in the chapel, and presently 
 what should we see but the noble and shining head 
 of Dr. Carpenter, who had come to hear what ar- 
 guments might be adduced against his doctrine. His 
 
50 JOHN FOSTER 
 
 presence certainly proved that candour for which 
 he was ever distinguished ; for, never swayed by nar- 
 row prejudices, he was a Liberal in opinions, to the 
 very fullest extent of that much-abused term. 
 
 As in the case of poor Southe'y, the constant drain 
 upon Dr. Carpenter's too active mind did not go on 
 vrithout producing its natural result ; but although it 
 was known generally that he was in ill health, the 
 precise nature of his malady was not certainly known. 
 At length, after he had not been seen in public for 
 some weeks, a rumour came that he was dead, and 
 that his malady had been of a mental character. All 
 who had known him were filled with anxiety — tales 
 were told which left no doubt as to the state of his 
 mind ; but all that was ascertained to be true, was the 
 dreadful fact that he had been drowned. He had 
 some time before quitted England for the sake of 
 change, as there were many circumstances which 
 caused those who anxiously watched him to be so- 
 licitous as to the future ; and many sources of excite- 
 ment, or painful interest, continued to diminish his 
 remaining strength. 
 
 On this part of his history it is not, however, our 
 province to dwell; suffice it to say, that from his 
 journey he was destined never to retiu*n. After pass- 
 ing through the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, 
 and Italy, he embarked in April, 1840, for Leghorn. 
 During the voyage, he was seen one night walking the 
 deck, and was subsequently observed standing on the 
 
AND HIS BRISTOL CONTEMPORARIES. 51 
 
 cabin stairs apparently for the sake of fresh air. This 
 was the last time he was seen alive, but it appeared 
 that he had retired to his berth, and had unlocked his 
 bag, and removed some of its contents, as if preparing 
 to go to rest. It is supposed probable by some, that 
 whilst thus engaged, sea-sickness overpowered him, 
 and that he went on deck, " when it pleased God 
 suddenly to remove him in a manner which there was 
 no human eye to witness, and of which, therefore,, 
 no human tongue can confidently speak." 
 
 All these great and good men, of whom we have 
 thus noted down our recollections, are no more 
 amongst the living. Some of them being dead, yet 
 speak through their works. Hall's six volumes will 
 ever remain monuments of his piety, his learning, and 
 his taste; Carpenter's "Harmony" will be handed 
 down to many future generations who embrace a 
 similar creed to that he professed ; and of Foster it has 
 been well said: — 
 
 "He has lighted up a new world of thought. Every 
 sentence is a text, every word a stimulus to intellect. 
 Already his pages have formed more than one great 
 writer. He has expanded and raised the intellectual 
 hemisphere around us, and lighted it up with new 
 brilliance. What he has written is not tentative; a 
 reckless dashing on of sentences and words, in the 
 chance of some form of meaning which shall have the 
 effect of force, without the satisfying impression of 
 certainty and completeness of view. All that Foster 
 d2 
 
52 JOHN FOSTER. 
 
 has written was thought out^ and will remain. His 
 writings are not merely a shrine of beautiful senti- 
 ment, at which distant genius will kindle its flame, 
 but an oracle of truth which shall convince for ever, 
 and modify human thought in all ages coming." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 I CANDIDLY confess that I feel some hesitation in 
 taking lady-sitters as subjects for my literary pen- 
 cillings, but as so many of the fair sex have aban- 
 doned "double and cross stitch," and rushed into 
 print, I am bound by the " common laws" of polite- 
 ness to pay them due attention. Yet do I tremble 
 lest through ignorance of proper descriptive terms — 
 terms absolutely necessary in articles of this nature — 
 I should convey erroneous impressions, and render 
 myself liable to be laughed at for my pains. I am 
 by no means learned in the mysteries of a lady's 
 toilette ; that is, so far as the particular names of the 
 various ai^ticles of dress are concerned; and though 
 I might manage to convey some idea of the cut of a 
 coat, or the shape of a hat, I am by no means certain 
 that I should exhibit much tact in trying to describe 
 the gay or quaint apparelling of a lady. It is all well 
 enough to make dresses for heroines in novels and 
 romances, especially if they flourished some fifty or a 
 
54 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 hundred years ago; hooped quilted petticoats, point- 
 lace stomachers, high-heeled shoes, and fardingales, 
 . tell well in print; but when one would describe matters 
 and things as they are, the case is different. How- 
 ever, I shall, as in the case of the gentlemen whom I 
 have noticed, describe the lady in a plain, unpretend- 
 ing manner, and as nearly to the life as is desirable 
 in these days of Daguerreotypes. If I should commit 
 any offences against the inexorable laws of Fashion, 
 by unintentionally calling things by any other names 
 than those which the said laws, in their wisdom, have 
 prescribed, I must plead ignorance in excuse, and 
 throw myself upon the mercy of the court. 
 
 The first literary lady whom I remember ever to 
 have seen was one whose works yet remain to improve 
 and edify her own sex in particular, and the world in 
 general. She was invested, with a particulai de- 
 gree of interest, owing to the fact that she was 
 among the latest remnants of the blue stockings of 
 the last century. She had, in her youthful days, 
 mingled in the gay circles of ton ; had listened to the 
 oracular sayings of Dr. Johnson; echoed the lively 
 sallies which burst forth in Mrs. Delaney's little circle; 
 bandied elegant trifles with that brilliant literary 
 butterfly, Horace Walpole; had been petted by David 
 Garrick; and, in her middle age, and in later years, 
 had been the centre around whom Bishops, Princesses, 
 and Philanthropists, and many of meaner name and 
 note, revolved. T refer to Miss, or, as she is more 
 generally styled, Mrs. Hannah More. 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 55 
 
 I was but a little fellow when I first saw this cele- 
 brated woman ; but I retain as vivid an impression 
 of her person and manners as if the interview had oc- 
 curred only yesterday. Many years have rolled over 
 my head since then, and during the interval, I have 
 watched, on the disc of life's camera, hundreds of busy 
 and noticeable figures go by, and then disappear in 
 darkness ; but my impressions of the learned old lady 
 are as vivid as ever; and as I sit, noting down this remi- 
 niscence, I can, by a very slight exercise of fancy, see 
 her precise form, and hear her low-toned, musical 
 voice, as distinctly as I did when the sober reality 
 engrossed my attention. 
 
 Hannah More was born in the immediate vicinity 
 of Bristol, in the same village, indeed, in which John 
 Foster had for many years lived, and died: and, for 
 a considerable portion of her life, resided within a 
 short distance of her birthplace, in a cottage which 
 she built, and named Cowslip Green. After a seven- 
 teen years' residence in this rather lack-a-daisically 
 named locality, dming which time she was visited by 
 Mr. Wilberforce and other persons of note, she re- 
 moved, in 1802, to Barley Wood, near the village of 
 Wrington, in Somersetshire, about fourteen miles 
 from the city of Bristol ; and at this place it was that 
 I first saw her. 
 
 I forget now how it came to pass that I happened to 
 be taken to the house of this celebrated woman. My 
 mother visited her, and I expect that it was as a holiday 
 treat, or something of that kind, that I was permitted 
 
56 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 on one occasion to accompany her. Hannah More's 
 name had been a familiar one in our household, and 
 I had early learned to connect it with everything that 
 was learned and good. Her " Sacred Dramas" were 
 acted by the younger members of our family, and we 
 thought her a female Shakespere ; indeed, for aught we 
 knew, she might have been even a greater playwright ; 
 for the writings of the Bard of Avon being on profane 
 subjects, we were not permitted to meddle with them, 
 and only knew them by name. Mrs. More's Scripture 
 recitations, therefore, had made her our mental ac- 
 quaintance, and so it may be imagined how delighted 
 T was, one morning, to set off in company with my 
 mother to Barley Wood. 
 
 I had very vague ideas then about people who 
 wrote books ; they were mysterious personages to 
 me ; and in proportion to my delight in any particular 
 work, was my estimate of the outward and visible ap- 
 pearances of its author. I could hardly, when I did 
 think about the matter, realize the writer to be an 
 actual flesh-and-blood reality. I used to think of 
 him or her more as of a spirit communing with my 
 spirit, than anything else ; but I have lived to know 
 better, and to experience the sad reality that many 
 whose written productions are of an almost imperish- 
 able nature, have themselves been, emphatically, of 
 the earth, earthy. 
 
 There were no iron roads in those days, so inter- 
 secting the country in all directions, that, viewed 
 from a height, it might appear as if a monstrous gi'id- 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 57 
 
 iron had been laid on the earth ; and over the road to 
 Barley Wood, not even a stage-coach ran; so that 
 my mother and myself journeyed towards the place of 
 our destination in what was called a tilted wagon. 
 I had scarcely ever been in the country before ; and 
 oh ! how keenly I enjoyed that homely ride in the early 
 morning ; for we were on our way soon after sunrise, 
 as we intended to make a long day of it. In anti- 
 cipation of the visit, I had, with a childish vanity, 
 crammed myself with scraps of Mrs. More's poetry — 
 and I well remember that I had learned by heart, in 
 the hope that I should be asked to recite it to the 
 authoress, " The Foolish Traveller, or, a Good Inn 
 IS A Bad Home." As we ascended the high Somer- 
 setshire Hills, I would alight from the cart, and, 
 running on before it, gaze far into the hazy distance, 
 expecting to view some such imposing-looking house 
 as I anticipated seeing at the end of our journey; and 
 I would ask a thousand questions about Mrs. More 
 of my mother, until her patience was almost ex- 
 hausted, and then I would recite, to make sure I had 
 not forgotten it, the fable — and so things went on 
 until, at length, my mother held me whilst I stood 
 tiptoe on the front seat of the vehicle, and pointed 
 out the long-wished-for spot, when we were yet two 
 miles from it. 
 
 We were on the turnpike road, and Barley Wood 
 lay about the distance I have mentioned from us, to 
 the left. It was a picturesque cottage residence, on a 
 hill side, embosomed amongst trees. Behind it rose 
 
 n 3 
 
58 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 a gently sloping hill, richly wooded ; in front was a 
 lawn of emerald verdure, enclosed by a shrubbery, 
 ffom which the ground gently declined, until it blended 
 with the valley of Wrington. On our left were the 
 Mendip Hills, and the Quantock Range (famous be- 
 cause of the wanderings of Coleridge, Loyd, Southey, 
 and Wordsworth among them — it was on the Quantock 
 Hills that the "Ancient Mariner" was composed,) 
 rose in the blue distance. The houses of the little 
 village of Wrington lay beneath us, and its pretty 
 tower formed a conspicuous object in the landscape. 
 As we descended the hill, my mother told me of 
 Locke, and when we reached the village, and quitted 
 the tilted cart, she led me towards the church, still 
 speaking of the great man. The sharp air of the 
 morning had made me hungry, so we went into a 
 cottage near the church-yard — indeed, it was in the 
 pathway leading to it — and I got a draught of milk, 
 and piece of brown bread and butter, and after I had 
 despatched these creature comforts, I was informed 
 that I had taken my morning meal in the very room 
 in which John Locke was born. 
 
 Two littla girls, playmates of mine, had been spend- 
 ing a few days at Barley Wood, to which place, being 
 but a short distance from Wrington, we determined 
 to walk. When we had nearly reached Mrs. More's 
 gate, the little lasses just referred to came dashing 
 down the lane to meet us, their curls streaming in 
 the wind, and their cheeks glowing with exercise. 
 They were in raptures with Mrs. More, and in five 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 59 
 
 minutes told me all that had occurred during the week. 
 As we neared the gate, they would have dragged me 
 triumphantly into the "Presence" — but my half-awe 
 for learned people came over me, and grasping my 
 mother's hand I entered the shrubbery door and 
 walked up the lawn. 
 
 We had scarcely reached the front door, when an 
 elderly lady who had been tying up some flowers to 
 wooden frames, left her occupation, approached, and 
 welcomed us. She was very primly and plainly 
 dressed ; but she wore a pleasant smile, which made 
 me quite "take to her," as the phrase goes. This was 
 Miss Martha More, (for the authoress of " Coelebs" 
 had four sisters,) who invited us to follow her to the 
 garden, where, she said, we should find ^Mrs. Hannah.' 
 
 Attached to the cottage was a flower garden 
 and grounds, arranged with exquisite taste, and sur- 
 rounded with a privet hedge — which hedge, by the 
 way, exhibited one of the absurd fashions of the 
 time — a fashion not even yet altogether exploded in 
 some of the retired rural districts of England — I mean, 
 that of clipping the foliage into fantastic shapes of 
 birds, vases, &c. With this exception, Mrs. More's 
 flower garden was faultless in aiTangement. Near 
 one of these deformed vegetative barriers, we encount- 
 ered the object of our search. 
 
 Hannah More did not perceive us as we approached, 
 for her back was towards my mother and myself, as 
 we walked up the garden pathway, and she was busily 
 employed, too, in trimming one of the before-men- 
 
60 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 tioned vegetable specimens of ornithology. She was 
 dressed in a black silk gown, with a remarkably high 
 waist, according to the fashion of the day — so high, 
 indeed, that it seemed to be just beneath her armpits; 
 this gave an appearance of unusual length to her 
 figure, and afforded a striking contrast to the hour- 
 glass contractions of the present time. Mrs. More's 
 shoulders were covered with a thick shawl, deeply 
 edged with black lace, for she was an invalid, and her 
 feet were protected by substantial shoes, worsted 
 stockings, and pattens. On her head she wore what 
 was called a high mob cap, with ample bordering of 
 lace, nicely plaited, and tied in a monstrous bow under 
 the chin. On her hands she had black cotton gloves, 
 with long sleeves, the tips of the fingers having been 
 cut off. As soon as she heard our voices, she turned 
 round and held out her left hand (in her right was a 
 pair of garden scissors) to welcome us. 
 
 This celebrated woman was then past seventy years 
 of age, and very feeble in health, but her face had a 
 surprisingly vivacious expression. I have seen many 
 portraits of her, but never one which conveyed an ac- 
 curate idea of the original. Pickersgill's, prefixed to 
 the collected edition of her works, is the best, but that 
 is too flashy in detail for its somewhat staid and sober 
 subject. Her features were small, and furrowed with 
 the lines of age, but her complexion was remarkably 
 clear — almost pure red and white, owing, no doubt, to 
 her long residence in the country. Her forehead was 
 nearly concealed at the sides by an abundance of false 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 61 
 
 hair, which was disposed in the shape of two huge 
 bundles and bunches of long spiral curls — but in the 
 centre, where these appendages met, or rather from 
 whence they diverged, there was visible an ample 
 cerebric development. The nose had evidently, at 
 one time, been short and thick, but it was now thin 
 and slightly hooked. The mouth was but slightly re- 
 tracted, and the lips wonderfully plump for so old a 
 woman — her chin was doubled and dimpled. But the 
 most striking part of her countenance was the expres- 
 sion of her eyes, which were coal black, deep set, and 
 very brilliant ; none of their fire seemed quenched ; 
 and in earlier days they must have been very expres- 
 sive; indeed, they were so when I saw her, despite 
 the drawback of a faded set of features to match them. 
 Altogether, she was in appearance very plain, very 
 prim, and very precise. After the usual civilities and 
 courtesies had been exchanged, we adjourned to the 
 house, and were ushered into a neat little parlor, the 
 windows of which commanded a fine view of the 
 delightful vale of Wrington. Here a breakfast, con- 
 sisting of tea, cofiee, rashers of bacon and eggs, and 
 rich clotted Somersetshire cream, was laid, and 
 Hannah More, her sister Martha, my mother, sisters, 
 and myself, together with a Miss F., sat down to it. 
 Mrs. More, in introducing my mother to Miss F., 
 said she was her ' right hand.' Elsewhere she de- 
 scribes her as 'her domestic chaplain, secretary, house 
 apothecary, knitter, and lamplighter; missionary to 
 her numerous and learned seminaries, and without 
 
62 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 controversy, the Queen of Clubs' — alluding to the 
 charitable institutions, where she took the place 
 which her aged friend could no longer occupy. 
 
 For breakfast, Hannah More merely took a little 
 milk and water, in which she placed some plain bread, 
 and of this simple fare she partook very sparingly. 
 ' I live almost entirely on physic,' said she, to my 
 
 mother, ^and am the best patient Dr. has. This, 
 
 however, is no trial to me ; for many years ago I had 
 a violent illness, whilst visiting Mr. Thornton, in Lon- 
 don, and on recovering from it, lost entirely both my 
 smell and taste. Indeed,' she continued, ^I never 
 knew a year to pass over my head, a considerable 
 portion of which was not spent in bed, to which I have 
 been confined by illness.' 
 
 The room in which we sat was decorated with a 
 number of portraits, most of them dignitaries of the 
 Church. I noticed that one of the frames contained 
 no picture, and with very childish curiosity, asked the 
 reason of it. 
 
 ^ Oh ! ' said the old lady, ' that frame contained the 
 portrait of a player, my dear, an old friend of mine ; 
 but as I thought him hardly fit to hang in such good 
 company as bishops, I have removed poor Davy 
 Garrick to my study.' 
 
 Now I had often heard the saying, 'As deep as 
 Garricky and I inquired whether her friend, Davy 
 Garrick, was the personage alluded to. Mrs. More 
 turned to my mother, and smilingly said, ' Of all the 
 persons I ever knew, poor Davy was the last whose 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 63 
 
 name I should have thought would have been as- 
 sociated with the idea of design. Excepting in his 
 art, he was simple, almost to silliness.' 
 
 Talking of Garrick reminds me of an anecdote 
 which I heard Mrs. More relate on a subsequent 
 occasion. Lest it should escape my memory, I will 
 just mention it here, as I am not aware that it has ever 
 been made public. 
 
 It is well known that Mrs. Garrick was most de- 
 votedly attached to her ' dear Davy,' as she called 
 him. When the great tragedian died, his wife would 
 not allow a single article in his room to be removed 
 from its place ; and as soon as the coffin was borne 
 from the house, the room in which he died was locked 
 up, and for thirty years no one was permitted to enter 
 it. At the end of that period, Mrs. More informed me, 
 she happened to be visiting her old friend Mrs. Garrick, 
 whom she described as a little, bowed-down old 
 woman, who went about leaning on a long gold-headed 
 cane, dressed in deep widow's mourning, and always 
 talking of her ' dear Davy.' Some circumstances oc- 
 curred which rendered it necessary that she should 
 quit her residence, and Mrs. More was present with 
 her when the long-closed room was opened. She 
 said that when the door was thrown back on its hinges, 
 and the window- shutters unbarred, the room was ac- 
 tually darkened by millions of moths, which arose 
 from the mouldered bed and the hangings of the 
 room — every square inch of the bed-furniture was 
 eaten through and through, and, on the air being ad- 
 
64 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 mitted, dropped to pieces. The solid articles of 
 furniture alone remained uninjured — ^but the mouldy 
 smell of everything around was so unendurable, that 
 the place had to be fumigated before it was habitable, 
 even, for a short time. 
 
 Breakfast having been dispatched, the domestics 
 were summoned to family devotions, a custom rigidly 
 observed by Mrs. More every morning and evening. 
 There were eight servants — a large number, it may 
 seem, for two or three maiden ladies to keep ; but it 
 must be remembered that almost from morning until 
 night there was a continual influx of company at 
 Barley Wood. Mrs. More conducted the service, 
 which consisted of a portion of the Liturgy ; and after 
 this had been read, we all knelt down, and the vene- 
 rable lady offered up a short extemporaneous prayer, 
 in the course of which she mentioned every individual 
 present by their given names, aptly introducing, where 
 it was practicable, texts of Scripture applicable to their 
 condition or circumstances. Her enunciation was 
 slow, solemn, and very distinct — and it was a fine im- 
 pressive sight to see that pious woman, whose fame 
 had literally gone out into the ends of the earth, bow- 
 ing before the mercy-seat and humbly soliciting for 
 the meanest one in her household, those blessings 
 which make rich and add no sorrow. 
 
 Attached to the residence was a large room, in 
 which it was her custom, every morning, to receive 
 the recipients of her bounty, and where she occupied 
 many hours in the manufacture of articles for the use 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 65 
 
 of the poor, and for charitable purposes ; to this place 
 we accompanied her, and there remained some time, 
 witnessing her labours of love. And a pleasant thing 
 it was to witness the quiet way in which she did 
 good — there was no ostentatious parade ; the poor 
 came to her, as to a friend, for assistance or advice, 
 and never went away unrelieved. The number of 
 gaiTQcnts she gave away that morning was really sur- 
 prising. To most of the articles was pinned a scrap 
 of paper, on which a text of Scripture was written in 
 her own hand-writing — sometimes a tract was added, 
 and in no case, where it was really needed, did any 
 one leave the room without an order on the house- 
 keeper for a supply of food. 
 
 During the time my mother was closeted with 
 Hannah More, I rambled, with my young playmates, 
 about the house and garden ; and I well remember 
 our being attracted to the front gate by the arrival of 
 a carriage, from which two gentlemen and a lady 
 alighted, and inquired for the lady of the mansion. 
 One of the strangers was a personage far advanced in 
 years, and of a very venerable appearance. He was 
 evidently in ill-health, and coughed dreadfully. As 
 he. walked up the broad gravel path, he dropped his 
 stick, and I ran to pick it up for him. When I had 
 done so, he took me by the hand, patted me on my 
 head, and asked me my name. The lady who was 
 with him called my little friends to her, and they soon 
 got friendly, as they rested on a rustic seat. She was, 
 also, in years, and dressed quite in the old style. I 
 
66 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 have a distinct remembrance of her light flaxen hair, 
 which she wore in large curls — and of her faint, but 
 pleasant smile, as she took liquorice from her pockets, 
 and gave us children some, which quite won our 
 hearts. The third stranger was a middle-aged gentle- 
 man, of harsh and rugged features. His hair was 
 dark, and his eyes of a light grey colour. When he 
 spoke, it was with a broad Scotch accent, and a harsh, 
 disagreeable sounding voice, quite different to the 
 winning tones of the old gentleman and lady I have 
 just described. I did not know who either of them 
 were, and soon left them, to proceed with my play. 
 
 It was really astonishing what a number of visits 
 Mrs. More had that day ; and I afterwards was informed 
 that every day, in this respect, was alike. How she 
 managed, with all this visiting, to get through her ex- 
 tensive coiTespondence and her charitable engage- 
 ments I cannot imagine. She herself says, in 1825, 
 ' I think I never was more hurried, more engaged, or 
 more loaded with cares, than at present. I do not 
 mean aflflictions, but a total want of that article for 
 which I built my house, and planted my grove — I 
 mean retirement ; — it is a thing I know only by name. 
 I think Miss Frowd says I saw eighty persons last 
 week ; and it is commonly the same every week. I know 
 not how to help it. If my guests are old, I see them 
 out of respect; if young, I hope I may do them a little 
 good; if they come from a distance, I feel as if I 
 ought to see them on that account ; if near home, my 
 neighbours would be jealous of my seeing strangers 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 67 
 
 and excluding them. My levee is, however, from 
 twelve to three o'clock — so that I get my mornings 
 and evenings to myself — except, now and then, an old 
 friend steals in quietly for a night or two.' At this 
 time, too, Hannah More had been confined seven 
 years and two months to her apartments, which con- 
 sisted of two rooms — to which it was no want of 
 strength, however, which confined her, but the fear of 
 an exposure to cold, which often threatened to be 
 fatal to her. 
 
 The dinner hour at Barley Wood was four o'clock ; 
 and as a special favour, we children were allowed to 
 dine in the same room with the great people — a little 
 table being set for us in one comer. I must mention, 
 however, that, prior to dinner, whilst taking a turn with 
 my mother and playmates in the garden, the former 
 asked me if I knew who the old gentleman was who 
 had patted me on the head in the garden? I replied 
 in the negative, of course. 
 
 ' Don't you remember the " Evenings at Home ? " 
 
 ' Yes, that we do,' exclaimed all three of us. ' Well, 
 my dears, that old gentleman, and the lady who was 
 with him, wrote them.' 
 
 ' WTiat ! was that old gentleman Dr. Aiken, and the 
 kind lady who gave us the barley-sugar, Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld, mamma?' 
 
 ' The same,' was the reply ; and oh ! how proud I 
 felt to have been noticed by such learned folk. 
 
 ' And pray, who was the other gentleman who was 
 with them ? ' 
 
68 A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 
 
 ' That,' said my mother, ' is a Scotch minister, and 
 his name is Chalmers.' It was even so — but the 
 since celebrated divine did not interest us half as 
 much as the children's book-makers. I believe, when 
 we returned home, that we did little else, for a week, 
 but read ' Evenings at Home' and Barbauld's Hymns, 
 and tell every one that we had seen the writers. 
 
 I was, of course, too young to appreciate the con- 
 versation at and after dinner ; but I greedily drank it 
 in, and I well remember that anecdotes of Dr. John- 
 son, Mrs. Thrale, Miss Bumey, Garrick, and many 
 others were related. I wish now that I had been old 
 enough to have remembered them. But, as it is, a very 
 slight recollection of them remains. 
 
 All through the day, Hannah More was exceedingly 
 kind to us, and after dinner, we were allowed to 
 sit at the dessert — when, for the edification of the 
 company, we each of us recited a portion of one of 
 Mrs. More's sacred dramas, with which performance, 
 I believe, both ourselves and the audience were very 
 well satisfied — at least, I know I was. 
 
 Such was my first interview with the author of 
 ' Coelebs in Search of a Wife.' In the year 1828, she 
 removed from Barley Wood to Clifton, where at her 
 residence on Windsor Terrace I frequently saw her. 
 Many is the anecdote she has told me of her early 
 days, and graphically would she describe the brilliant 
 society in which she moved, whilst a young woman, 
 in London. Of Dr. Johnson she was in the habit of 
 speaking in very enthusiastic terms ; and frequently 
 
A DAY WITH HANNAH MORE. 69 
 
 said that there never was, and never would be, his 
 equal for solid acquirements. Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 she said, was a pompous and somewhat disagreeable 
 companion, in consequence of his excessive hauteur 
 — but I might fill columns with her colloquial personal 
 criticisms, which were exceedingly delightful to listen 
 to, but might prove tedious on paper. 
 
 In talking with Hannah More, one seemed to be 
 living in the brilliant times of Chapone, Montague, 
 Walpole, Prior's ^ noble, lovely little Peggy,' (the 
 Duchess of Portland,) and others of the blue-stocking 
 coteries of the last century. She was very anecdotal, 
 and told a story or an anecdote with much point ; 
 and her having been a member and a star of the 
 celebrated circles of which Madame D'Arblay's Diary 
 gives us such delightful and sprightly glimpses, added 
 greatly, of course, to the interest of her narrations. 
 She was nearly, if not quite, the only survivor of those 
 reunioi^ ; and when the authoress of " Evelina" and 
 Hannah More passed away, the last links which con- 
 nected those times with our own were broken. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PORTRAITS IN PADDY LAND AND A "TRANSATLANTIC 
 FATHER MATHEW." 
 
 Some years since, whilst visiting Liverpool, I was 
 pressed into the service of a lady who was about to 
 visit Waterford, as her esquire and body guard ; an 
 office I the more willingly undertook, as I had, on a 
 former occasion, spent some happy days in the Green 
 Island. Accordingly, one fine evening, I found my- 
 self, with my fair companion, on the deck of the Royal 
 William, mail steamer, which loosed from her moor- 
 ings in the Mersey, shot past Bell Rock, the Leasowes, 
 and the high headlands of North Wales, and plunged 
 gallantly and fearlessly into the Irish Channel. 
 
 We had a mixed company on board, and amongst 
 them some Irish members of the House of Commons, 
 who were returning home, the session of Parliament 
 ha\ing just come to a close. Of these, the most 
 noticeable were Daniel O'Connell, two of his sons, 
 Maurice and John, and Richard Lalor Shell. Besides 
 the great Agitator, there was on board our vessel one 
 
PORTRAITS IN PADDY LAND. 71 
 
 who stirred the hissing ingredients of the political 
 caldron with a rather smaller, but scarcely less active 
 spoon. I refer to Feargus O'Connor. 
 
 The personal appearance of the Arch- agitator of 
 Ireland has been so often sketched by other pens than 
 mine, and his features have been so frequently trans- 
 ferred, by the aid of the graver, to paper, that any 
 account by me of his outward man would almost seem 
 a work of supererogation ; nevertheless, 1 will just 
 try my hand on him, as he stood, leaning against the 
 quarter-deck rail, that evening. 
 
 Fancy, reader, a man whose age must far exceed 
 that which has been called man's prime ; a figure 
 whose squareness and burliness takes off from its real 
 height, and which indicates uncommon strength and 
 stamina in its possessor; a chest broad and well 
 formed ; a short, bull neck, and a big, broad face ; two 
 smallish, dark, twinkling black eyes ; a nose of the 
 snub formation, a well-shaped mouth, and largeish 
 ears — surmounting this really Hibernian countenance 
 with a brownish black wig, carelessly put on, and for 
 clothing to the owner of this face and figure, observe 
 an olive-green frock coat, with brass buttons, having 
 a shamrock in relief upon them, a black silk waistcoat, 
 black, strapless pantaloons, very much wrinkled about 
 the legs, and boots almost visible to their tops, and 
 you have as good a notion as I can give you of Daniel 
 O'Connell. 
 
 I forgot to mention that he wore an enormously 
 brimmed old hat, and an ample blue cloak lay on a 
 
72 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 seat near him. Around him was a knot of idlers, with 
 whom he conversed very famiharly, and from the hearty 
 peals of laughter which now and then burst from one 
 and another of the party, T should judge that the 
 subjects under discussion were anything but grave 
 in their nature. 
 
 Shell was a very different looking personage 
 altogether. He is, like Zaccheus, ' little of stature,' 
 being far below the average height, his figure is slight 
 and his head enormously disproportioned to his frame. 
 Whilst O'Connell's broad face was radiant with good 
 humour, Sheil's physiognomy looked sour and full of 
 sarcasm. His eye was grey, piercing, and restless, 
 and as the somewhat insignificant form of the author 
 of " The Apostate" traversed the deck with short and 
 hasty strides, his appearance was anything but that 
 which many might have supposed the brilliant speaker 
 in St. Stephen's Chapel to present. Unlike O'Connell, 
 too, in another respect, he repelled rather than at- 
 tracted the advances of his fellow-passengers. Whilst 
 looking at him, I could not help fancying him to be 
 short, sharp, savage, and snappish. 
 
 Hail fellow well met, as the phrase goes, with a 
 party of Irish reapers, who were returning to their 
 various homes, after having hardly earned a little pit- 
 tance by working in the great English agricultural 
 districts, around him — his tall form towering above 
 the tallest of them— his foxy red hair glowing in the 
 slant beams of the declining sun — his large grey eyes 
 flashing as he spoke, and his fine set of teeth displayed 
 
A "TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 73 
 
 by the parting of a pair of thick, coarse lips — stood 
 Feargus O'Connor — the would-be rival of the great 
 Daniel, and one of the acknowledged Chiefs of the 
 Chartists. He looked big enough to have put little 
 Shell in his coat pocket. Feargus, taken altogether, 
 was one of the most awkwardly built men I ever saw, 
 and there was an air of vulgarity upon him, which at 
 times became absolutely offensive. I noticed that 
 neither O'Connell nor Shell took the slightest notice 
 of him — the Liberator has his notions of Aristocracy ! 
 I retired to my berth early, in order to be up be- 
 times, to see the Irish coast as we approached it, 
 and soon after the dawn I mounted to the damp, sloppy 
 deck. None of the passengers had, as yet, made 
 their appearance ; so I amused myself by conversing 
 with some of the poor Irish passengers, who lay 
 huddled in heaps on the bare boards around. I had 
 not been long engaged in this manner, when a figure, 
 muffled up in an ample cloak, made his appearance, 
 and came towards the place where I was standing. 
 It was O'Connell. He very familiarly exchanged the 
 morning salutation with me, and we walked up and 
 down the deck together, talking on common-place 
 subjects for some time. As we neared Kingstown, he 
 pointed out various objects of interest — telling little 
 legends of the Hill of Howth, and of the Bay, in the 
 pleasantest manner possible. Occasionally he would 
 walk up to a group of labourers and inquire as to their 
 circumstances, and utter good wishes, which were 
 cordially responded to by a ^ God bless yer honour,' 
 
 E ^ 
 
74 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 or an exclamation of ^It's the rale gentleman he 
 is, any how.' Indeed, I have seldom met with a 
 pleasanter half-an-hour's acquaintance ; and without 
 reference to the policy of the Agitator, I really could 
 not help feeling some liking for the man. 
 
 We landed at Kingstown about five in the morn- 
 ing, and after a desperate rush through crowds of 
 beggars, who thronged the pier, I managed to deposit 
 myself and companion safely in a car of the railway, 
 which conveys passengers from the landing-place to 
 Dublin. In about an hour afterwards, after having 
 been nearly shaken to death — for the rails were laid 
 on blocks of stone, and not very evenly laid either — 
 we reached the metropolis of Ireland, and having en- 
 gaged an " outsider," by which I mean a car, which re- 
 sembles two sofas placed back to back, the passengers 
 sitting with their legs hanging over the sides of the 
 vehicle, we proceeded, at the imminent peril of having 
 our knees smashed by lamp posts at the corner of 
 streets, and of being flung flat on our faces, into the 
 road, at every jerk, (for there were no springs to our 
 carriage,) to Radley's Hotel, in Dame -street. 
 
 Before leaving Liverpool, from some, to me now 
 unaccountable, whim or other, I had purchased a 
 monkey, and as my lady companion and myself sat 
 on the " outsider," at the hotel door, which was not yet 
 opened, I was fully engaged in holding her fast, lest 
 she should fall off*, and the monkey fast too, lest he 
 should r/et off*. Whilst thus engaged, a broad-faced 
 Irishwoman drew up in front of me, gave a deliberate 
 
A " TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 75 
 
 stare, and then taking the " dudheen" from her mouth, 
 puffed out a cloud of smoke, and pointing with her 
 forefinger to my friend, myself, and the monkey, ex- 
 claimed, with a knowing wink, ' Och ! by the powers, 
 there's three of ye.' That monkey was the occasion 
 of an immensity of fun during our tour, and this I 
 give merely as a sample. 
 
 It is not my present object to describe the incidents^ — 
 and droll enough some of them were — of my day in 
 Dublin. I will only mention, that in strolling round 
 St. Patrick's Cathedral, I saw the monument to the 
 memory of Dean Swift. It is a mural tablet, with a 
 simple inscription. Hundreds of visitors to it have 
 defaced it, by the silly custom of writing with pencil 
 (some had gone so far as to use a penknife,) their 
 names on it. I had no ambition that way, and so 
 thinking of Stella and Vanessa, I turned away in 
 silence from the resting-place of him who "expired a 
 driveller and a show," and indulged my antiquarian 
 curiosity by gazing on the tattered banners of the 
 Knights of St. Patrick, in the Chapel which bears 
 their name. 
 
 It was about the time that Father Mathew was 
 carrying on in Ireland his gTcat crusade against in- 
 temperance, and I was not without the hope, that in 
 the course of my wanderings, I might have an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing him. On an occasion prior to the one 
 to which I am now referring, I had passed through a 
 portion of Ireland, and I could not now fail to observe 
 the evident and immense improvement which had 
 
 e2 
 
76 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 taken place in the condition of the labouring classes. 
 Then beggary, wretchedness, and crime were fright- 
 fully apparent on every side. You could not enter a 
 house without inhaling the perfumes of whiskey, and 
 drunkenness and debasement stalked hand in hand, 
 and met one at every turn. Now, however, there was 
 a mighty and evident change. It appeared as if an 
 angel had passed over the land, with healing on his 
 wings — and a heavenly visitant had indeed honoured 
 the country of St. Patrick by a flying visit ; for I think 
 we may fairly assume Temperance to be one of the 
 white-robed throng, a deputation from whom once 
 hovered over the plains of Bethlehem, and proclaimed 
 peace on earth and good will towards men. But let 
 me proceed to describe Father Mathew, one of whose 
 great meetings I had the pleasure of attending, and 
 to which the reader's company is respectfully re- 
 quested. 
 
 It is a dark, dull, damp, drizzling day — and let me 
 tell you, reader, that such an alliterative string of 
 epithets, when applied as an illustration to a period of 
 twenty -four hours in Ireland, is anything but a joke. 
 On such a moist occasion, with the lady companion I 
 have before referred to, I mounted the outside of one 
 of her Majesty's mails — [the inside was filled by a 
 party of gentlemen, who were playing cards on the 
 crowns of their hats, and drinking whiskey from pint 
 bottles] — and was soon proceeding at no very rapid 
 pace, for travelling in Ireland is none of the fastest, 
 from Dublin towards the south. On the box, in front, 
 
A "TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW.^' 77 
 
 is a stout gentleman, who is continually going to sleep, 
 and being awaked by the coachman, as his body de- 
 scribes a very dangerous angle over the side of the 
 coach ; the whites of his eyes are very red, and their 
 lids are edged round with something like narrow red 
 tape. Whenever the coach stops, the keepers of little 
 shebeen houses rush out, as if by instinct, with a bottle 
 in one hand, and a small glass, called a " nip," in the 
 other — and the tipsy gentleman takes a "nip" of 
 whiskey continually. Nor are the other passengers 
 behindhand in their attentions to the "crathur," and 
 even the coachman and guard incline somewhat to 
 the amiable weakness. Onward we go, along straight 
 and dreary-looking roads — rain pouring down re- 
 morselessly from above, and mud dashed up by the 
 wheels in an inverted shower from below — now 
 skirting a wild expanse of melancholy -looking bog, 
 which stretches miles and miles away, until it is lost 
 in the misty distance, and anon plunging into some 
 rocky gorge — the home of White-boys and illicit dis- 
 tillers — an ivied structure, like a monstrous chimney, 
 occasionally with a conical summit, is seen rising in 
 an unbroken column from the ground, and as the 
 coach goes by one of these mysterious-looking Round 
 Towers, we wonder what they were built for, and who 
 inhabited them, and why they are all so much alike. 
 Then we are recalled from the past to the present, by 
 cabins built of mud on the road- side — cabins so small 
 that they resemble large bee-hives, and it seems per- 
 fectly wonderful how they can possibly contain so 
 
78 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 many li\ing creatures — people and pigs — as crawl out 
 of them to peer up at us as we go by. 
 
 All this time, the rain is coming down, as it only 
 can fall in Ireland ; but at length there is a faint pros- 
 pect of its clearing off, and lo ! suddenly a patch of 
 sunlight brightens a portion of yonder dark hill side. 
 Brighter and more distinct grow distant objects, and 
 a few miles ahead of us rise the stately marble battle- 
 ments and turrets of Ormond Castle, whilst a spark, 
 ling river winds along at its base. Gradually the 
 mists clear away — a rainbow flings its radiant arch 
 over "temple, tower, and town," and the latter each 
 moment becomes more distinct. An extra whipping 
 of the jaded steeds, an extra flourish of the guard's 
 bugle, a sudden exchange of the heavy, slushy road 
 for the rough, rattling causeway, and we are in far- 
 famed Kilkenny ! 
 
 As we drove to the inn door, it was evident that 
 something unusual was going on. There were flags 
 flaunting in every street, and crowds of excited-looking 
 people running to and fro. Hundreds and thousands 
 of decent-looking men were parading the thorough- 
 fares, with medals suspended by green ribbons from 
 their necks, and there were multitudes, too, of the 
 most abject-looking creatures I have ever seen, before 
 or since, thronging into the town from every quarter. 
 Many of these poor wretches were intoxicated, having 
 spent their last farthing in whiskey, as a farewell to it 
 before they took the pledge. Some one who asked 
 what the English beggars did with their cast-off 
 
A " TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 79 
 
 clothes, was informed that they were bought by the 
 Irish mendicants ; and one might almost believe such 
 to be the case, whilst gazing on the miserably clad 
 creatures I saw that day. 
 
 We soon learned that the occasion of all the bustle 
 and excitement was an expected visit from Father 
 Mathew; and so we determined to leave the stage at 
 Kilkenny, for the purpose of seeing him of whom we 
 had heard so much. Pre\iously to his arrival, we took 
 a stroll through the streets. Pictures of the Apostle 
 of Temperance were being sold by hundreds in the 
 shops and public ways, and it is impossible to describe 
 the enthusiasm which was manifested in order to 
 procure them. I saw one woman kneeling with her 
 eyes intently fixed on the portrait, devoutly praying 
 and crossing herself, in the most persevering manner. 
 Itinerant chanters were bawling out Temperance 
 Songs, and many a pretty girl was engaged in buying 
 pieces of ribbon, for the temperance medal of her 
 brother or lover. Amongst the vast crowd, although 
 there was some intoxication, there was no disorder ; 
 and a happier, though not a raggeder looking set of 
 people, I never witnessed. 
 
 In a plain, not far from the town, a stage had been 
 erected for Father Mathew — and when the reverend 
 gentleman arrived, in the course of the afternoon, I 
 proceeded to the place of assemblage, where there 
 could not have been less than fifty thousand people, 
 at the least. On the platform, which was slightly ele- 
 vated, were a number of gentlemen, and conspicuous 
 
80 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 among them, one whom, from the portraits of him 
 which I had seen, I instantly recognised as Father 
 Mathew himself. He was a man of about the medium 
 height, of a strongly -built frame, which seemed cal- 
 culated to endure great physical exertion. Although 
 somewhat stout, he was by no means corpulent ; his 
 muscles were all composed of working stuff — there 
 was no superfluous fat to fill up the interstices between 
 them. His complexion was of a ruddy hue, and in- 
 dicated vigorous health. Over a well-shaped but by 
 no means high forehead, he wore, in very unassuming 
 style, dark hair, streaked here and there, and especially 
 on the temples, with the flowers of mortality — his 
 nose was of a Roman formation, and his mouth 
 and chin were well shaped, and not unlike those of 
 Napoleon. 
 
 But the main charm of his expressive countenance 
 lay in his soft and benevolent blue eyes. He was 
 dressed in a long black coat of clerical cut, the skirts 
 of which reached below his knees — iron grey, or 
 pepper-and-salt coloured breeches, and long Hessian 
 boots, with tassels ; around his neck, which was col- 
 larless, was a white cravat. 
 
 On his coming to the front of the platform, a tre- 
 mendous cheer burst from the vast multitude. He 
 stretched forth his right hand, and in an instant they 
 were silent, and every individual knelt while he offered 
 up a short prayer, and invoked the blessing of Heaven 
 on the work in which they were engaged. A brief 
 address then followed, of a persuasive character, 
 
A " TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 81 
 
 which was delivered in a distinct, well modulated 
 voice, and which was frequently interrupted by ex- 
 clamations, such as ' Arrah! God bless us — Amen;' or, 
 ^Be my sowl, that's God's truth, any how!' and by 
 mental ejaculations, which every moment burst from 
 the devotees around. 
 
 In front of the platform was a little space divided 
 off, with two places for entrance and exit, opposite 
 each other. This enclosure contained about a hundred 
 persons at a time, and immediately after the address, 
 it was filled with candidates for the pledge. Father 
 Mathew stood in a position which enabled him to 
 touch every person who presented him or herself, and 
 then, in a distinct voice, he uttered the following 
 words, which were repeated after him by the people 
 within the enclosed area: ' I promise, with the Divine 
 assistance, as long as I continue a member of the 
 Tee-total Temperance Society, to abstain from all in- 
 toxicating drinks, except for medicinal or sacramental 
 purposes, and to prevent, as much as possible, by 
 advice and example, drunkenness in others.' 
 
 Mr. Mathew then stretched out his hand, smiled 
 benignantly, and repeated the following prayer in the 
 most impressive manner: ^May God bless you, and 
 grant you strength and grace to keep your promises.' 
 As every one who had taken the pledge passed in turn 
 before him, he made the sign of the cross on them, 
 and presented each with a Temperance medal. To 
 those whose appearance was indicative of unusual 
 wretchedness, he also gave a shilling ; and from the 
 
 e3 
 
82 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 number of visits his hand made to one of his coat 
 poeketSj the sum he disposed of that afternoon must 
 have been considerable. 
 
 For upwards of four hours I witnessed Mr. Mathew 
 continue, with unabated zeal, his work of love ; and 
 when the mists began to gather around the dark 
 mountains, thousands were still pressing onward to- 
 wards the platform. As soon as it grew dark, torches 
 were lighted, and the effect of their red glare on the 
 dusky and wild countenances of the gToups a;round, 
 was very fine. Never in the course of my life had I 
 witnessed such enthusiasm. He seemed to be regarded 
 by the multitude as a saint rather than a man — but 
 his own humble deportment evinced that he con- 
 sidered himself only a humble instrument in God's 
 hand for effecting a great moral revolution among 
 his fellow-countrymen — many of whom hold him in 
 such reverence, that I verily believe they would lay 
 down their lives to do him a service. 
 
 It was a pleasant thing to walk that evening through 
 the streets of Kilkenny. All was peace, harmony, 
 and rejoicing, and scarcely an individual, male or 
 female, was to be seen who did not wear a tempe- 
 rance medal. Many of the whiskey shops were closed, 
 and all of them deserted — whereas, as I was informed, 
 but four weeks before, in that very city, a drunken 
 faction-fight had occurred, in which several lives were 
 sacrificed. 
 
 The next morning, Father Mathew resumed his 
 labours ; and as I left the town, hundreds were still 
 
A "TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 83 
 
 pouring into it. I afterwards saw Mr. Mathew ad- 
 minister the pledge in London, but the scene, though 
 impressive, was by no means so picturesque as the 
 one I witnessed in Ireland. 
 
 * * ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Very few of my readers may be aware that there 
 is in America an advocate of Temperance, whose 
 success is almost equal to that of Father Mathew ; and 
 as I have drawn one Temperance portrait, perhaps I 
 may be permitted to give a companion sketch, 
 especially as the subject of it is about visiting this 
 country. Mr. Gough is a young Englishman, and the 
 most effective natural orator I ever heard. He left 
 his native land a poor lad, at the age of twelve years, 
 dependent upon strangers, and underwent much 
 suffering and privation in America, where, after some 
 time, his mother joined him. That mother died sud- 
 denly, and I cannot resist the temptation of quoting 
 here from a manuscript narrative of Mr. Gough's, now 
 before me, his account of her death, and burial. It is 
 one of the most touchingly written accounts I ever 
 read. He says : — 
 
 " And now comes one of the most terrible events 
 of my history — an event which almost bowed me to 
 the dust. The summer of 1834 was exceedingly hot ; 
 and as our room was immediately under the roof, 
 w^hich had but one small window in it, the heat was 
 almost intolerable, and my mother suffered much 
 from this cause. On the 8th of July, a day more 
 than usually warm, she complained of debility, but as 
 
84 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 she had before suffered from weakness, I was not ap- 
 prehensive of danger, and saying I would go and bathe, 
 asked her to provide me some rice and milk against 
 seven or eight o'clock, when I should return. That 
 day my spirits were unusually exuberant. I laughed 
 and sang with my young companions, as if not a cloud 
 was to be seen in all my sky, when one was then 
 gathering which was shortly to burst in fatal thunder 
 over my head. About eight o'clock I returned home, 
 and was going up the steps, whistling as I went, when 
 my sister met me at the threshold, and seizing me by 
 the hand, eiLclsLuned, ' Johriy mother^ s dead ! ^ What I 
 did, what I said, I cannot remember ; but they told 
 me, afterwards, I grasped my sister's arm, laughed 
 frantically in her face, and then for some minutes 
 seemed stunned by the dreadful intelligence. As soon 
 as they perpaitted me, I visited our garret, now a 
 chamber of death ; and there, on the floor, lay all that 
 remained of her whom I had loved so well, and w^ho 
 had been a friend when all others had forsaken me. 
 There she lay, viith her face tied up with a hand- 
 kerchief; — 
 
 ♦ ** By foreign hands her aged eyes were closed ; 
 
 By foreign hands her decent limbs composed." 
 
 " Oh ! how vividly came then to my mind, as I took 
 her cold hand in mine, and gazed earnestly in her 
 quiet face, all her meek, enduring love, her uncom- 
 plaining spirit, her devotedness to her husband and 
 children. All was now over ; and yet, as through the 
 
A "transatlantic father mathew." 85 
 
 livelong night I sat at her side, a solitary watcher by 
 the dead, I felt somewhat resigned to the dispensation 
 of Providence, and was almost thankful that she was 
 taken from the ' evil to come.'" 
 
 He thus describes his mother's fimeral : — 
 " I learned from my sister that, during my absence, 
 some persons had been and brought a pine box to the 
 house, into which they had placed my mother's body, 
 and taken it off in a cart, for interment. They had 
 but just gone, she said. I told her that we must go 
 and see mother buried ; and we hastened after the 
 vehicle, which we soon overtook. 
 
 "There was no 'pomp and circumstance' about 
 that humble funeral ; but never went a mortal to the 
 grave who had been more truly lovei^l, and was then 
 more sincerely lamented, than the silent traveller to- 
 wards Potter's Field, the place of her interment. Only 
 two lacerated and bleeding hearts mourned for her ; 
 but as the almost unnoticed procession passed through 
 the streets, tears of more genuine sorrow were shed 
 than frequently fall, when 
 
 ' Some proud child of earth returns to dust\' 
 
 We soon reached the burying-ground. In the same 
 cart with my mother was another mortal whose spirit 
 had put on immortality. A little child's coffin lay 
 beside that of her who had been a sorrowful pilgrim 
 for many years, and both now were about to lie 
 side by side in the ' narrow house.' When the 
 infant's coffin was taken from the cart, my sister burst 
 
86 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 into tears, and the driver, a rough looking-fellow, with 
 a kindness of manner that touched us, remarked to 
 her, ' Poor little thing ; 'tis better off where 'tis.' 1 
 undeceived him in his idea as to this supposed re- 
 lationship of the child, and informed him that it was 
 not a child, but our mother for whom we mourned. 
 My mother's coffin was then taken out and placed in 
 a trench, and a little earth was thinly sprinkled over 
 it. So was she buried ! 
 
 " There was no burial-service read, — none. My 
 mother was one of God's creatures, but she had lived 
 — died amongst the poor. She had bequeathed no 
 legacies to charitable institutions, and how could the 
 church afford one of its self-denying men to pray over 
 her pauper-grave ? She had only been an affectionate 
 wife, a devoted mother, and a poor Christian ; so how 
 could a bell toll with any propriety as she drew near 
 to her final resting-place ? No prim undertaker, who 
 measured yards of woe on his face according to the 
 number of hatbands and gloves ordered for the funeral, 
 was there ; and what need, then, of surpliced priest ? 
 Well, it was some comfort to me, that my poor 
 mother's body could ^ rest in hope,' without the hired 
 services of either ; and I could not help feeling and 
 rejoicing that he who wept at the grave of Lazarus, 
 was watching the sleeping dust of his servant. Oh ! 
 miserable indeed is the lot of the poor ; — a weary, 
 struggling, self-denying life, and then a solitary death 
 and an unblessed grave ! " 
 
 And now for my Temperance Sketch number two. 
 
A " TRANSATLANTIC FATHER M ATHEW." 87 
 MR. JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 
 Not many months since, I chanced to be in Phila- 
 delphia, and finding, one dull, drizzling damp morn- 
 ing that time hung heavily on my hands, I made an 
 attempt at killing it by applying to that usual refuge 
 for the destitute tourist — the newspapers. I soon 
 digested the whole of their contents, having from the 
 paucity of information contained in the various 
 hebdomadals actually devoured the advertisements, 
 which, by the way, were the most amusing portions 
 of the broad sheets. This resource being exhausted, 
 what was I to do ? It was not a day for walking ; and 
 were it so, I had seen everything of note in and about 
 the beautiful city of Brotherly Love. The Hall of 
 Independence, the Mint, Laurel Hill Cemetery, 
 Franklin's Grave, the Girard College, had all been 
 visited, and how was I to amuse myself, a stranger in 
 a strange place ? 
 
 I sauntered to the window of my hotel, and there 
 had a melancholy view of the damp roof of the Market 
 House. Tiring of this prospect, I planted myself 
 before the stove, and in pure desperation took up a 
 pamphlet on temperance which lay on the table. 
 There was not much in it to interest me, but it was 
 better, I thought, than nothing, so I read on — turning 
 the leaves over and over, on the principle which makes 
 a squirrel turn in his circular cage. I read because 
 I couldn't help it. 
 
 There were several notices in that temperance 
 
88 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 pamphlet of various lecturers on the subject of total 
 abstinence ; and a perfect host of paragraphs respect- 
 ing one of them, a young man named Gough, who 
 had, it seemed, been creating quite a ' sensation ' 
 wherever he appeared. Anecdotes of considerable 
 interest were quoted as having been related by him, 
 and from all accounts, his progress through the various 
 cities and towns of the Union seemed to have been a 
 very march of triumph. 
 
 I am passionately fond of eloquent public speaking, 
 and therefore felt a great desire to hear Mr. Gough ; 
 nor was my wish long ungratified, for the rain being 
 ' over and gone,' I sauntered down Chestnut street, 
 and in my way saw a bill which announced that 
 Mr. G. would address the people of Philadelphia in a 
 church, on the following Sunday evening, and thither 
 at the appointed hour I repaired, expecting to be dis- 
 appointed, for I have generally found much- vaunted 
 men to fall far short of the standard erected by their 
 admirers. 
 
 Mr. Gough's fame having ' flown before him,' the 
 church was, long before the appointed time, crowded 
 to overflowing. I occupied a seat in the gallery, and 
 in common with hundreds waited anxiously for the 
 appearance of the second Father Mathew. As seven 
 o'clock drew near, every eye was strained in order to 
 catch the first glimpse of him. There was a perfect 
 furor. Surely, thought I, he must be something above 
 the mark ! but stay. 
 
 The minister, who regularly officiates in the church. 
 
A " TRANSATLANTIC FATHER MATHEW." 89 
 
 goes into the pulpit and sits down. One or two per- 
 sons behind me say it is after seven o'clock, and very 
 much fear that Mr. Gough is not coming, and they 
 are only going to have a sermon, after all. Presently 
 there is a stir near the door, and a grave-looking 
 spectacled personage, with hair 
 
 " half-way 
 On the road from grizzle to grey," 
 
 is seen pushing, with monstrous difficulty, through 
 the crowd. He is followed by a young man, or rather 
 by a young man's head, for whether a body belongs 
 to it is doubtful — if there be, it bids fair to be so flatly 
 squeezed as to render seeing it edgeways a matter of 
 difficulty. On the grave-looking gentleman and his 
 companion push, and at length arrive at the foot of 
 the stairs leading to the pulpit. ' There he goes ! 
 that's Gough ! him with the spectacles on,' whispers 
 one to another, as the grave-looking personage ascends 
 the steps — no, that cannot be the orator, for we are 
 told he is much younger. Another individual mounts, 
 and a buz goes round — again a disappointment ! it is 
 only the sexton, who is about to regulate the refractory 
 gas-burner. Perhaps the secretary (for such is the 
 gentleman with grey hair and spectacles) is going to 
 apologize for Mr. Gough's unexpected, unavoidable 
 absence, &c. &c. Oh ! no — no such thing ; for you 
 may see a young man following the sexton, and all 
 at once every eye is fixed on him, for everybody 
 whispers to everybody else — 'That's him.' And this 
 time they are right, for Mr. J. B. Gough it is. 
 
90 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 What ! that pale, thin young man — with a brown 
 over-coat buttoned closely up to his chin, and look- 
 ing so attenuated, that a tolerably persevering gust 
 of wind would have had no difficulty in puffing him 
 to any required point of the compass — that him who 
 swayed multitudes by his oratory — made strong men 
 weep like little children, and women to sob as if their 
 hearts would burst ! Yes — look at his large ex- 
 pressive eyes — mark every feature, and you see the 
 stamp of no common man there. The young apostle 
 of temperance is before us. 
 
 After a brief address from a minister, and a prayer 
 from the pastor of the church, a hymn was sung, and 
 then Mr. Gough came forward. I had» now a better 
 opportunity of observing him. His face was pale, 
 and there needed no very scrutinizing eye to detect on 
 the brow of youth, furrows which time and trouble 
 had prematurely ploughed there. His cheeks were 
 very pale, somewhat sunken, and their muscles were 
 very distinctly marked. The mouth, by far the 
 most expressive feature of the face, was of a bene- 
 volent formation, (if I may so describe it,) and at 
 times a smile of inexpressible sweetness lurked 
 about it — a quantity of dark hair nearly covered his 
 forehead, yet leaving one temple bare, indicating a 
 brain of more than ordinary capacity. In dress he 
 was extremely simple — plain black : taken altogether, 
 I have seldqjpa, at a first glance, felt so lively* an in- 
 . terest in any celebrated man (and I have seen many) 
 as I did in Mr. Gough. 
 
A "transatlantic father mathew." 91 
 
 It would be easy enough to give the matter of Mr. 
 Gough's address, but to convey anything except a 
 very slender idea of his manner^ would be a sheer 
 impossibility, and I shall not attempt so hopeless a 
 task. To be fully appreciatied, he must be heard. 
 He commenced by disclaiming any intention of enter- 
 ing on an argument, and said that he should mainly 
 depend on facts, the results of his own experience, 
 or those of others, which had fallen under his notice. 
 He then described his own career as an intemperate 
 man, and drew pictures of such terrific power, and 
 yet so truthful, that his hearers shuddered as they 
 listened to the dreadful details. To me, intemperance 
 had never before appeared in all its horrible, start- 
 ling hideousness. The impressions made by Mr. 
 Gough on his audience seemed to be profound ; and 
 many of his pathetical anecdotes drew tears " from 
 eyes unused to weep." 
 
 It being Sabbath evening, Mr. Gough did not in- 
 dulge in any reminiscences of a ludicrous nature, 
 but confined himself to a delineation of the awful 
 features of intemperance, as exhibited every hour 
 in our daily paths. His illustrations were marvel- 
 lously felicitous, and most aptly introduced. Never 
 did he utter anything approaching to vulgarity, and 
 often his eloquence was of a high order. He told 
 us that he had never known the advantages of edu- 
 cation, (a fact which none would ha^yi suspected;) 
 that he had left England at twelve years of age ; had 
 suffered from poverty and want in their direst forms, 
 
02 PORTRAITS IN PADDY-LAND, AND 
 
 and had felt, when death had robbed hun of all who 
 made life dear, that he was utterly alone. It was the 
 most awfully interesting autobiography to which I 
 had ever listened. 
 
 During that week, and the week following, Mr. 
 Gough lectured to congregated thousands in Phila- 
 delphia ; and so fascinated was I by his eloquence, 
 that, with the exception of two meetings, I heard all 
 his addresses. The excitement was tremendous. To 
 obtain any chance of hearing him, seats were obliged 
 to be procured more than an hour and a half before 
 the time of commencement. Gallery, and pulpit- 
 stairs, and aisles, were thronged with people of every 
 class. I shall never forget the scene at the Chinese 
 Museum, where, on two occasions, three thousand 
 people paid twenty-five cents for the jDrivilege of 
 hearing him ; and even then, hundreds were unable 
 to obtain admission. Mr. Gough enchained that vast 
 audience, for two hours by one of the most effective 
 addresses I ever heard. At one moment, he con- 
 vulsed them with merriment, and, as if by the touch 
 of an enchanter's wand, he subdued them to tears. 
 It was a wonderful display of his power over the 
 feelings and passions; and yet, with all, there was 
 so much of humility, that one knew not which most 
 to admire — the man or his matter. 
 
 Mr. Gough is an admirable mimic, and tells a 
 story with |tore point than, Charles Mathews ex- 
 cepted, any other story-teller I ever listened to. His 
 sarcasms tell with effect, and his pathetic narrations 
 
93 
 
 of the household distresses are graphic in the ex- 
 treme. I should not like to be the object of his 
 denunciations, for he launches his thunders with an 
 unsparing hand. Taken altogether, it may be safely 
 said that Mr. Gough is one of those men who are 
 called out, at certain periods, to effect great moral 
 reforms. Mr. Gough is, emphatically, a man for the 
 Times ! 
 
 I forgot to remark that our orator's voice is ex- 
 tremely musical, and of flexible tone ; at times as 
 sweet as that of the eloquent Henry Smith (a preacher 
 of Queen Elizabeth's day, and surnamed the silver- 
 tongued), and at others pouring forth, torrent-like, in 
 eloquent invective. In fine, he has all the requisites 
 for an efficient public speaker, and nobly does he 
 bring all his energies to bear whilst engaged in dis- 
 cussing his favourite theme — Temperance, to which 
 he feels he owes so much. 
 
 But as my readers will probably, ere long, see the 
 original of this sketch, I will here lay down my pen. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 In the summer of 1830 I happened to pay a visit 
 to Liverpool^ for the purpose of seeing a friend em- 
 bark for the United States. At that time, Mrs. 
 Hemans was residing at Wavertree, near the town, 
 and a friend having kindly offered me a letter to her, 
 I determined on paying her a visit. My friend sailed 
 on a Sunday morning, and as I could not call on the 
 poetess that day, I arranged to go over to Wavertree 
 on the morrow, and in the meantime visit the church 
 of Dr. RaiHes, who is one of the most popular dis- 
 senting preachers of the day, and known as an 
 author, — the memoir of his predecessor, Spencer, 
 being from his pen. He " owns" also, to a few 
 volumes of travels, and some poems — chiefly devo- 
 tional. The late well-known Sir Stamford Raffles 
 was his brother. 
 
 He was |p the pulpit when I entered the chapel 
 in which he officiates at Liverpool. The building 
 was vast, and densely crowded with a very fashion- 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 95 
 
 able audience. He was about the middle height, and 
 somewhat corpulent. He had a very florid face, with 
 full, expressive eyes, the upper lids of which were 
 large, and so gave rather an indolent expression to 
 the whole countenance. The mouth was indicative 
 of good humour, and beneath it was a dimpled 
 double chin. A voluminous and handsome gown, 
 rather showily disposed, enveloped his person, and 
 he had altogether a sort of Friar Tuck appearance. 
 His age might have been forty-five, or, as they say, 
 " thereabouts." 
 
 He read that chapter, in which is the magnificent 
 speech of Paul before Agrippa, and certainly I never 
 heard so impressive a reader. His voice and action 
 were alike fine, and worthy of the theme. Some 
 might have been disposed to call his style theatrical — 
 indeed, I have heard it objected to on this very 
 account; but I could not help wishing that the 
 Doctor's example in this respect were followed by 
 many, who too frequently darken the light of Reve- 
 lation by their cold reading of the Scriptures ; for I 
 have not unfrequently heard a song of triumph and 
 a penitential psalm delivered in the same monotonous 
 tone, by those who ought to, and I doubt not do, 
 know better. 
 
 Dr. Raffles' sermon was very short, very ornate, 
 and very sound — but it impressed me as being rather 
 a showy than a great performance. There was a vast 
 deal of glitter, but it w^as the glare produced by 
 gold leaf — a few grains of metal were made to go a 
 
96 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 great way, and cover a considerable extent of sur- 
 face. 
 
 At this time, Mrs. Hemans was separated from her 
 husband, and resided at Wavertree, to which place 
 she confined herself, in order that her sons might 
 receive the benefits of tuition in the neighbouring 
 city. A more unsuitable locality, for one of her 
 temperament, could hardly be conceived, for there 
 was nothing of beauty in the neighbourhood to re- 
 commend it; and to one brought up amongst the 
 wild scenery of Wales, it must have been, at times, 
 dreary indeed. The separation, too, from the father 
 of her children, must have preyed deeply on her 
 spirit; but she seldom alluded to this subject, al- 
 though great curiosity was excited to know the cause. 
 Captain Hemans lived at Rome, and still corre- 
 sponded with his wife respecting the education of 
 their children. His habits and tastes were entirely 
 different from those of his wife, and a separation, 
 although not a legal one, was mutually agreed upon. 
 Of course, a hundred rumours were in circulation, 
 and those officious personages who preferred attend- 
 ing to other persons' affairs, gossiped to their hearts' 
 content. I shall not follow their example, and retail 
 any of the many stories prevalent on this subject, 
 holding the opinion, that if a man and his wife choose 
 to live apart, it is their business, and theirs alone — 
 and such subjects ought to be strictly classed amongst 
 those with which a stranger should intermeddle not. 
 
 It was about four in the afternoon, when the 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 97 
 
 Wavertree stage set me down at about a hundred 
 yards from the place of my destination. The house 
 in which the Poetess resided was one of a row, or 
 terrace, as it was called, situated on the high road, 
 from which it was separated only by the foot- way and 
 a little flower-garden, surrounded by a white-thorn 
 hedge. I noticed, that of all the houses on either 
 side of it, hers was the only one adorned with 
 flowers — the rest had either grass lawns or a plain 
 gravel surface — some of them even grew cabbages 
 and French beans ! 
 
 My knock at the door was answered by a servant 
 girl — one of the pretty " Lancashire witches," by 
 whom I was shown into a small parlour, where I 
 remained, whilst my letter and card were taken to 
 the lady of the house. 
 
 It was a very small apartment, but everything 
 about it indicated that it was the home of genius 
 and of taste. Over the mantel- shelf hung a fine 
 engraving of William Roscoe, author of the Lives of 
 the De Medici, with a presentation line or two in his 
 own hand-writing. The walls were decorated with 
 prints and pictures, and on the mantel- shelf were 
 some models, in terra cotta^ of Italian groups. On 
 the tables lay casts, medallions, and a portfolio of 
 choice prints and water-colour engravings ; but I was 
 too anxious to pay much attention to such matters, 
 and so I sat down, anxiously awaiting the entrance 
 of the Poetess. 
 
 And never, before or since, have I felt in such a 
 F 
 
98 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 flutter.. For years and years I had read her poetry, 
 and imagined all sorts of things about the authoress. 
 I had been told that she was beautiful, and readily 
 believed it — but I anticipated some disappointment 
 in this respect — in fact, I can scarcely tell how I 
 felt, when I heard the rustling of silks, and saw a 
 lady enter the room. 
 
 Well — I am disappointed, was the rapid thought 
 which passed through my brain. The lady was in- 
 teresting-looking enough, but bore no resemblance 
 whatever to the engraved portraits of Mrs. Hemans ; 
 she was much younger, too, than I imagined Mrs. 
 H. to have been. And — to put the reader out of 
 suspense, it was not the Poetess of the Affections — 
 but her close and attached friend. Miss Jewsbury, 
 who had been deputed by Mrs. Hemans to make ex- 
 cuses for a few moments' delay in receiving me. 
 
 Miss Jewsbury was one of the most frank and 
 open-hearted creatures possible. She gracefully apo- 
 logized for acting as Mrs. Hemans' locum tenens^ and 
 made me feel quite at my ease. I did not know then 
 who the lady was — but being aware that Mrs. Hemans 
 had a sister who frequently set her songs to music, I 
 imagined that my fair companion must be her. I 
 was not undeceived until after Mrs. Hemans had 
 made her appearance. 
 
 It was not long before the Poetess entered the 
 room. She held out her hand and welcomed me in 
 the kindest manner, and then sat down ojiposite me ; 
 butj before doing so, introduced Miss Jewsbury. 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 99 
 
 I cannot well conceive a more exquisitely beautiful 
 creature than Mrs. Hemans was — none of the por- 
 traits or busts I have ever seen of her do her justice, 
 nor is it possible for words to convey to the reader 
 any idea of the matchless, yet serene beauty of her 
 expression. Her glossy waving hair was parted on 
 her forehead, and terminated on the sides, in rich 
 and luxuriant auburn curls: there was a dove-like 
 look in her eyes, and yet there was a chastened sad- 
 ness in their expression. Her complexion was re- 
 markably clear, and her high forehead looked as pure 
 and spotless as Parian marble. A calm repose, not 
 unmingled with melancholy, was the characteristic 
 expression of the face; but when she smiled, all 
 traces of sorrow were lost, and she seemed to be but 
 " a little lower than the Angels" — fitting shrine for 
 so pure a mind ! Let me not be deemed a flatterer 
 or an enthusiast, in thus describing her, for I am 
 only one of many, who have been almost as much 
 captivated by her personal beauty, as charmed by 
 the sweetness and holiness of her productions. If 
 ever poems were the reflex of the beauties, personal 
 and mental, of their writers, they were indeed so in 
 the case of Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 We talked of L. E. L. Mrs. Hemans said she had 
 received several letters from her, containing pressing 
 invitations to visit London. ' A place I never was 
 in, and never wish to be,' she observed. ' My heart 
 beats too loudly, even in this quiet place, and there I 
 
 F 2 
 
100 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 think it would burst. The great Babel was not made 
 for such as me." 
 
 She was. very much pleased with an anecdote 
 which I told her, with which one of her poems had 
 something to do. It was this : 
 
 Near the city of Bath is a secluded little church- 
 yard, in which, amongst other monuments, is one of 
 pure white marble, on which was engraven the name 
 of a nobleman's daughter, and her age — seventeen. 
 In addition to this was the following stanza from 
 Mrs. Hemans' poem, " Bring Flowers :" — 
 
 " Bring flowers, pale flowers, o*er the bier to shed, 
 A crown for the brow of the early dead! 
 For this from its bud hath the white rose burst, 
 For this in the wood was the violet nurst : 
 They have a voice for what once was ours. 
 And are love's last gift. — Bring ye flowers — pale flowers." 
 
 The space around that grave was filled with white 
 flowers of all descriptions, planted for the most part 
 by stranger hands. No one ever removed a blossom 
 from the grave, and there they flourished, as if in 
 obedience to the mandate of the Poetess. It was 
 one of the most graceful tributes ever paid to 
 genius. 
 
 ' Come — I will show you my poetic mint,' she 
 said — and she led the way to a room over the one in 
 which we were sitting. It was a very small place, 
 but neat almost to a fault. There were no author- 
 litterings. Everything was in order. An open letter 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 101 
 
 lay on the table. She pointed to it, and said, laugh- 
 ingly : 
 
 * An application for my autograph, and the postage 
 unpaid. You cannot imagine how I am annoyed 
 with albums and such matters. A person, who ought 
 to have known better, sent me an album, lately, and 
 begged a piece from me, if it was only long enough 
 to fill up a page of sky-blue tinted paper, which he 
 had selected for me to write upon.' 
 
 In incidentally referring to her compositions, she 
 said : ^ They often remain chiming in my mind for 
 days, before I commit them to paper. And sometimes 
 I quite forget many, which I compose as I lie awake 
 in bed. Composition is less a labour with me than 
 the act of writing down what has impressed me, ex- 
 cepting in the case of blank verse, which always in- 
 volves something like labour. My thoughts have been 
 so used to go in the harness of rhyme, that when they 
 are suffered to run without it, they are often diffused, 
 or I lose sight, in the ardour of composition, of the 
 leading idea altogether.' 
 
 Mrs. Hemans' voice was peculiarly musical, and I 
 would have given anything to have heard her recite 
 some of her own poetry ; but I did not dare to hazard 
 such a request, and feeling that I had intruded quite 
 long enough on her time, I after a short time took my 
 departure. 
 
 I must not omit to mention, for the especial benefit 
 of my fair readers, that Mrs. Hemans' dress was 
 simple enough. She wore a white gown, (I really 
 
102 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 am not learned enough in such matters to say whether 
 it was of cotton or muslin,) over which was thrown a 
 black lace shawl — on her head was a cap of very 
 open net- work, without flowers or ornament of any 
 kind. 
 
 Miss Jewsbury is well known by her " Lays of 
 Leisure Hours." She was very amiable and accom- 
 plished, and felt such an enthusiasm for the writings 
 of Mrs. Hemans, that, in 1828, she took a cottage 
 near Rhyllon, where the Poetess then resided, for the 
 purpose of associating with her. When I saw her at 
 Wavertree she was on a visit to Mrs. Lawrence, of 
 Wavertree Hall, another warm friend and admirer of 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 I cannot here forbear quoting a passage from Miss 
 Jewsbury's " Three Histories," in which she avowedly 
 describes Mrs. Hemans : 
 
 " Egeria was totally different from any other woman 
 I had ever seen, either in Italy or in England. She 
 did not dazzle, she subdued me ; other women might 
 be more commanding, more versatile, more acute, but 
 I never saw any one so exquisitely feminine * * * 
 Her birth, her education, but above all, the genius 
 with which she was gifted, combined to inspire a 
 passion for the ethereal, the tender, the imaginative, 
 the heroic — in one Word, the beautiful. It was in her 
 a faculty divine, and yet of daily life — it touched all 
 things, but, like a sunbeam, touched them with a 
 golden finger. Anything abstract or scientific was 
 unintelligible or distasteful to her. Her knowledge 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 103 
 
 was extensive and various ; but, true to the first 
 principle of her nature, it was poetry that she sought 
 in history, scenery, character, and reUgious belief — 
 poetry, that guided all her studies, governed all her 
 thoughts, coloured all her imaginative conversation. 
 Her nature was at once simple and profound ; there 
 was no room in her mind for philosophy, nor in her 
 heart for ambition ; the one was filled by imagination, 
 the other engrossed by tenderness. She had a passive 
 temper, but decided tastes ; any one might influence, 
 but very few impressed her. Her strength and her 
 weakness lay alike in her affections ; these would 
 sometimes make her weep, at others imbue her with 
 courage ; so that she was alternately ' a falcon hearted 
 dove,' and a ' reed broken with the wind.' Her 
 voice was a sweet, sad melody, and her spirits re- 
 minded me of an old poet's description of the orange 
 tree, with its 
 
 * Golden lamps, hid in a night of green.' 
 
 Or of those Spanish gardens where the pomegranate 
 blossoms beside the cypress* Her gladness was like 
 a burst of sunlight; and if in her sadness she re- 
 sembled night, it was night wearing her stars. I might 
 describe and describe for ever, but I should never 
 succeed in portraying Egeria; she was a muse, a 
 grace, a variable child, a dependent woman, the Italy 
 of human beings." 
 
 Miss Jewsbury, as all the literary world knows, 
 
104 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 married, a few years since, Mr. Fletcher, a mis- 
 sionary, and died soon after she set foot on the shores 
 of India. Some very interesting letters of hers, written 
 on the voyage out, appeared in the London Athenaeum. 
 She had given promise of high and varied powers — 
 but like poor L. E. L., she died early, and far away 
 from the land of her birth. 
 
 It has been stated, with how much of truth I know 
 not, that Mrs. Hemans was, at one period of her life, 
 invited to take up her residence in the city of Boston, 
 United States, for the purpose of conducting a 
 periodical work. Perhaps it was well that she did 
 not accept the offer ; for the uncertain and variable 
 climate of America would, in all probability, have put 
 a still earlier stop to her career, and deprived the 
 world of many of her sweetest productions. As is 
 the case with most, if not all of those who write, day 
 after day, for the bread that perisheth, she endured 
 rather than enjoyed life. A heart disease, with all its 
 distressing accompaniments, harassed her mind, and 
 wore away her frame, which, we are told, became, 
 towards the last, almost etherealized. At the com- 
 paratively early age of forty-one, on the eve of the 
 Sabbath, her spirit passed away, to enter on the Sab- 
 bath of eternal rest, earth having scarcely " profaned 
 what was born for the skies." 
 
 When I was in Dublin some few years since, owing 
 to some unaccountable forgetfulness, I omitted to pay 
 a passing tribute to the genius of the poetess, by 
 
A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 105 
 
 visiting her tomb, which is in St. Ann's Church, and 
 over which is inscribed one of her own beautiful verses 
 —her most appropriate epitaph ; 
 
 " Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Fair Spirit ! rest thee now I 
 E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, 
 
 His seal was on thy brow. 
 Dust to the narrow home beneath ! 
 
 Soul to its place on high I 
 They that have seen thy look in death, 
 
 No more may fear to die." 
 
 On a recentvisitto Liverpool, whilst sitting one morn- 
 ing idly, an omnibus, on which was painted the word 
 " Wavertree " passed by, and recalled to my mind the 
 pleasant visit I had once paid to that village. I will 
 go once again, thought I, if only to see what change 
 has wrought there. I soon put my resolutions into 
 practice, — and ere long I once more stood before 
 the well-remembered house. The little flower garden 
 was no more — but rank grass and weeds sprung up 
 luxuriantly — the windows were many of them broken 
 — the entrance gate was off its hinges, — the vine in 
 front of the house trailed along the ground, and a 
 board, with " This house to let " upon it, was nailed 
 over the door. I entered the " deserted garden " and 
 looked into the little parlour — once so full of taste 
 and elegance; it was gloomy and cheerless. The 
 paper was spotted with damp, and spiders had built 
 their webs in the corners. Involuntarily I turned 
 away ; and during my homeward walk mused upon 
 
 f3 
 
106 A MEMORY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 the probable home and enjoyments of the two gifted 
 creatiu*es whom I had formerly seen at Wavertree. 
 Both were now beyond the stars, and as I mused on 
 the uncertainty of life, I exclaimed, with the eloquent 
 Burke, " What shadows are we, and what shadows, 
 alas ! do we pursue." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, AND A CHANCELLOR. 
 
 Some years ago I visited Oxford for the first time, 
 for the purpose of seeing an old schoolfellow, by 
 whom I was invited to attend the public recitation of 
 a prize poem in the theatre of the University. As I 
 had never seen the city of palaces, which Oxford has 
 not unaptly been styled, I cheerfully responded to 
 my friend's request ; and on the evening of the day 
 preceding that of the exhibition, I was set down at 
 the door of the " Star" — a hotel doubtless well known 
 to many of my readers who have visited it, as one of 
 the most extravagant in its charges to be found in 
 Great Britain. 
 
 It was a glorious evening — so, instead of boxing 
 myself up in the coffee-room, I strolled into Christ 
 Church Meadows, and, after a pleasant saunter, sur- 
 veyed the exteriors of the numerous halls of learn- 
 ing. Fine old places they were, and rich in glorious 
 memories ! Centuries had rolled over many of them, 
 hallowing the old walls and quiet quadrangles. The 
 
108 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 lore of ages had been nursed there, and the ground 
 beneath me had been trodden by men whose names 
 have become as familiar as household words. Piety, 
 philosophy, and poetry had made these their chosen 
 homes. Heroes had gone forth from its gates into 
 the great field of the world, conquering and to con- 
 quer ; and quiet, unobtrusive men had from thence 
 disseminated truths, whose steady light had flung 
 radiance upon the nations. And still the wheels, 
 urged by mental toil, were going round, just as they 
 revolved in the old times; for as I paced, in the 
 gloom of evening, the quadrangle of Christ Church, 
 here and there was to be seen the reflection of the 
 lights, from where, 
 
 *' In apartments cold and damp, 
 
 The candidate for college prizes, 
 Sat poring by the midnight lamp, 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises." 
 
 Although the eye may be never tired of seeing, the 
 legs soon weary with walking; and unwillingly tearing 
 myself away from scenes of such surpassing interest, 
 I retired to my quarters, and was awakened next 
 morning by the college bells ringing for early 
 prayers. 
 
 While I am breakfasting, and preparing otherwise 
 for the event of the day, let me just refer to two in- 
 dividuals — clergymen, who have made some noise in 
 the world of letters, or rather — ^for there is a vast 
 difference between the two — in the literary world. I 
 may not have another opportunity of referring to the 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 109 
 
 individuals in question ; and as these papers are de- 
 sultory enough in their character, I will introduce a 
 brace of literary clergymen, both of whom are now 
 beneath the clods of the valley. 
 
 When I was quite a lad, a conversazione was held 
 in the large picture gallery of the B Philoso- 
 phical Institution, and I accompanied a party thither. 
 A good many noticeable people, whom I cannot now 
 call to mind, were present ; but there was one indi- 
 vidual in the room who excited my curiosity, and to 
 whom I was, after a time, introduced. Let me de- 
 scribe him. 
 
 The individual referred to entered the room lean- 
 ing on the arm of a young lady ; for he was much 
 bowed by age. His dress was of plain black, and 
 clerical in its cut. A lowness of stature was ren- 
 dered more perceptible by his stoop, and as he trem- 
 blingly grasped an ivory-headed cane, and leaned 
 heavily on his fair companion, a more striking picture 
 of youth and age could not well have been depic- 
 tured by any of the eminent artists whose paintings 
 lined the gallery. The hair of this gentleman was 
 cut short, and white as the driven snow ; it stood up 
 wirily from his head — if I may coin a word to express 
 just what I mean, — and was combed back from his 
 high, broad forehead, which was ploughed all over 
 with transverse lines, and from his temples. His 
 clear grey eye was scarcely dimmed by age; the 
 nose, once slightly aquiline, was a trifle sunken, and 
 his mouth expressed much sweetness, benevolence. 
 
110 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 and decision of character. His features, taken as a 
 whole, had a squareness about them which was some- 
 what ungraceful, but their general expression was of 
 a pleasing and intellectual character. 
 
 This gentleman attracted much attention, and ob- 
 serving that introductions to him were numerous and 
 eagerly sought, I inquired of the Curator of the In- 
 stitution who he was ? 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the gentleman to whom I addressed 
 my question, Mr. M., in broken English, ' you write 
 poetry and not know Grabbe ? ' ' Who ? ' said I ; for 
 the only idea associated in my mind with anything 
 named Grabbe, was that the bearer of it must be, as 
 he is indeed represented in many a play — a sheriff's 
 officer ; a kind of gentleman to whom an introduc- 
 tion is very seldom asked for. 
 
 ' It is Mr. Crabbe, the poet,' said a friend who 
 happened to be near ; and then I need not say that 
 I looked with intense interest on 
 
 " Nature's sternest painter, yet the best," 
 
 as Byron called him. Mr. Crabbe's then position, 
 too, was interesting, for he was seated in Cowper's 
 arm-chair — the same which the Bard of Olney occu- 
 pied at Mrs. Unwin's, and in which, perhaps, he in- 
 dited his touching lines, " To Mary." A little silver 
 plate was let into the back, verifying the relic, which 
 still remains one of the lions of the B Institu- 
 tion. There sat Crabbe, the poet of the " Work- 
 house" and the " Hall," where once the gentle 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. Ill 
 
 Cowper reposed, and poured forth strains of the 
 most exquisite tenderness and pathos. 
 
 ' Pleased to see you, my young friend; very pleased 
 to see you,' said the venerable man to me, whilst his 
 face beamed with smiles ; and after a little while he 
 pointed to the fine portrait of Burke, by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, which hung near him, and said, ' Very 
 like, very like, indeed. I was in Sir Joshua's study 
 when Burke sat for it. Ah ! there was a man ! If 
 you ever come to Trowbridge,' he added, ' you must 
 call at the Vicarage, and I'll show you a sketch 
 of Burke, taken at Westminster Hall, when he made 
 his great speech in the Warren Hastings case. 
 Edmund left it to me ; it is only a rude pencil draw- 
 ing, but it gives more of the orator than that picture 
 does.' 
 
 Of course I had soon to " back out" of the circle 
 around Crabbe, and I once, and only once, saw him 
 afterwards, when at Trowbridge. I did not call on 
 him, for I always have felt, and I hope I always shall 
 feel, that the time of literary men is too sacred and 
 valuable to be ftittered away by curiosity or oddity 
 hunters. When I met with him, he was on his way 
 to a quarry in the neighbourhood ; for be it known, 
 Mr. Crabbe's favourite study was geology, and when 
 not engaged in parochial duties, the old gentleman 
 might generally have been seen, with his little geo- 
 logical hammer and specimen-bag in hand, poring 
 over stones and clays, much to the wonderment of 
 the gaping Wiltshire clowns, who thought " Parson 
 
112 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 Crabbe," as they called him, little better than cracked, 
 when they heard the click of his hammer among the 
 quarries. 
 
 A year or two prior to this, as I was one evening 
 
 proceeding towards a church in the city of B for 
 
 the purpose of hearing the E-ev. Legh Richmond 
 preach an anniversary sermon, a gentleman accosted 
 me, and inquired the way to the Temple Church. I 
 told him I was going thither, and would be pleased 
 to show him. He was upwards of fifty years of age, 
 with a remarkably pleasant countenance, and wore 
 spectacles. He was lame, owing to a contraction of 
 his knee-joint^ and so he took my arm, which, with 
 a boyism fireedom, I offered him. 
 
 ' And pray,' said he, ' are you going to hear Legh 
 Richmond } ' 
 
 I replied that I was, and anticipated great delight 
 in doing so, as I had perused his " Dairyman's 
 Daughter," and his history of " Little Jane, the 
 Young Cottager," with great delight. 
 
 The old gentleman smiled placidly, leaned a little 
 heavier on my arm, and talked to me about Heaven, 
 until my *eyes ran over with tears. There was such 
 a winning sweetness in his tones, and he spoke so 
 affectionately, that I could not help but love him, 
 stranger though he was. 
 
 When we arrived at the church door, crowds were 
 pouring in. ^ /must go to the vestry,' remarked my 
 new acquaintance ; ' I dare say you will see me 
 again ;' and we parted. 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 113 
 
 The service had been read by the regular clergy- 
 man of the place, and the psalm before the sermon 
 was being sung, when the preacher of the evening 
 slowly, and with some apparent difficulty, ascended 
 the pulpit stairs. He bowed his greyish head for a 
 moment on the cushion, and then looked round on 
 the congregation. It was the gentleman with whom 
 I had walked to church — the author of that touchingly 
 beautiful narrative, " The Dairyman's Daughter" — 
 Legh Richmond stood before me. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I can conceive of no more beautiful or interesting 
 spectacle than the one which presented itself in the 
 public theatre of the University of Oxford, on a great 
 public occasion. The theatre is circular and sur- 
 rounded by tiers of galleries. The area, beneath the 
 magnificent dome was reserved for the Heads of 
 Colleges, the various Professors, and other dignitaries. 
 Here, also, were assigned places for illustrious visitors, 
 and distinguished men of letters, from all countries. 
 The lower gallery was exclusively occupied by richly 
 dressed ladies — the flowers of England's beauty — 
 their gay attire forming a pleasing and striking con- 
 trast to the grave dresses of the Academicians. Above 
 these was a gallery, crowded to excess by the 
 students of the various Colleges — proud scions of 
 nobility, who had unwillingly submitted to collegiate 
 discipline, side by side with humbler students, whose 
 intense desire for learning had enabled them to van- 
 quish many a difficulty, in their way to that sacred 
 
114 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 place. I occupied a seat near the rostrum, whence I 
 could obtain a perfect view of all that occurred with- 
 out being myself inconveniently crowded. 
 
 As one and another of the Professors or officers of 
 the University entered the theatre, the students tes- 
 tified their approval or disapprobation of his or their 
 conduct, by vociferous cheering, or turbulent uproar. 
 The favourites were greeted by their party with cheers, 
 which the " other side of the house" would attempt 
 to drown in hisses ; and thus, every now and then, 
 scenes of the utmost confusion prevailed. It seemed 
 as if the young men had been granted a special licence 
 to express their sentiments in this manner ; and one 
 thing is certain, they took care to fully avail them- 
 selves of the liberty allowed them. No respect was 
 paid to persons. It mattered not how high in office 
 any individual who entered might be ; if he had ren- 
 dered himself unpopular during the term, he was 
 hooted, to his heart's content ; — and, on the other 
 side, if he had found favour in the eyes of the young 
 men, they were not behindhand in thundering out 
 their plaudits. 
 
 Eleven o'clock ! — the theatre is so crowded that it 
 would seem impossible to pack any more human 
 beings into a single nook of it. There is a lull amidst 
 the ragings of the wordy storm, for the real business 
 of the day is about to commence — the large doors 
 are thrown wide open, and the organ thunders out its 
 voluntary-welcome to an entering procession. On 
 they come — grave Doctors, lynx-eyed Proctors, spec- 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 115 
 
 tacled Professors, and learned Thebans of all descrip- 
 tions — Lawn-sleeved Bishops and portly Prebends 
 pass on amidst cheerings ; but now the vast assembly 
 rises as one man, and a shout of gratulation, to which 
 all that preceded it were but as mere whispers, 
 peals through the edifice, and whose reverberations 
 from the domed roof echo like distant thunder. 
 Louder and louder are the acclamations, as the Chan- 
 cellor enters the circle — and as he removes the col- 
 lege cap from his grey head, and with one glance of 
 his eagle eye surveys the glittering circles above and 
 around him. The Duke ! The Duke ! is shouted by a 
 thousand tongues, and the Hero of Waterloo, Chan- 
 cellor of the University of Oxford, takes his seat 
 of honour. 
 
 Hundreds and thousands of persons, who have 
 never seen the Duke of Wellington — at least, so I 
 judge from the numbers I have conversed with — 
 imagine him to be a tall, imposing-looking man. 
 They have been so in the habit of regarding him as 
 a mighty warrior, that they do not dissociate physical 
 from mental greatness. Such individuals would be 
 not a little surprised to behold a man rather below 
 than above the ordinary stature, of a slightly made y 
 frame, and one which by no means vindicates his claim "" 
 to the title of " The Iron Duke." The public are so 
 intimately acquainted with his peculiar physiognomy, 
 through the medium of caricatures and portraits, that 
 it is quite unnecessary for me to sketch it in this place. 
 
116 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 Like Brougham's, his nose is familiar enough to all, 
 and quite as great a curiosity in its way. 
 
 The appearance of the Duke, as he stood, arrayed 
 in cap and gown, reading his address, was, I must 
 say, rather grotesque. It could not be said of him that 
 
 " I^atin to him was no more difficile 
 Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle," 
 
 for his Grace certainly gave no more quarter to the 
 quantities thaii he did to the Old Guard on the plains 
 of Waterloo. I saw quiet smiles on many a learned 
 lip, as the address was being read ; but taken alto- 
 gether, the affair went oflf very well, and when the 
 Chancellor sat down, the house, as the pit did when 
 Kean performed Hichard for the first time, " rose at 
 him." 
 
 Tt was a singular spectacle enough to see the great 
 Captain of the age presiding in the peaceful arena of 
 learning. The Duke in a cocked hat and plumes 
 seemed quite natural ; but the conqueror of Napoleon 
 in a college cap had something of the ludicrous in it, 
 after all. However, I believe he carries the same 
 energy into the College as he did into the Camp — 
 and his decided habits, perhaps, render him not alto- 
 gether unqualified for the post he holds. 
 
 Of these habits, perhaps, an anecdote not exten- 
 sively known may not be out of place here. At 
 Walmer Castle, visitors are shown, amongst other 
 things, his Grace's sleeping chamber. In it is a small 
 iron camp bed, simple and plain — it is the one. 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 117 
 
 indeed, which he always used during his continental 
 campaigns. 
 
 ' Why,' said a gentleman one day to the Duke, 
 as he looked at the narrow couch, ' there is hardly 
 room to turn in it.' 
 
 ' I never do turn in it,' was the prompt and charac- 
 teristic reply of his Grace. ' When a man wants to 
 turn in his bed, it is time for him to turn out of it.' 
 
 The poem having been delivered, I had time to look 
 about me, and take notice of some of the celebrated 
 men present. There was Keble, author of the " Chris- 
 tian Year," with his slight figure, contemplative face, 
 and finely-formed head. He appeared in ill-health, 
 and, indeed, was so ; for soon afterwards, he was com- 
 pelled, in consequence, to give up his Professorship 
 of Poetry in the University. Henry Hart Milman, 
 the author of " Belshazzar's Feast," and of the " Fall 
 of Jerusalem," and who formerly occupied the Pro- 
 fessor's chair, was present, glancing hither and thither? 
 with his intensely black, sparkling eyes, and some- 
 what merry countenance, lighted up with intellectual 
 excitement. 
 
 Dr. Buckland, the geologist, too, was a conspi- 
 cuous notability, with his portly, but not corpulent 
 figiu-e, his shining bald head, and his courteous and 
 blandly expressive countenance. 
 
 But I have not space or time to merely mention 
 half of those who were pointed out to me that day. 
 One or two, however, very remarkable men, I must 
 not omit alluding to. 
 
118 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 As I left the theatre, my attention was directed to 
 a gentleman who, in company with several others, 
 was standing in conversation near the gateway. 
 
 ' There,' said my friend, ' is the celebrated Dr. 
 Pusey.' 
 
 ' And can that be the Pusey of whom I have heard 
 so much ? ' I said, mentally; and I was about to take 
 a closer survey of him, when I was hurried off by my 
 companion, who said, ' You will see him again, for 
 he lectures in one of the chapels. Let us go over to 
 the Bodleian.' 
 
 A glorious place that library ; and as I entered its 
 learned precincts, I involuntarily spoke in low tones. 
 It always seems to me that it smacks of impertinence 
 to talk aloud in such places. The ponderous wooden- 
 bound and iron-clasped tomes, which stand on the 
 lower shelves, as if they knew their weight and con- 
 sequence, and that they were the foundations of lite- 
 rature, frown one into silence ; and the array of pre- 
 cious old black-letter books, and gorgeously illumi- 
 nated missals, and time-stained manuscripts, imposed 
 a restriction on the tongue. And then the librarians, 
 who glided noiselessly about, were such sedate-look- 
 ing men — some of them had lived there for years and 
 years, growing old as the books grew older, and hardly 
 existing when they were out of sight of their backs. 
 I noticed an old gentleman who seemed to be a 
 superior officer ; his silver hair streamed over the 
 collar of his quaintly-cut coat. And there he was, 
 now prying through his spectacles into a catalogue. 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 119 
 
 (itself a mighty volume,) and then referring to a work 
 which a nimbler librarian than himself, and a much 
 younger man, (but old-looking, for all that,) procured 
 for him by mounting a ladder, the cross-bar at the 
 top and the foot of which were padded, that no 
 noise might be made. All these librarians seemed a 
 part and parcel of the Bodleian, just as much as the 
 books themselves were — the only great diiFerence 
 being that the knowledge of the books was bound in 
 boards, and that of the book-keepers in broadcloth. 
 
 After visiting the great hall of Christ Church Col- 
 lege, I proceeded to the chapel where Dr. Pusey 
 was to officiate. It was crowded to excess, in con- 
 sequence of the interest attached to the preacher, who 
 was the acknowledged leader of the new movement. 
 The liturgy having been read, Doctor Pusey, walked 
 down the aisle towards the pulpit, and as he passed 
 close by the pew where I was stationed, I had an ex- 
 cellent opportunity of observing him. 
 
 His personal appearance was anything but that of 
 one who was universally acknowledged to be the 
 leader of a poweiful and increasing party in the 
 chui'ch — a party which at one time threw it into a 
 moral convulsion, and the effects of which are still 
 felt. He was small in stature, and attenuated in 
 frame and feature. His profile was more striking than 
 his front face, the nose being very large and promi- 
 nent. As he paced the aisle very slowly, with his 
 eyes fixed on the pavement, the lips compressed, and 
 his thin, sallow cheeks displaying hollows, and his 
 
120 SKETCHES OF CHURCHMEN, 
 
 brow lines, which thought had prematurely planted 
 there, he presented the appearance of an ascetic — of 
 a monk suddenly transformed into a clergyman of the 
 Church of England ; for in his person he displayed 
 all the austere sanctity of the one, whilst his canon- 
 icals sufficiently indicated his position as the other. 
 
 His style of preaching was cold, tame, and spirit- 
 less. One of the solemn-looking, stony, monumental 
 men who reclined in their niches, with hands, palm 
 to palm, reverently placed on their breasts, might 
 have arisen from his cold couch, gone into the pulpit, 
 delivered such another sermon, and made, leaving 
 the supernaturalness of the matter entirely out of the 
 question, just about as great a sensation. His tones 
 were feeble and harsh, and if his cold, dull, greyish 
 eye did at times lighten up, the effect was but as that 
 produced by the luminous mists which are seen in 
 dank morasses, flickering, but not illuminating. Of 
 the graces of oratory, there were literally none, — no 
 action, no modulation of tone, — no harmonious com- 
 bination of sound with sentiment. The sermon was 
 coldly monotonous, and when, to my inexpressible 
 relief, it terminated, I could not help muttering to 
 myself — And can this be the head of the Puseyite 
 School ? 
 
 " Here endeth " .my reminiscences of Oxford — the 
 scene of many a stirring event. It was once the re- 
 sidence of Canute, and of his son Harold. There 
 kingly councils sat in old times, and there, in the 
 fourteenth century, the doctrines of Wycliffe created 
 
AND A CHANCELLOR. 121 
 
 more excitement than Dr. Pusey's have done since. 
 There Popery has been dominant, and plagues 
 have devastated; and there Cranmer, Ridley, and 
 Latimer, " proclaimed their faith, and sealed it with 
 their blood," — and the Martyrs' Memorial, a noble 
 gothic monument, stands on the spot v^here the 
 fire consumed their bodies. Every inch of ground is 
 hallowed by association, and the University founded 
 by King Alfred, in 890, still flings its broad shadow 
 on the pavement. Other seats of learning may win 
 our admiration, but Oxford claims our veneration. 
 There may be, in other countries, and in this — insti- 
 tutions of equal importance and interest — but search 
 the round world over, and after all there will be found 
 but one Oxford ! 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, COLERIPGE, AND 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 It was on the occasion of my returning to my home 
 from Edinburgh, some years since, that I first met 
 the present poet laureate — William Wordsworth. 
 Coming to his little paradise of a mountain domicile, 
 and its amiable inmates, including Miss Wordsworth, 
 a sister of the poet, from the Northern Athens, the 
 literary atmosphere of which is, or was then, much 
 above blood-heat, it seemed quite delightful by its se- 
 rene contrast. The " moderate mansion" stands quite 
 embosomed in trees on the road to Keswick, near 
 Ambleside, a village at the head of Windermere, sur- 
 rounded with green and romantic mountains. It was 
 pleasing to observe the fond veneration for her brother 
 of the affable and unaffected sister, an ornament of 
 old-maiden life. She fairly hung on every word 
 which issued from his lips. 
 
 Yet as care is an " universal apparition," so Words- 
 worth started up at the delightful tea-table round 
 
REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, ETC. 123 
 
 which we were seated, shortly after my introduction 
 to the family circle, conjured up by my rash mention, 
 in the course of conversation, of Lord Jeffrey, (not a 
 lord then, of course, except as lord of the ascendant 
 in criticism, and a Lord Chief Justice, as I presume to 
 think.) I must premise here, that at that time there 
 was much jealousy existing between cliques in Edin- 
 burgh society, so that none except insignificant 
 lookers on, engaged in no literary enterprise, could 
 well be neutral or friendly to all. Belonging to this 
 idle class myself, I enjoyed this privilege, and 
 had just left Edinburgh to enjoy an autumn at the 
 Lakes; having been delighted with the frank hearti- 
 ness and entire unbending of himself in the " Prince 
 of Editors." 
 
 We were already deep in the topic of the " Old 
 Thorn" of the lyrical ballads, (" so old that you could 
 hardly believe that it had ever been young,") Mr. 
 Wordsworth favouring me by relating the precise 
 occasion of its composition ; his being in reality 
 caught in a storm on a Somersetshire hill; there 
 being an actual lichened thorn, and also some like- 
 ness of a child's grave, (which must be a small green 
 hillock, and therefore might very well be thought a 
 grave, without allowing for a poet's or traveller's 
 licence,) Mrs. Wordsworth patiently waiting, with 
 hand extended, for the poet's tea-cup, which in the 
 ardour of the " pleasure of memory" he also held, 
 but still retained empty, when, at my mention of that 
 
 g2 
 
124 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 luckless name, suggested by some remark of his own 
 on the unfairness of the laughers at his theory, up 
 started the tall figure of the lyrist, his hitherto com- 
 placent countenance, which was very expressive in 
 spite of dim eyes and a hard outline, ruffled like his 
 own little pond, that he had " measured from side to 
 side," by the sudden storm, and with one hand thrust 
 into his breast, and the other clenched, began a rapid 
 walk about the room, all the time, in good set terms, 
 not rapid like his motions, talking a review of the 
 " Review," sometimes of the work in toto ; sometimes 
 of its single onslaught on himself and of his " Ex- 
 cursion," then of Mr. Jeffrey, who "might think it 
 like a great man, and worthy of his public character, 
 to publicly insult another; but he also must abide 
 the judgment of the public, — slow^ indeed, occasion- 
 ally, to do justice, — 5Zo^^," and he repeated the words, 
 as if pondering, and becalmed himself with some in- 
 ward reflection, and then obeyed Mrs. Wordsworth's 
 anxious invitation to take his tea before it was quite 
 cold. 
 
 " We shall all hejudged^'* he again said energetically, 
 with such solemnity, too, that it might be thought 
 to allude to doomsday, by any one just entering. To 
 scatter the storm, I told him how I first oddly met 
 with the " lyrical ballads," in a book without title- 
 page, which had been picked up in the road near 
 Epping Forest, and had been dropped probably from 
 some vehicle ; that, although at first supposing it to 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 125 
 
 have been a book for children, I could not help being 
 impressed by parts of it, though then grown out of 
 childhood : — 
 
 " When the blue day-light*s in the skies 
 And frosty air is keen and still ; 
 And to herself she cries 
 Oh I misery ! — oh misery ! 
 Oh ! woe is me— oh I misery !" 
 
 This, which is part of the Child-murder, or Thorn 
 ballad, struck me, and I told him so, at which he was 
 much pleased, and directly showed the ladies how 
 my not knowing what to make of this mutilated book, 
 which just presented me the poems without even a 
 title-page, afforded strong evidence in support of his 
 theory, of the latent elements of poetic pleasure even 
 in the lowest walks of life. I did not quite clearly 
 see how it bore on the point, but he did ; and they, 
 almost before he could end the sentence, were con- 
 vinced; and I, too, was pleased to please a whole 
 family — so all was well. 
 
 Cordial affection seemed to unite the poet and his 
 admiring listeners, for not much other duty was im- 
 posed, but to listen; indeed, when he got warmed 
 about poetry, especially Miltonic harmony^ rather than 
 thought J it was a real luxury to listen. 
 
 My greatest treat of this kind, was one drizzling 
 moonlight walk, which Mr. Wordsworth did me the 
 real favour to take with me, on my way home to 
 Esthwaite water, near the town of Hawkshead, the 
 scene of his schooldays. I think it was eleven o'clock 
 
126 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 when he stepped back for his hat and umbrella ; to 
 my surprise bade his family not sit up, and quietly 
 began an eloquent discourse on Milton, Dante, him- 
 self — his habits — (his literary wrongs, too, again) — 
 his frequent suspensions of the very pleasure in com- 
 position, as if he should never write again, &c. On 
 another occasion, I was struck with the sensitiveness 
 to praise, which is, says the elder D'Israeli, indigenous 
 in the minds of poets. Professor Wilson, the im- 
 mortal Christopher North of " Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine," resided until 1820 at Grasmere, near Mr. 
 Wordsworth's residence, where he wrote, among 
 other poems, his " Isle of Palms," and " the City of 
 the Plague," and was his bosom friend. When, in 
 that year, Wilson obtained the chair of Moral Phi- 
 losophy in the University of Edinburgh, whither he 
 went to reside, he never forgot the kindly family 
 with which he had enjoyed so much happiness; and 
 rarely, perhaps never, was published a number of 
 " Blackwood's Magazine," without Wordsworth's 
 name absolutely embossing its double columns in 
 some eulogistic shape or other, as every reader of 
 Maga must remember. I have no doubt that the 
 Poet Laureate owes his place among the poets of 
 Great Britain entirely to his grateful friend John 
 Wilson, of Elleray House, Esquire, notwithstanding 
 that he was the " great Captain of the Lake Poets," 
 as Jeffrey used to designate him, and Wilson, then, 
 but his admiring poetical adopted son. 
 
 The utter indifference of the reading public, which 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 127 
 
 Scott first, and next Byron, and then Scott the 
 second, (another, yet the same,) as the " Great Un- 
 known," had entered into and held by a sort of 
 magical possession, — Wordsworth's own secluded 
 position, — the want of all spirit-stirring element in 
 his poems, — these, reinforced by the tremendous 
 battery of worse than blame — of scorn, opened upon 
 every new work that put forth its quiet feelers, (as 
 when of the " Excursion," the reviewer's first words 
 were, "this will never do") — I say, all these causes 
 could not have, failed of proving mortal to the fame 
 of so defenceless a poet and unworldly a man, but 
 for the aegis of Blackwood stretched over him ; the 
 protection of a magazine then and long in posses- 
 sion of a popularity as a periodical, only second to 
 that of the " Edinburgh" and " Quarterly," and 
 scarcely inferior. The reading public did read Wil- 
 son — charming, gouty old Christopher^though they 
 did 7iof ponder Wordsworth's pages ; but when it was 
 told some hundred and twenty times in a year, there 
 being about ten indirect mentions in each number, 
 that the greatest poet who ever lived was then living, 
 the ceaseless appeal at last had its effect on its pre- 
 possessed imagination, Byron-ridden, Scott-ridden, 
 Waverley-ridden as it had been ; and a murmur began 
 to creep — curiosity was excited; even idiot boys and 
 Peter Bells no longer scared away popular attention. 
 But I was going to observe on Mr. Wordsworth's 
 sensitiveness to the praises in Blackwood. With a 
 smile of playful ridicule of its ultra-laudation, he 
 
128 
 
 asked, had I seen the last month's, then just out ? " I 
 am told," said he, indifferently, "for I've not seen it, 
 that my last publication is reviewed or alluded to ; 
 and the extravagant critic goes on to say, that the 
 extracts they give are worth, of themselves, the price 
 of the Magazine." This was spoken as a joke, of 
 course, but it seemed that it was not so to be taken, 
 for, on Mrs. Wordsworth's laughing, the first cloud I 
 had ever seen overcast the visage of the Mountain 
 Patriarch, at least which I had noticed lowering on 
 any one present, (at absent Jeffrey the thunder-cloud 
 was pretty terrible,) then swept across it, and his 
 own smile flying before it, he said, rather sternly, 
 and looking so too, " that was a serious review, Mrs. 
 Wordsworth." 
 
 The follies of the wise afford a fair moral topic. 
 Let me not be supposed wishful to excite one con- 
 temptuous smile at a good man, and a wise one, (per- 
 haps love of fame out of the question,) a true poet, 
 though not an inspired genius of the highest order, 
 an exemplary parent, husband, and brother. T only 
 aim at presenting such little true traits as may depict 
 the worthy Laureate to strangers, more truly trifling 
 as they are, than public laudatory generalities. 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth has two sinecure appointments in 
 the Stamp Office of large emolument, besides a pri- 
 vate patrimony. I ought, perhaps, to add to this 
 gossiping record of the present Poet-Laureate's 
 home-life, some mention of his more dignified chit- 
 chat. Lord Byron he does not speak of with 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 129 
 
 acrimony, notwithstanding the noble poet's public 
 poetical attacks — the worst, because the most en- 
 during of all. He reprehended, and surely with 
 justice, his personal allusions to Southey's and 
 Coleridge's wives in Don Juan, " Some of the Re- 
 viewers will have it that / was Byron's poetical guide 
 to Parnassus ;" he remarked, with his usual quiet show 
 of indifference to the praise he was reporting, " that 
 it was Wordsworth who first taught Byron to look at 
 a mountain." I remembered reading the words (in- 
 credulously enough) but forget where, and I think he 
 referred them to Professor Wilson. To teach a " poet's 
 eye to roll in a fine frenzy," must be a far harder 
 task than to teach the young idea " how to shoot ; " 
 but Mr. Wordsworth did not seem to think so, and 
 it was not for me to say it, else I might have had 
 " That was a serious review, Mr. ," in my teeth. 
 
 7j7 Tjr "y^ "TJr 7^ 
 
 To avoid the tedium of following one "literary 
 character" throughout my whole period of intercourse 
 with him, I propose to beg the reader's company in 
 my successive introductions to the few I knew, and 
 recur to each in the manner that chance afterwards 
 conducted myself. 
 
 I had just returned from my Lake visit, referred to 
 in the preceding pages, and was strolling in a 
 beautiful meadow of romantic site, five miles from the 
 metropolis, and outside of the village of Highgate, 
 when I passed a rather corpulent, clerkly-looking man 
 of the middle size, sauntering along, the autumn even- 
 
 G 3 
 
130 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 ing being a glorious one, when a courteous kind of voice 
 said, " Look to your pocket-handkerchief, sir," which 
 was, indeed, nearly trailing the ground behind. Turn- 
 ing to thank him, I saw a pale, rather heavy, phlegma- 
 tic-looking face, apparently of from fifty to sixty years' 
 standing, with gxey hairs, grey eyes, of a benign ex- 
 pression, yet somewhat inexpressive as a whole, 
 marked with a peculiar languor, that might be a calm 
 interval of pain, or profound pensiveness, or an 
 absence of mind that often mimics deep thought, when 
 perhaps the mind rests from thinking. His twinkling 
 eyes seemed to enjoy the landscape. A rich sweep 
 of meadows far below our feet closed by the renowned 
 metropolis, its vast overhanging cloud now actually 
 adorning the view, being umbered by the level sun — 
 a dusky red aerial roof of majestic circular extent, in 
 the boundless fading blue, dim cupolas, and spires 
 innumerable glittering or darkening beneath it; in 
 the midst one, in form and stature proudly eminent, 
 rising dark as a rock of black marble, and as stupen- 
 dous — St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 
 " The clergyman of Highgate, possibly," I said 
 to myself. Yet there was a something of the remains 
 of troublous thinking, a look of worn and wearied 
 sensibility, that hardly suited the idea of fat, contented 
 piety "looking downward on the earth" which, as 
 yielding an English clergyman a tenth of the treasures 
 of her " ample lap," may very reasonably attract 
 down to her even the eye of an enlightened son of 
 mother church. He looked very like a comfortable 
 
, COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 131 
 
 priest, at least, and only that east of thought redeemed 
 the whole outer man from fulfilling the idea of 
 Thomson's " round fat oily man of God." " What if 
 that should be Coleridge himself ? " I meditated again ; 
 and reconnoitred my gentleman from a distance, 
 whose only business seemed the same as mine, to 
 catch the last of a glorious day unbroken by walls. 
 " After all, perhaps, he is one of the happy, sleek cits 
 located in romantic Highgate, just waiting " dinner 
 going up ;" and now he seemed fixed in reverie, gazing 
 at mighty London, (from this point of view truly 
 picturesque.) " He's trying now to guess exactly the 
 whereabout of his little dusky room behind a huge 
 warehouse in the Minories, or the old alley streets, 
 that unluckily escaped the fire ; now he looks at his 
 watch. Ah ! he smells, in the fine frenzy of gastric 
 imagination, the soup !" Unworthy conjecture ! — no 
 — ^his was the poet's eye — he was admiring nature; 
 albeit all Cockaigne was in his cue. It was Samuel 
 Taylor Coleridge, the metaphysician and poet — both, 
 or must not truth almost say neither^ or not the per- 
 fection of either, through the collision of the two 
 characters ? I had in my pocket letters from the 
 North, partly introductory, and next day recognised 
 the saviour of my bit of silk in the celebrated inmate 
 of Mr. Oilman's house at Highgate. 
 
 Alas ! it is too probable that part of that troublous 
 expression was as much matter of the vile £ s. d, 
 misery as if he had indeed been the cit of my last 
 conceit ! The philosopher's mind for years suffered 
 
132 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 martyrdom from the conflict of generous impatience 
 of obligation, and dire necessity of receiving it. The 
 noble disinterestedness of his host, Mr. Gilman, and 
 his attached hostess, rendered their favours, perhaps, 
 still more painful to receive. In all his embryo 
 schemes of literary ambition, the prospect of emanci- 
 pation from fruitless wishes to prove his gratitude 
 certainly formed one chief charm. 
 
 Hurrying on to another part of my brief intercourse, 
 I shall throw together what I remember of the effects 
 of his general deportment on my mind. Of course, 
 I was more anxious to hear, than be heard. Yet I 
 confess, I did fancy that the consciousness of what his 
 friends told the public, and the public repeated, of 
 his wondrous eloquence, was too visible, imparting a 
 very little of what we dislike in a be-praised beauty's 
 perpetual simper — an itch for admiration, prompting 
 constant self-recollection. He seemed aware that 
 strangers expected a treat from that eloquent mouth. 
 The bees that clustered round his lips (no doubt) in 
 infancy, could not, however, have deposited sweets 
 inexhaustible ; and the vast flow of his eloquence 
 hence sometimes brawled roughly among metaphy- 
 sical rocks of the strangest form, or wandered away 
 fairly out of the sight of vulgar, mortal, intellectual 
 eyes. As to any inteijected obstacle that his hearer 
 might venture to edge in — a suggested flaw in his 
 argument, or doubt to be resolved — it caused not a 
 ripple. He smiled — gesticulated 5ee?wmy assent, (with 
 too much an air of adult indulgence to innocent child's 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 133 
 
 prattle,) and pursued his " high argument" just the 
 same, never recurring to yours. Mr. Serjeant Talfourd 
 has said, that he thus in a large circle "pleased every- 
 body, by conceding the point without dispute," Query ? 
 I knew several whom this lofty sort of patience did 
 not please or content. Moreover, his love of the 
 mystic— his strange admiration of that dashing theo- 
 rist Kant, who has a sword ready for every Gordian 
 knot in metaphysics under the name of "Practical 
 Reason," could find little sympathy in others. He 
 has shipped an immense cargo of this lore in his 
 work " Biographia Literaria." He was in full employ 
 upon this work, as I afterwards learned, at the period 
 I allude to; and this might have caused his conver- 
 sation to be more than usually abstruse. I was 
 charmed with the vague splendours of his thoughts, 
 coruscating like a boreal aurora, but I confess the 
 matter of fact that gave rise to them seemed indeed 
 veiled by them — veiled by " excess of light;" and when 
 he had at last done, the matter which this glory or 
 halo of language was to impress upon the mind, re- 
 mained somewhat in the state of the earthly move- 
 ments — wars, battles, sieges — prefigured by that hea- 
 venly northern illumination. The actual required a 
 seer as profound, and vision as strong in second sight, 
 as that prophetical future. It was too like that state 
 produced, according to Dr. Johnson, by the gorgeous 
 poetry of Akenside — " sometimes amazed, always de- 
 lighted, it recollects little, and carries away nothing." 
 He told me that he owed all his poetical inspira- 
 
134 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 tion to Bowles's sonnets. He has said, I believe, 
 the same in his Life, which I cannot say I ever met 
 with ; and not only his love for poetry, but his for- 
 tunate reclamation from a rage for metaphysical dis- 
 putation that threatened to utterly engross his entire 
 mind. Probably many will think that he never was 
 cured — that his dreaminess still runs into his poetry, 
 and the fantastic creations of his imagination turn 
 all his philosophy into dreams. His metaphysics 
 sorely clog the wings of his fancy: Pegasus falls 
 into a heavy trot over thorny gi'ound full of old roots, 
 and his fancy flies away with him while theorizing 
 up to the " highest heaven of invention," leaving 
 common sense to wonder at his vast flight to the 
 clouds, and how far within none know, until he comes 
 down again with a demonstration from Latmos, or 
 some such grand mount, blessed with lunar favour 
 and influence. 
 
 Of the daily, almost hourly, arrivals of packets — 
 letters with new works, imploring his obstetric aid 
 in their struggles to avoid the fate of the still-born 
 children of the press, — of religious debutants on a 
 more sacred stage, all crowding under the wing of a 
 public character, he complained almost with groan- 
 ing; yet I did somehow conceit a— not " roguish," yet 
 self-complacent " twinkle in his eye," that hinted 
 some spice of comfort under the mountain of suppli- 
 cations, the penalty of " finding oneself famous." 
 Indeed, T had proof of the fact, even on the few 
 occasions of my seeing him at home. 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 135 
 
 He inquired about Edinburgh chit-chat with osten- 
 sible indifference, but ill-concealed eagerness, espe- 
 cially of the doings and sayings of the great little 
 pole-star of the literary world — Jeffrey, whose bat- 
 tery of long range against him, as one of the " knot 
 of hypochondriacal and whining poets that haunt 
 the Lakes," as he wickedly described them, evidently 
 broke through his habitually lofty elevation of 
 thoughts, which kept, or seemed to keep, a calm for 
 ever round him. He even anxiously hinted repeat- 
 edly his non-relationship to that family, in a manner 
 which I fancied his friend Wordsworth (whose opi- 
 nions of Coleridge I had listened to not a fortnight 
 before,) w^ould have deemed an " unkind cut" at 
 least, and Southey not less so. Of his friend Words- 
 worth, however, he spoke with admiration, though 
 disclaiming for himself, as well as him, all preten- 
 sion to being considered of any school, much less 
 founders of one. Yet Wordsworth enunciated the 
 pretension himself in the long preamble to the 
 Lyrical Ballads, and the fact seemed certain ; but it 
 was not for me to controvert so eminent a man's 
 manifesto of abdication for himself and compeers. 
 Mr. Wordsworth had, however, so recently maintained 
 the precise contrary, even to eager vindication of its 
 peculiar tenets, as constituting a new " school," 
 chiefly that the most familiar dialect is fit for poetry, 
 and the humblest subjects for its matter, that I felt 
 rather astonished, and thought that poets differed 
 more widely even than doctors. 
 
136 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 At a subsequent interview, Mr. Coleridge favoured 
 me with some hints of an attempt on his own Life — 
 which I found afterwards was even then almost com- 
 pleted, being published either that year or the next. 
 I refer to the " Biographia Literaria." I fancied then 
 that it was one of the shadowy embryos of his fertile 
 mind, never to be embodied, for he was never with- 
 out a project, and the last was usually the chosen 
 one, his well-beloved above the rest, on which he 
 proposed to " build his fame." 
 
 Lamb, the inimitable Elia, (of whom I had two 
 glimpses in my life, and never more, though yearn- 
 ing for acquaintanceship,) has, with his usual novel 
 humour, alluded to these " castles in the air" of his 
 friend, in a letter to Mr. Manning, then in China. 
 The whole letter is as admirable as it is singular. A 
 strange mingled yarn runs through it, of mirth and 
 melancholy, not alternately, which is common enough, 
 but the identical sentiment at once solemn and ridi- 
 culous, breathing mortality and its terrors, and fan- 
 tastic fancy with its fun ; the certain deadly futurity 
 being drawn as present, while all is life and gaiety ; 
 yet that prospective reality of death, and change, and 
 decay, all the while forcing itself on the merry volup- 
 tuary till he sighs while he laughs, and " breaks the 
 course of laughter with a sigh." Charles Lamb 
 says, " Coleridge is just dead, having lived just long 
 enough to close the eyes of Wordsworth, who died 
 but a week or two before. Poor Col ! but two days 
 before he died, he wrote to a bookseller, proposing an epic 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 137 
 
 poem — ' The Wanderings of Cain,' in twenty-four 
 books. He is said to have left behind him above 
 forty thousand treatises on metaphysics and divinity 
 — one of them completed. They are, perhaps, already 
 to be found round sweetmeats at this season." 
 
 Apropos of Charles Lamb, I may here speak of the 
 writer of this letter to Mr. Manning, as much an 
 original as his epistle. 
 
 I think it was on a Sunday that, entering Mr. Cole- 
 ridge's residence, I passed in the hall a plain, quiz- 
 zical, slightly-made little gentleman and a lady, just 
 departing to catch the last Highgate stage to London. 
 The lingering of the cheerful couple at the door with 
 their host seemed to indicate reluctance to end their 
 pleasant day. I found that this was the facetious, the 
 feeling, the fancy-fraught, the delightful " Elia" — 
 Charles Lamb, the India House slave, the genius 
 martyred on the altar of Plutus, — not for his own 
 emolument, but that of a company. The galley- 
 slave, probably, has rarely much soul into which the 
 " iron" of his chain can enter, as Sterne expresses 
 it ; no one can read Lamb's effusions, and doubt that 
 a gentle, generous, exalted soul existed under all his 
 playfulness, and " informed" and " o'er-informed" 
 that fragile tenement. 
 
 I could hear a parting hon-mot let off, which hung 
 fire as usual ; Lamb's stutter never being wholly for- 
 gotten, as I believe is usual with persons liable to 
 that infirmity. It elicited his sister's ready laugh, 
 however, and the more restrained response in the 
 
138 REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH, 
 
 fashion of the thoughtful poet. Lamb's dress was 
 black ; he wore small-clothes and high gaiters. His 
 stature was low ; his whole figure so slight, as to ap- 
 pear more diminutive perhaps than it really was. He 
 said he was as tall as Kean; but of this, as I never 
 saw Edmund oif the stage, I cannot judge. His fore- 
 head was ample ; his hair dark, thick, and curling ; 
 his head, indeed, looking rather too big for its sup- 
 port, but it was what would have been deemed a very 
 fine one on a " fine man," according to vulgar jpar- 
 lance. His nose was aquiline, and the mouth very 
 expressive. The melancholy and mirth of the inner 
 man seemed peculiarly depicted on his pensive yet 
 half-smiling countenance. 
 
 Perhaps Nature never created two superior minds 
 less akin than those of the two friends thus cordially 
 parting, — one so tolerant, so lowly of spirit, so cha- 
 ritable from a fine humanity, — the other, not the 
 reverse^ indeed, of these, but endued with a moral 
 sense of a far more stubborn nature, more self- 
 esteem, less indulgence for human fallibility. Yet 
 Coleridge stood himself a very monument of muta- 
 bility in judgment. Scarcely less, indeed, did Dr. 
 Southey differ from Robert Southey, author of the 
 revolutionary effusion, " Wat Tyler," than did then 
 and there the clerkly-apparelled, placid advocate of 
 Conservative principles, (though the term was then 
 Tory,) he who had written in the " Morning Post" 
 government print, — he utterly opposed to all radical 
 changes, from Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the de- 
 
COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 139 
 
 nounced Jacobin of the " Anti-jacobin," the marked 
 as one of the French-fed disciples of anarchy, — 
 romantic for " liberty" — planning, with Southey and 
 Lloyd, emigration to the New World, to fly the 
 tyrannies of the Old. I say, if any man ever had 
 cause to be lenient toward dissent from his own 
 opinions, it was Coleridge himself, since he had 
 proof in himself that sincerity and high talent is 
 compatible with the utmost extremes of political sen- 
 timent at different periods, ay, of moral and re- 
 ligious; for in these, too, he composed a dual man.* 
 
 As these are literally " random recollections," I 
 shall now advert to an odd incident which threw 
 another of the now-celebrated characters in my way. 
 I think it occurred on the same Sunday evening just 
 referred to, but with it I will commence another 
 chapter. 
 
 * The portrait of Coleridge prefixed to this volume gives the best 
 idea of the talking philosopher of any I have ever seen. Washing- 
 ton AUston, the painter, was Coleridge's particular friend, and the 
 latter often expressed his opinion that it was the only good likeness 
 of him extant. It is now engraved for the first time. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PERSONAL NOTICES OF SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 
 
 Mr. De Quincy, in his notes on " Gilfillan's Gallery 
 of Literary Portraits, "says of Percy Bysshe Shelley — 
 " Everything was romantic in his short career, every- 
 thing wore a tragic interest. From his childhood he 
 moved through a series of aflSictions ; always craving 
 for love, loving and seeking to be loved, always he 
 was destined to reap hatred from those with whom 
 life had connected him." Perhaps the following re- 
 miniscence of Shelley may bear out Mr. De Quincy's 
 remarks, so far as the term " romantic" is con- 
 cerned. 
 
 In the last chapter, I have alluded to a Sunday 
 evening interview with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 After quitting his residence, I had crossed the fine 
 fields between Highgate and Hamp stead to the latter 
 place, when just entering on the Heath, at rather a 
 late hour, I was startled by a sort of disturbance 
 among a few persons at the door of a large house. 
 Drawing near, I perceived what seemed the lifeless 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 141 
 
 body of a woman, by the imperfect light of one lan- 
 tern, upheld in a half-sitting posture, with lolling 
 head, by a tall young man, evidently no vulgar 
 brawler by his speech, but in a highly excited state, 
 who seemed disposed to force an entrance with his 
 senseless charge, which two or three men-servants 
 resisted. There was a voice, or more than one, 
 almost screaming from within, — the tall stranger's 
 tones were as high without; all were too busy to 
 have satisfied any inquiry ; and in the midst of up- 
 roar, the sound of wheels was heard — it was the car- 
 riage of the master of the mansion returning home. 
 To him, who seemed astonished at the scene, the 
 friend of the dead or dying woman turned, and de- 
 tained him on the steps of the carriage, before he 
 could set foot on the ground, pointing at the same 
 time to the female figure. The servants, however, 
 quickly explaining the cause of the turmoil ; angry 
 words passed, and he was no nearer to his bene- 
 volent object — the introducing his burthen (which 
 he had brought on his back from Heaven knows 
 where,) into the house. Some wine, and restora- 
 tives, and volatile essences, and smelling-bottles, 
 were sent out from the dwelling, and I was grati- 
 fied to find the " suspended animation" of the suf- 
 ferer itself happily suspended so far as to admit 
 the entrance of a whole glass of wine, her deglu- 
 tition seeming to me better " than could be ex- 
 pected." It was a young woman in draggled plight, 
 but her features were hardly visible where I stood. 
 
142 PERSONAL NOTICES OF 
 
 Her humane but unreflecting friend had found her in 
 a fit, or fainting from illness, and insisted, on the 
 score of humanity, on the admission for the night of 
 this poor woman into the strange gentleman's house ; 
 so I was informed afterwards. He forgot that he 
 himself, being unknown, the inmates might justly 
 fear that it was a ruse to rob the house, concocted 
 between some " Jack Sheppard" of the day and his 
 lady ; or even if he could have proved his own re- 
 spectability, he could not answer for hers. The air 
 was no bad aid to recovery from syncope, and every 
 relief but a lodging was afforded, as I have shown. 
 This did not content PercV Bysshe Shelley, for 
 he it was ; but he vociferated a ^plsUippic against the 
 selfishness of the aristocracy ; he "almost wept ; he 
 stood prophesying downfall to the unfeeling higher 
 orders ! a servile war ! a second edition, in England, 
 of the bloody tragedy of the French revolution, and 
 I know not what more ; the gentleman being at all 
 this very indignant, and the servants insolently ban- 
 tering him. Indeed, one could not well wonder at 
 this, for his gestures and deportment were like those 
 of a madman. 
 
 Meanwhile, his female protege^ finding attention 
 directed from herself to the parties quarrelling, very 
 quietly adjusted her drapery, seemingly making up 
 her mind that no more relief was likely to be forth- 
 coming ; and I fancied that her tones, when she made 
 some passing remark, were of the harsh, hoarse, 
 unfeminine kind, which is soon acquired by those 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 143 
 
 wretched women who perambulate London streets 
 after nightfall, in cold and damp weather, when on the 
 verj brink of starvation. 
 
 I believe she proved to be one of those characters, 
 or an impostor, or both — she did not appear to be 
 drunk, as the servants would have it she was. It was 
 not until a week afterwards, I heard from a literary 
 friend living on Hampstead Heath, that this was 
 Shelley. I know not how he got rid of his reviving 
 companion, for I left the spot in the midst of his 
 oration. It was a strong practical illustration of 
 Shelley's theoretical monomania of philanthropy — 
 that fine, but preposterous excess of humanity, that 
 almost drove him melancholy mad over the condition 
 of man. He wished to make a new world where men 
 should be angels, and died too soon to learn that he 
 must take the world as he found it, and perhaps, by 
 such patient reconciliation to its wretchedness and 
 errors, he would have found it very tolerable at least. 
 
 Just as he desired to force into a quiet household, 
 the members of which were about to retire to rest, a 
 suspicious looking stranger who might have plundered 
 it, he passionately longed to introduce his own darling 
 theories into society, running all hazards of mischief 
 incurred by the violent experiment. But his very 
 error, his ardent desire to better the lot of man, was 
 surely more Christian in spirit (infidel though he was,) 
 than the furious zeal of intolerance in those " who 
 profess and call themselves Christians," which gi'ows 
 complacent over the sufferings of those who differ 
 
144 PERSONAL NOTICES OF 
 
 from their infallible selves, even about a dogma — 
 (perhaps a dogma seeming once false and foolish 
 even to themselves) — than that horrid diabolical spirit 
 which dared to pollute a newspaper published in 
 Christian London with that inhuman yell of pleasure, 
 over the melancholy end of the most gentle, generous, 
 highly gifted, brotherly -T\^taTe A being on earth, how- 
 ever mistaken in his noble dream of human perfect- 
 ibility. These remarks especially refer to a paragraph 
 that appeared on the occasion of his being drowned- 
 " Shelley the atheist is drowned at Pisa ; he knows 
 now whether there is a hell or no." Multiplied 
 examples of such religious zeal would go further to 
 overturn Christianity in a nation, than all the mourn- 
 ful misgivings, clouds, and shadows of the soul, that 
 haunted Shelley, Byron, and numbers beside, could 
 they be daily put forth in all the newspapers of that 
 nation. 
 
 A sort of melancholy beyond that of the poetic tem- 
 perament seemed to pursue Shelley all his life. His 
 appearance and manners were very eccentric, though 
 polished and subdued, except in excited moments. 
 He went to Charles Richards, the printer in St. Martin's 
 Lane, when quite young, about the printing a little 
 volume of Keats' first poems. (I have a copy given 
 me by Richards.) The printer told me, that he had 
 never had so strange a visitor. He was gaunt, and 
 had peculiar starts and gestures, and a way of fixing 
 his eyes, and his whole attitude for a good while, 
 like the abstracted apathy of a musing madman. 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 145 
 
 Having thus brought together, in this and the pre- 
 ceding chapter, in one retrospect, three men whose 
 names alone survive- — names so familiar to all who 
 read, I am tempted to reflect a little on their several 
 fates — their paths diverging so widely in life, and 
 their genius so kindred, notwithstanding. Shelley, 
 with his ardent yearning for a reform as general as 
 human nature. Southey and Coleridge, about to seek 
 the same visionary blessedness in remote regions, 
 were evidently enthusiasts of one family, thrown on 
 differing eras. To them we may add Byron, wander- 
 ing rather than travelling the world into which he 
 was born, under a misanthropy founded in deep love 
 of his species, impatient of its errors. Viewed in 
 this light, it is melancholy to recall the feuds and 
 intellectual partings of these fine natures, united, we 
 might say by God himself, in the bond of native 
 brotherhood. Who can doubt that one strong sen- 
 timent, and that an amiable and noble one, animated 
 the youthful bosoms of all these men ? They desired, 
 they panted, to realize each his own idea — to animate 
 each his own beautiful image. Their idol was a per- 
 fect and happy man ! Failing in this early adventure 
 of the heart, one betook himself to scoffing, denying 
 all good, and crying ^^all is vanity;" another trans- 
 ferred to futurity his dream of perfectibility in human 
 nature, and laying his hand on Revelation as the 
 only hold left to him, the sole refuge of that hope of 
 perpetuated being, perhaps natural to man, grew 
 
 H 
 
146 PERSONAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 jealous of even imaginary slight offered to that ark 
 of his eternal salvation. 
 
 Again, a third, wholly desponding of such salvation, 
 from unfortunate disbelief of all revealed religions, 
 thus at once breaks away, of course, from his brother 
 genius for ever, nor can all the sweetness of his 
 nature, his love of mankind, his practical Christianity, 
 atone, in the eyes of that ultra- orthodox brother, for 
 his involuntary doubt, darkness, despair, which ought 
 rather to have won on that happier brother to snatch 
 from groping by the hand, if never before, to become 
 his comforter, if not his guide in the vast darkness of 
 his mind's prospect, as he would lead a blind, un- 
 offending child ; I say, such melancholic and clouded 
 mind as Shelley evinced, ought to have conciliated 
 kindness, ensured pity, from a man so theoretically 
 Christian as Southey. Surely " love thy brother" is 
 the Alpha, if not the Omega, of the faith of Christ — the 
 creed of the state church, and ought to have been 
 the watchword of him who wrote the " Book of the 
 Church." 
 
 Again, a fourth of these fine spirits is led by his 
 evil genius among the ignes fatui of German illumi- 
 nation, (lucens a non lucendo!) He pleases himself 
 as fondly in creating systems as did Lucretius of old, 
 falls to worshipping images, instead of dealing with 
 good old vigorous flesh and blood humanity, as dealt 
 those elder dramatists he conceited himself in love 
 with " heu quam mutatus ah illis !'^ — dreams with Kant 
 and wakes angry, to be shaken by sturdy Truth, 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 147 
 
 Reality, and Jeffrey — wastes all his powers in musing 
 about the Logos, and writing sermons not to be 
 preached, and never read, panting for praise here 
 and hereafter, but, ever in agonies of distracted choice, 
 still crying, with Cowley, " What shall I do to be 
 for ever known ? " till the time is gone past for doing 
 the sublime something, which to-day is to be a rival 
 poem to Southey's, called "the Maid of Orleans;" 
 to-morrow, is to be metaphysical ; next day, theo- 
 logical — a treatise on St. John's Gospel ' 1 say, this 
 fourth genius murders his whole life in dreamy inde- 
 cision. Alas for genius ! 
 
 Quitting Coleridge, let the reader attend my steps 
 to the domicile of another strong thinker — a dreamer 
 too in his own way — a political opponent, yet warm 
 literary friend of that poet and dreamer of dreams, 
 whom we leave in his lofty village overlooking Lon- 
 don and its smoky pall. But I must ask the reader 
 to give one mental glance at the pretty, smooth-faced, 
 beauty-conscious, loquacious-eyed, neat damsel, who 
 admits me into that respectable lodging house at the 
 west end of London. It is the hour of two in the after- 
 noon, yet the object of my visit sits over a breakfast 
 consisting simply of tea and water-cresses and bread 
 and butter. As we passed through the hall, we noticed 
 a boy waiting there for "copy" — not a juvenile "devil" 
 exactly, but one from some house in Paternoster-row, 
 or probably the " Examiner" office. 
 
 In his parlour, which was well furnished, (a back 
 room, and very still, the street being little of a tho- 
 h2 
 
148 PERSONAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 roughfare,) sate a middle-aged man, slijDpered, and in a 
 dishabille indicating recent uprising, (he had pro- 
 bably not retired until it was day-break.) He had 
 rather hard but strongly-marked features, which only 
 became expressive after much drawing out of his 
 feeling by intercourse. He received me with what 
 appeared shyness, or reluctance to be disturbed, but 
 which I afterwards found to be his habit at first meet- 
 ing. His tones were quite as low as those of Cole- 
 ridge ; when not excited, they were almost plaintive 
 or querulous, but his placidity breathed more of un- 
 conscious pensiveness than that of his brother thinker, 
 whose complacent meekness always rather savoured 
 of acting, at least of a conscious attention to sage or 
 martyr-like bearing, until his aroused enthusiasm 
 broke through all, elevated his tones and even 
 sature, and the man was forgotten in the inspired 
 declaimer. Both these men were living in marital 
 celibacy ; that is, married, but separated ; the lady of 
 each could say of each, " his soul is like a star, and 
 dwells apart." The secrets of married homes, like 
 those of the last long home, should be let alone, for 
 clouds and darkness always hang over them to third 
 parties. I have only to do with the literary " star," 
 not the frail mortal, except so far as the latter may 
 be pleased to reveal himself. The soft-looked maiden 
 who announced me having withdrawn, he proffered 
 me a cup of his strong tea, seemingly without lacteal 
 adulteration, to employ me whilst he made up his 
 packet for the boy who was in waiting to convey it 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 149 
 
 to the printing-office. I had brought him some 
 letters from Edinburgh, — an object at that time, to 
 those who maintained a large correspondence, for 
 there was no penny postage in those days, and 
 amongst them a parcel of missives from Mr. Jeffrey, 
 at my mention of whose name his features seemed at 
 once lit up, as a dark lake is irradiated by the flash 
 of a sunbeam. Some thought darted from behind his 
 rather troubled and fretful-looking phiz, which I do 
 not agree with some persons in calling handsome, 
 and his languor and constraint of manner, that had 
 almost damped me into dislike, gradually wore off 
 and ease, cordiality, warmth, and at last outbreaks of 
 .uttered feeling in unstudied eloquence, as we con- 
 versed, created, in a manner, a new being before my 
 eyes ; and then, and not till then, I could harmonize 
 the two ideas which before clashed strangely, — the 
 vivacious, high-spirited, rampant author, pugnacious 
 as those who monthly and quarterly baited him, and 
 the low-spirited, low-spoken, almost whining recluse, 
 sitting over his solitary tea at mid- day, whom I had 
 half disliked while I pitied. I could now imagine in 
 the energetic speaker before me, the ill-used, insulted, 
 belied — highly-gifted, but rather perversely given to 
 startling paradox and literary dandyism — William 
 Hazlitt. 
 
 Hazlitt, in his writings, had characterized Jeffrey 
 as the " Prince of editors and King of men ;" and 
 this laudation — somewhat extravagant, certainly — had 
 exposed him to much ridicule from his political op 
 
150 PERSONAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 ponents. Nevertheless, in this instance, genius was 
 true to genius ; for what he said of Jeffrey to me, in 
 the course of our brief conversation, evidently came 
 jfrom the depths of his sensitive heart ; and it must 
 have been without servility, for the praises of the 
 great critic were not at all likely to reach his ears. 
 One complaint he made, but exculpated his patron 
 while making it, of the delay in insei-ting his contri- 
 butions in the " Edinburgh ;" and this, perhaps, was 
 not merely a matter of vanity, for Hazlitt depended 
 at that time on his pen for the means of living. 
 
 From talking about Jeffrey and the " Edinburgh 
 Review," the conversation turned upon the other 
 great critical organ — the " Quarterly." Forcing a 
 laugh, and very evidently forcing it, too, for his lip 
 quivered, and his fingers clenched involuntarily, 
 Hazlitt remarked : — 
 
 '"- My book" (he referred to the ^ Characters of Shak- 
 spere's Plays') " sold well — the first edition had gone 
 off in six weeks — till that review came out. I had just 
 prepared a second edition — such was called for — but 
 then, the ' Quarterly' told the public that I was a fool 
 and a dunce ; and more, that I was an evil-disposed 
 person ; and the public, supposing Gifford to know best, 
 confessed it had been a great ass to be pleased where 
 it ought not to be, and the sale completely stopped." 
 The chord had been touched that awakened the 
 wounded spirit of Hazlitt, and he declaimed, with 
 almost fierce eloquence, heartfelt, and even affecting. 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 151 
 
 on the heinousness of this barbaric abuse of the criti- 
 cal chair, — this personal assassination, under the 
 cloak of the ermine of literary truth on the judg- 
 ment-seat. The inhuman libels on Shelley, one of 
 which libels was fulminated by Southey, under a 
 review of Leigh Hunt's " Foliage," the wretched, 
 degrading, wilfully-false judgment on poor Keats, — 
 all came in for his just and furious denunciation ; and 
 I sympathized, soul and speech, with him, his trou- 
 bles, and his wrongs. 
 
 When this storm had blown over, and he adverted 
 to gentler topics — to natural beauty in scenery, I 
 found him full of feeling for the charms of nature, 
 though a " Cockney," as his enemies delighted to 
 call him. He expressed his pleasant recollections of 
 some travelling adventures he met with long before, 
 when exercising his original calling of a portrait 
 painter. Painting was long the chosen field of his 
 ambition. He used to spend weeks in a lone house 
 on Salisbury Plain, and overflowed with re-awakened 
 romantic feeling of his solitary evenings there with a 
 few favourite authors. I well recollect his remarking 
 on the solemn, undefined impression of romantic 
 pleasure he felt in watching here and there, like stars 
 on the earth, a cottage-light after nightfall, upon the 
 huge walls of black, formed by the mountains in the 
 background; and the sensations occasioned by his 
 quitting some village on the borders of the vast plain, 
 as their lights grew few, and the sounds of the rustling 
 autumnal leaf were heard, instead of those arising 
 
152 PERSONAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 from the occupations of rural life, whilst he faced the 
 wild country and the boundless gloom, to reach some 
 other " gathering place of man." I liked him better 
 as the poet than the politician, which latter chased 
 away in a few minutes the poet-painter, — better as 
 the literary enthusiast, the night- wanderer, the musing 
 j^hilosopher, and the companion of the immortal dead 
 in the cottage of the wold, among the sterile shep- 
 herd haunts and brown solitudes of Salisbury Plain, 
 than as the bitter denouncer of parties opposed to 
 him in political opinions. 
 
 On Hazlitt's mantel-piece there happened to be a 
 small figure of Napoleon, and observing me eye it, 
 he commenced a laudation of the original. We had 
 a long combat over the remains of his hero — the 
 " god of his idolatry ;" I mean, over his fame ; he 
 contending for, I against, his right to the title of a 
 true hero. It was useless, however, to contend, — to 
 remind him of his own reverent regard for freedom, 
 for the freedom of the press, as the bulwark for the 
 liberty of man, — of Napoleon's not only utterly abo- 
 lishing that freedom, but enslaving the press, and 
 enforcing it to do his bidding. It availed nothing to 
 appeal to the philosopher (for Hazlitt had the ele- 
 ments of that character within him) as " a lover of 
 truth," properly speaking — against the grand impos- 
 ture which was practised continuously upon millions 
 of Frenchmen by the general, first consul, and em- 
 peror, throughout his whole career, — against his 
 " enormous lying," and his systematic fraud upon the 
 
SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 153 
 
 popular mind, — the political bigot would not be 
 " convinced against his will." No ; spite of all this, 
 Napoleon was glorious to Hazlitt, as there he stood, 
 with his folded arms, little hat, and grotesque cos- 
 tume, as wanting in grace and dignity as would have 
 been, I fear, the little mind of the great hero, the 
 fortunate creation of an era, could it have been 
 stripped, and its " vera effigies presented in store." 
 
 It was " far into the night" when I left Hazlitt, — 
 left him to commence his work, which it was his 
 wont to pursue through the silent hours. After that 
 period I never saw him again, but often, when I read 
 some bitter attack on the secluded, suffering man, 
 did my mind wander back to him, as he sat over his 
 solitary tea. For a little book which he afterwards 
 wrote, the " Liber Amoris," he was cruelly, bitterly, 
 and unjustly attacked ; and, did space and circum- 
 stances permit, I might say much on this subject, but 
 I forbear, and will conclude by observing that a 
 comparison between Hazlitt and Byron might be 
 made, from which it could easily be shown that the 
 "Liber Amoris" was a far less objectionable book 
 than " Don Juan," although the latter was never at- 
 tacked by a certain set with anything like the bitter- 
 ness shown towards the former. I will but ask, 
 where in the " Quarterly Review" is to be found any 
 denunciation of that poem, couched in language the 
 least akin to that which denounced Hazlitt for his 
 " Liber Amoris." If nowhere^ what more is to be said 
 than " Woe unto you, ye hypocrites" ? If the writer of 
 h3 
 
154 PERSONAL SKETCHES. 
 
 these rambling strictures may again be allowed to 
 speak of himself, he would say he is a " Tory," has 
 even received literary favours and personal kind- 
 nesses from some eminent persons of that kind in 
 politics, arid of the Albemarle-street junto in letters ; 
 but he would be ashamed of himself, on that ac- 
 count, to shut his eyes against the monstrous injus- 
 tice often done to genius, through the accursed evil 
 influence of party spirit ; and possibly what he has 
 here ventured to pour forth may derive some weight, 
 from the fact of his not belonging to the party of 
 those suiFering, belied, abused, and vnrongfuUy con- 
 demned. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND JOSEPH COTTLE. 
 
 How often, whilst perusing, with feelings of intense 
 interest and delight, the works of some popular or 
 erudite author, have we desired to see their outward 
 and visible appearances. They have informed or de- 
 lighted us by their productions, and been pleasant 
 mental companions through many an else dreary 
 hour. In our own private and particular image 
 chambers we have hung up what we fancied to be 
 their portraits, coloured and drawn, it is true, as we 
 would have them, and not to be depended on, for that 
 very reason. Occasionally, one of those matter-of- 
 fact men, a Daguerreotypist, has startled us from our 
 dream of fancied physical beauty, by presenting to 
 us a fac simile of some well-known writer, and our 
 own creation has vanished into thin air. Romance 
 would not bear the touch of Reality. 
 
 In the course of what is called a literary life — by 
 which I mean a life as much spent in the society of 
 literary men as in the actual pen occupation^ for the 
 
156 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 " bread which perisheth," — I have scarcely met with 
 half a dozen individuals whose personal appearance 
 and social qualifications at all corresponded with the 
 ideal standard which I had formed ; and only in one 
 instance have I known my expectations to be ex- 
 ceeded in beauty by the reality. As this latter in- 
 stance was both interesting and remarkable, I shall 
 make no apology for a digressional mention of it 
 here. 
 
 In the month of July, 1824, the body of Lord Byron 
 was brought from Missolonghi to England, and on 
 being landed from the " Florida," was removed to the 
 house of Sir Edward KnatchbuU, who then resided 
 in Great George- street, Westminster. Having availed 
 myself of peculiar facilities, I saw, on one occasion, 
 the corpse of the poet — the lid of the coffin being 
 for some necessary purpose removed. 
 
 It was at night that the work of opening the shell 
 commenced. This was soon effected, and when the 
 last covering was removed, we beheld the face of the 
 illustrious dead, 
 
 ** All cold and all serene." 
 
 Were I to live a thousand years, I should never, 
 never forget that moment. For years I had been in- 
 timate with the mind of Byron. His wondrous works 
 had thrown a charm around my daily paths, and with 
 all the enthusiasm of youth I had almost adored his 
 genius. With his features, through the medium of 
 paintings, I had been familiar fr'om my boyhood ; 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 157 
 
 and now, far more beautiful, even in death, than my • 
 most vivid fancy had ever pictured, there they lay in 
 marble repose. 
 
 The body was not attired in that most awful of 
 habiliments — a shroud. It was wrapped in a blue 
 cloth cloak, and the throat and head were uncovered. 
 The former was beautifully moulded. The head of 
 the poet was covered with short, crisp, curling locks, 
 slightly streaked with grey hairs, especially over the 
 temples, which were ample and free from hair, as we 
 see in the portraits. The face had nothing of the 
 appearance of death about it — it was neither sunken 
 nor discoloured in the least, but of a dead, marble 
 whiteness — the expression was that of stern quietude. 
 How classically beautiful was the curved upper lip 
 and the chin. I fancied the nose appeared as if it 
 was not in harmony with the other features ; but it 
 might possibly have been a little disfigured by the 
 process of embalming. The forehead was high and 
 broad — indeed, the whole head was extremely large — 
 it must have been so, to have contained a brain of 
 such capacity. 
 
 But what struck me most was the exceeding beauty 
 of the projiley as I observed it when the head was 
 lifted, for the purpose of adjusting the furniture. It 
 was perfect in its way, and seemed like a production 
 of Phidias. Indeed, it far more resembled an ex- 
 quisite piece of sculpture than the face of the 
 dead — so still, so sharply defined, and so marble -like 
 in its repose. I caught the view of it but for a mo- 
 
158 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 ment; yet it was long enough to have it stamped 
 upon my memory as 
 
 " A thing of beauty," 
 
 which poor Keats tells us is " a joy for ever." It is 
 indeed a melancholy joy to me to have gazed upon 
 the silent poet. As Washington Irving says of the 
 old sexton, who crept into the vault where Shakspere 
 was entombed, and beheld there the dust of ages, 
 "It was something even to have seen the dust of 
 Byron." 
 
 Amongst the persons engaged in the performance 
 of the office of removal, I noticed one — a tall, thin 
 man, who spoke little, and seemed absorbed in grief. 
 He would scarcely allow any one to touch the corpse — 
 and, with his own hands, he composed the head in 
 its new resting-place. The words, " My dear Lord!" 
 were frequently uttered by him, whilst performing his 
 melancholy duties. It was Fletcher — Byron's faithful 
 valet. This man afterwards told me the particulars 
 of the noble Poet's death, and gave me a lock of his 
 hair. Fletcher did not long survive his beloved 
 master. 
 
 I have deemed this little incident of sufficient in- 
 terest to find a place in my " Recollections." And 
 now let me proceed to my "subject proper," the 
 Laureate, whom I had the honour of being acquainted 
 with ; and who, at one period, was a kind and copious 
 correspondent of mine. 
 
 It is needless to state the circumstances which led 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 159 
 
 to my acquaintance with one of the most voluminous 
 writers of his day. Suffice it to say, that, long be- 
 fore I had the pleasure of seeing the Poet, I had re- 
 ceived many letters from him, and have reason to be- 
 lieve that he felt some interest in my welfare. The 
 first time I ever met him personally, was in the year 
 1838. I was then engaged in a branch of literary 
 labour which had once been occupied by Southey. 
 This had caused him to feel some interest in my pro- 
 ceedings, and led to a kind wish on the part of a 
 mutual friend that I should make his acquaintance. 
 
 It was but seldom that he left his beautiful home 
 at Keswick — and he might indeed have been termed 
 a Hermit Poet, for his life was one of almost strict 
 seclusion. Consequently his outward and visible man 
 was little known, except to Lake Tourists, who were 
 not unfrequently a source of much annoyance to him, 
 by their intrusive visits. He once complained much of 
 this, in one of his letters to me — in which he said, 
 that his daughters could never row him on the Lake, 
 nor could he ever take a quiet walk, without being 
 stared at by those who imagined that a Poet was some 
 outlandish animal. When he did leave home, it was 
 generally for the purpose of making arrangements with 
 his publishers — for he was a methodical man of busi- 
 ness — or, for a recreative visit to his native city, where 
 he had many near and dearly-attached friends. 
 
 I must own, that from what I had heard of Southey's 
 coldness, and even occasional repulsiveness of man- 
 ner, I felt some trepidation, as I lifted Mr. Cottle's 
 
160 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 knocker, one evening, for it was from Mr. Joseph 
 Cottle that I had received a kind invitation to meet 
 Mr. Southey at his house, where he was at that time 
 on a visit. Yet it was with no little gratification that 
 I anticipated meeting one whose writings had afforded 
 me so much delight, though, as I have intimated, 
 expectation was alloyed by anxiety. 
 
 On entering Mr. Cottle's little parlour, after greet- 
 ing my kind host, a gentleman, whom I recognised 
 instantly, from the portraits I had seen of him, rose, 
 held out both hands, and kindly accosted me; he 
 was tall, and looked, in his solemn suit of black, 
 more like a sedate clergyman than I had imagined. 
 His manners were, however, so frank and kind, with- 
 out any appearance of condescension, that I felt at 
 once at my ease, and was, in a few moments, to use 
 a very familiar expression, '^ at home." 
 
 Let me here digress a little, in order to give a 
 slight pen-and-ink sketch of my host himself, whose 
 name has been very long, if not during the last quarter 
 of a century, very intimately associated with literature. 
 All the reading world must remember Lord Byron's 
 attack upon him, but all the world does not know 
 that to Mr. Cottle belongs the honour of having be- 
 friended and patronized Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge, in their youthful days, and that he first 
 introduced them to the literary ranks, by publishing, 
 at his own risk, and for their especial benefit, their 
 first productions. 
 
 There are some men who outlive their reputations, 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. l(jl 
 
 whose intellectual fires pale before the blaze of 
 brighter stars in the literary hemisphere. I do not 
 mean to say that Mr. Cottle only lives in the cutting 
 satire of Byron, or as the lettered accoucheur of the 
 " Bard of Bydal," the late Laureate, and the " old 
 man eloquent," but certainly he has of late years so 
 entirely withdrawn from literary pursuits, that, were 
 he dead, he could scarcely be less thought of. As it 
 is, an occasional hymn in a new ^' selection" is the 
 only intimation that he exists. A few years since 
 he published some early recollections of Coleridge, 
 which fell almost still-born from the press; but 
 that may be accounted for, they having been pub- 
 lished, I believe, in a city notorious for its neglect 
 of literature. His early works consisted of epic 
 poems on " Malvern Hills," " The Fall of Cambria," 
 " Alfred," and " The Messiah," — productions which 
 are now seldom met with, excepting on dusty shelves, 
 side by side with the " Gentleman's Magazine." In 
 private life, Mr. Cottle is most estimable ; and in the 
 enjoyment of lettered ease, and surrounded by all 
 that is exquisite and refined, he surveys, with the 
 serene enjoyment of a true Christian, the retrospect 
 of a calm and well-spent life. As an early friend and 
 associate of men so eminent as those to whom I have 
 just referred, a sketch of him cannot but be interest- 
 ing, and therefore I introduce it here, as the present 
 occasion seems a fitting one for the purpose. 
 
 If, then, reader, you would wish to look upon our 
 venerable friend, just by an effort of the imagination. 
 
162 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 (a faster mode of travelling even than by the express 
 train of the Great Western Railway,) accompany me 
 to Bristol ; it is an old place, rich in antiquities. As 
 we drive up the street leading into the heart of the 
 city, on our right hand is the old church of the 
 Knights Templars, which leans so much out of the 
 perpendicular, that one hurries unconsciously by it, 
 as if it were every moment in danger of falling. When 
 its bells ring out, this old tower shakes fearfully, and 
 so much does it " seriously incline," that I believe 
 one cannot stand against it with the heels and back 
 of the head touching the decayed free-stone of which 
 it is composed. It absolutely seems to lean over the 
 dingy old houses which surround it. Proceeding on 
 our way into the city, we arrive at a bridge, the suc- 
 cessor of the one about which Chatterton published 
 his first Rowleian forgery. Passing over this, we 
 enter the High Street alluded to by the same marvel- 
 lous boy, in his ballad of Sir Charles Bawdyn; 
 and in the next street, Wine-street, we observe a 
 draper's shop, in which Southey was born. Not far 
 from this is Broad- street, in which, at a well-known 
 hotel, the early days of Sir Thomas Lawrence were 
 spent, the great painter's father having been landlord 
 of the inn. At the other extremity of Wine-street 
 frowned, within my remembrance, a dark pile of 
 building, the Bridewell, in which Savage died ; and 
 not three minutes' walk from thence is the old Mint, 
 in the dreary grave-yard of which he rotted years 
 and years ago. But these associations have led me 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 163 
 
 away, as they are apt to do, from my main object, 
 which let us turn and pursue. 
 
 It is Sunday morning, and from a hundred church 
 towers and steeples the chiming bells ring cheerfully 
 and solemnly out; those from the noble church of 
 St. Mary Redcliife, 
 
 " The pryde of Bristowe and the Western Londe," 
 
 being heard sonorous and distinct above all the rest. 
 With a sad, but usual neglect of all that is beautiful 
 in art, the Bristolians have allowed the finest parish 
 church in England to fall into decay; and so its 
 stones are crumbling to dust, or falling one by one, 
 and decay sits busily employed upon buttress and 
 pinnacle. Chatterton's monument, a wretched archi- 
 tectural abortion, which resembles a huge ornamental 
 extinguisher, with a Dutch doll on its top, (apt illus- 
 tration !) is on our left-hand as we ascend RedclifFe 
 Hill, and proceed towards a neat place of worship, 
 alluded to in another part of this volume, as the 
 chapel where I sketched Rowland Hill. As we enter 
 the enclosure of the building, we perceive a carriage, 
 drawn by an old white horse, at the door, and from it 
 alights a gentleman, who, in consequence of a lame- 
 ness, experiences great difficulty in walking into the 
 building. Let us, too, enter, for within we shall have 
 a better opportunity of observing him. 
 
 In the very furthest pew" from the pulpit he has 
 taken his place. He is an old man, for he cannot, 
 from his general appearance, have numbered less 
 
164 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 than seventy-five years. His head, which is thinly 
 covered with grey hairs, is well shaped, but rather 
 flattened on its superior portion. As might be ex- 
 pected, time, which has thinned his flowing hair, has 
 also dimmed that benevolent grey eye, for a pair of 
 spectacles almost conceal them. The prevailing cha- 
 racteristic of his combined features is benevolence, 
 and yet there is no want of decision in his expres- 
 sion; the compressed lips indicate that plainly 
 enough. He looks like what he is, a gentleman in 
 easy circumstances, but you would seek in vain for 
 any peculiarities telling of striking genius. And can 
 that quiet-looking old gentleman be him whom Lord 
 Byron so mercilessly abused ? One is tempted to 
 say, as we gaze on his bland countenance, ' why he 
 looks as if he could not call down the resentment of 
 any mortal man.' What could 
 
 *' Joseph of Bristol, the brother of Amos," 
 
 have done to merit the bitter denunciations of his 
 lordship ? The reader, however, must be content 
 to solve these enigmas himself; I only profess to 
 give the outlines of his outward and visible man. 
 But let us return to Southey. 
 
 The personal appearance of Robert Southey was 
 very striking. He was, as I have intimated, tall and 
 slightly built. His forehead, rather receding, and 
 not, phrenologically speaking, indicative of great ac- 
 quirements, was surmounted and partially shaded by 
 an abundance of white, silvery hair, combed upwards, 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 165 
 
 and forming a very striking contrast with his jet 
 black, magnificently arched eyebrows, beneath which 
 glowed [that is the best word to express what I mean] 
 two of the most brilliant dark eyes I ever beheld. 
 Their beauty did not consist so much in their bril- 
 liancy, as in their deep, contemplative expression. 
 His nose was remarkably aquiline , so much so, that 
 it approached to the beak formation. But it was in 
 the mouth, which, after all, is the most expressive 
 feature of the human face, that the peculiar charm of 
 Southey's looks lay — the upper lip was finely curved, 
 and slightly projected over the lower — but it is in 
 vain to attempt a description of it. Nearly every 
 painter has failed to transfer it to canvas — indeed, I 
 have never seen a good likeness of the Laureate, for 
 it was no easy matter to catch the ever-flitting lights 
 and shadows which, with every changing emotion, 
 passed over his countenance. 
 
 Tea was announced shortly after my arrival — Mr. 
 Cottle's sister (since dead) doing the honours. By 
 the way, I may as well mention that Mr. Cottle and 
 his sister then resided together, much in the same way 
 as did dear delightful Charles Lamb with his beloved 
 "' Barbara." In both cases the gentlemen were bache- 
 lors, and the ladies happy in single blessedness, and 
 the society of their literary brothers. After pouring 
 out the well manufactured infusion of Congou, Miss 
 Cottle happened to address the Laureate as " Doctor." 
 
 ' My dear Miss Cottle,' said he, ' do call me Mr. 
 Southey, or Robert, as you used to do " lang syne j " 
 
166 KOBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 but not " Doctor." I dislike nothing so much as that, 
 amongst old friends.' 
 
 We spent a pleasant hour over the crockery — ^but 
 all of us know that tea-table conversation is not easily 
 transferable to paper. I am no Bos well, and so the 
 reader must imagine a conversational melange — an olla 
 podrida of opinions, pleasant enough whilst passing 
 over the mental palate, but leaving nothing either very 
 nutritious or substantial behind. There were one or 
 two other visitors, but as they were not "known" 
 writers, I need not mention them here. 
 
 A great deal has been said about Southey's reserve 
 in company, and many have accused him of unpar- 
 donable pride and hauteur. This I think unjust. He 
 was naturally reserved, and his pursuits tended to 
 make him more so. The Laureate, in his poem on the 
 Hollytree, has said : 
 
 " So serious should my youth appear among 
 The thoughtless throng ; 
 So would I seem among the young and gay, 
 More grave than they." 
 
 His sedateness did not, I think, spring from pride ; 
 and they who knew him better than I did, hold the 
 same opinion. Charles Lamb said of him, that he 
 was intended for a monk, but never were there two 
 more direct opposites in social life than Southey and 
 the author of Elia. 
 
 Southey's favourite attitude was that of lying back 
 in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, and the 
 tips of his forefingers placed on 'the inner portion of 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 167 
 
 his eyebrows, over the surface of which they con- 
 tinually traversed, his eyes being closed excepting 
 when he spoke. The conversation, at one time, turned 
 on Byron — a ticklish subject for both Cottle and 
 Southey. The latter said, somewhat egotistically, I 
 thought — ^but that was Southey's weak point — " No 
 man can honour Byron's genius more than myself; 
 but I fancy I prevented him doing as much harm as 
 he might have done." 
 
 At that period Mr. Southey was busily engaged in 
 preparing the new edition of Cowper's works, and in 
 writing the Life of the Bard of Olney. ^ I have been,' 
 said he, ' Coopering all the way down.' I had never 
 heard the poet's name pronounced before as he pro- 
 nounced it, Cooper, and ventured to make the remark 
 to him. He said, the poet's family, and Mrs. Unwin, 
 whom he had once seen, never used to say Cbt^per ; 
 although that was unquestionably the more correct. 
 He then showed us an original poem of Cowper's, 
 and said, ' I can also show you the first letter which 
 it is believed Cowper ever wrote. I stumbled on it 
 by mere chance, at a gentleman's house, where, about a 
 week ago, I stayed for the night ; so oddly, sometimes, 
 do things of this kind turn up.' He then requested 
 his son to fetch him his writing case, from which he 
 produced the letter, which he read to our party. It 
 is now included in a supplementary volume to the 
 Life and Works. 
 
 We had along and delightful conversation respect- 
 ing poor Cowper, and I remember Southey's saying, 
 
168 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 with much earnestness, that he could have given Ke- 
 hama, Roderick, and indeed all he had ever written, 
 to have been the author of the lines to his Mother's 
 Picture, which he characterized as being among the 
 most touchingly beautiful to be found in the whole 
 range of English poetry. ' What a mournful thing,' 
 he added, ' that his mental vision was so often ob- 
 scured.' Alas ! even then the cloud no bigger than a 
 man's hand was to be seen in Southey's horizon ; a 
 cloud which was soon to cast its melancholy shadow 
 over his own fine intellect. I remember, too, that, in 
 connexion with this subject, he alluded to his wife, 
 who had then very recently died, after years of 
 insanity. ' I had,' said he once to a friend, ' for a 
 long, dreary time, a living death constantly before me, 
 in the form of Edith. We took our meals, and as- 
 sociated with each other to the last, and I question 
 whether I was more fondly attached to her in her 
 bright days than in her days of darkness.' 
 
 Some one in the company inquired of Southey 
 whether he intended to be present at the forthcoming 
 meeting of the British Association. The reply was 
 characteristic. ^ No,' said he, ' I never go into crowds.' 
 A strong feature in his character was his love of so- 
 litude. His chosen retreat was his library, and men's 
 works, he, in a great degree, preferred to their society. 
 Of his books he himself says : — 
 
 " My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom I converse night and day." 
 
 It is a fact that Southey's conversation partook, in 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 169 
 
 some degree, of the egotism which too often defaces 
 his writings. 
 
 As an instance of the latter, hear what he says, in 
 a letter to William Taylor, of Norwich : — ' Mejudice. 
 I am a good poet, but a better historian.' Mind, I 
 do not mean to say that he be-praised himself that 
 evening — but there certainly was evident a consider- 
 able partiality for his own works in the remarks he 
 let fall. 
 
 Southey's extreme kindness to young and struggling 
 men of mind is not so well known, or so generally 
 appreciated as it should be. One instance fell under 
 
 my own notice. I knew in B a young man, a 
 
 lawyer's clerk, who showed so decided a genius for 
 painting that it was really painful to see him drudging 
 over dry parchments and musty records. I advised 
 him to copy a certain picture, which I knew would 
 much interest Southey — he did so, and I sent it, with 
 a letter from the artist, to Southey at Keswick. I 
 also informed him of the circumstance, and asked his 
 advice as to the young painter's welfare. Southey, 
 who was always as punctual as clockwork in his cor- 
 respondence — for he never allowed a letter to remain 
 unanswered for a single day — in a short time wrote 
 the young man an exceedingly kind epistle, and so 
 interested himself in his behalf, that, at the time I 
 write, the quondam lawyer's clerk is a popular ex- 
 hibitor. 
 
 A few days after the party at Cottle's, I accom- 
 panied Southey in a call on the Bishop of B , at 
 
 I 
 
170 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 Clifton. Southey did not send up his card, and con- 
 sequently the Bishop, who deemed it might be some 
 ordinary visitor, sent down a message that he was 
 engaged. We left, Southey having mentioned his 
 name to the footman. We had not gone far before 
 the lacquey came breathlessly after us — for his lord- 
 ship, on learning the name of his illustrious visitor, 
 was horrified at the idea of sending from his door 
 the author of the "Book of the Church." We re- 
 turned — apologies were made, and a very pleasant 
 hour spent. 
 
 In 1841, after wondering at the unusual circum- 
 stance of my letters to Southey remaining unreplied 
 to, for he was the most punctual and courteous of cor- 
 respondents, I received from a friend a heart-touch- 
 ing epistle informing me of the Laureate's insanity. 
 It came on me like a thunder-clap, after a long, omi- 
 nous silence. Could it be, that he whose voluminous 
 labours had delighted and informed thousands — that 
 the Poet, the Philosopher, and the Historian — was 
 the victim of 
 
 " The last infirmity of noble minds." 
 
 Alas ! it was even so. His brain was worn out. 
 
 " The fervent spirit, working out its way, 
 
 Fretted the puny body to decay, 
 
 And o^er -informed its tenement of clay.'* 
 
 I was told, by one who witnessed the sad scene, 
 that, as he walked along the streets of Keswick, 
 leaning, a frail, broken-up man, on the arm of an 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 171 
 
 attached and devoted friend, he would stare in stupid 
 wonder at flocks of geese, and breathe an incoherent 
 wish that he " was as happy as they." His insanity 
 was of the melancholy and sombre kind, as might 
 have been expected. 
 
 To the last, he retained his old affection for his 
 books. The way into his library he easily found, and 
 thither it was his wont to repair ; and he would sit 
 with a black letter volume open on his lap, gazing on 
 one page for hours, and at times moving his fingers, 
 as if making written extracts. Out of the library he 
 never could find his way, without the aid of a guide. 
 But the ruin of a great mind, like his, is too sad a 
 spectacle for contemplation. After two years of men- 
 tal incapacity, 
 
 ** Death came o'er him gently, 
 As slumber o'er a child.'* 
 
 There was no flashing up of the taper before 
 death — no lucid moment — but during his life, he had 
 made the great preparation, and Hope illuminated 
 the faces of all who gazed upon him when he died. 
 
 A monument has been erected to the memory of 
 Southey in Bristol Cathedral. Having incidentally 
 alluded to the apathy of Bristolians in such matters, 
 I am tempted to justify my remarks by an extract 
 from a Bristol paper bearing upon this subject. The 
 journal referred to says — 
 
 " On the death of this distinguished character, 
 nearly three years since, an anxiety was felt by a 
 few individuals that some permanent memorial should 
 
 i2 
 
172 ROBERT SOUTHEY AND 
 
 exist of his connexion with Bristol, the place of his 
 birth, where he resided for a considerable portion of 
 his life, and imbibed that attachment to literary pur- 
 suits so forcibly exemplified in the whole course of 
 his existence, and which never ceased to retain a 
 prominent place in his memory, and a strong hold on 
 his affections. 
 
 " It was sanguinely expected by the persons alluded 
 to, that the desire which they felt would be generally 
 participated by the inhabitants of the city, and ac- 
 cordingly a public meeting was convened, for the 
 pui-pose of determining on the best mode of carrying 
 the object into effect. The result showed that they had 
 miscalculated as to the extent of the interest taken in such 
 subjects^ for though several persons attended, and sen- 
 timents in accordance with the design were unani- 
 mously expressed, yet it was evident that little^ if any^ 
 public impression had been made. The amount of sub- 
 scription that was set on foot further evinced, after 
 the lapse of a considerable time, the absence of a 
 general interest in the object. 
 
 " We regret to put this statement on record, and the 
 more so as it contrasts so Unfavourably for Bristol^ with 
 the feeling manifested by the inhabitants of Keswick^ 
 where Southey resided during the latter portion of 
 his life, who permitted no lengthened period to elapse 
 before they raised an appropriate and finely-executed 
 monument over his tomb, including a full- sized re- 
 cumbent figure of the deceased." 
 
JOSEPH COTTLE. 173 
 
 The Bristol monument is a bust of Southey, by 
 Bayley, with the following inscription on the pe- 
 destal : — 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY, 
 
 Born at Bristol, 
 
 October IV., MDCCLXXIV., 
 
 Died at Keswick, 
 March XXL, MDCCCXLIII. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 
 
 Some years ago I was, owing to peculiar circum- 
 stances, a constant frequenter of the various hospitals 
 and lecture rooms of the metropolis, and I in con- 
 sequence enjoyed abundant opportunities of seeing 
 and conversing with many of the most eminent pro- 
 fessional men of their day. Amongst my earliest 
 recollections of celebrated medical men are those of 
 the well-known and eccentric Mr. Abernethy, of whom 
 so many hundred stories — good, bad, and indifferent 
 — have been told. I saw him, however, on two oc- 
 casions only, and what occurred on each may not be 
 altogether uninteresting in the narrative. The first 
 time I saw him was when I accompanied a lady and 
 her daughter to Mr. Abernethy's house, which w^as 
 situated in Bedford Place, or Row, I forget exactly 
 which. The young lady exhibited certain symptoms, 
 which made her friends dread that curse of the 
 English climate, consumption; and, although the 
 family medical attendant had pledged his reputation 
 
SURGERY AND SCIENCE. 175 
 
 that their alarm was groundless, nothing but the 
 opinion of so eminent a man as Abernethy could allay 
 their fears. As the parties were relatives of mine, I 
 gladly embraced the opportunity of accompanying 
 them to the celebrated surgeon's house. 
 
 When we arrived there it was about ten o'clock in 
 the morning ; in front of his door, and along nearly 
 the whole length of the street, was a line of carriages, 
 waiting for the patients whom they had dropped at 
 the Doctor's. Following the numerous persons who 
 were entering the front door, we passed into the hall, 
 and were shown, by a servant out of livery, into a 
 large room, which was nearly filled with persons, who 
 were suffering either from real or imaginary diseases — 
 the latter, I suspect, constituting the majority, for 
 every one who felt a pain beneath the shoulder-blade 
 or an uneasy sensation in the side, or whose skin ex- 
 hibited the slightest possible shade of yellow, took it 
 into their heads that they were afflicted with liver 
 complaints, (for the liver was a very fashionable organ, 
 and its functions very aristocratical in their nature, 
 about that time,) and ran off post-haste, from all 
 parts of the three kingdoms, to Mr. Abernethy, who 
 was supposed to exercise a peculiar and exclusive 
 privilege, with regard to the hepatic portion of the 
 animal economy — a supposition at which no one was 
 more amused than the singular practitioner himself. 
 
 Every now and then a door, opposite to that by 
 which we had entered, was opened by another ser- 
 vant, who called on the patient whose turn came next, 
 
176 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — 
 
 to follow him into the presence. As there were some 
 thirty patients before my friend, on the list, we had a 
 long time to wait, during which period, sundry dis- 
 eased acquaintances were made between unfortunates, 
 and divers stories of melancholy interest related. 
 Most of the patients had made up their minds to 
 visit Mr. Abernethy, as a last resource ; and it was 
 really astonishing, after what they confessed to have 
 taken, in the quack medicine line, that they ever en- 
 joyed the opportunity of now trying one more chance. 
 I noticed one remarkable circumstance — it was this — 
 whenever one of the patients described a particular 
 symptom, there were at least a dozen who had just the 
 same ; and not one, who if they were not similarly 
 afflicted themselves, but had a particular friend of 
 theirs who was. Then there were various stories of 
 different doctors who had been consulted, and the 
 professional character of some of them was pretty 
 
 freely discussed. Mr. B was no better than a 
 
 butcher — not a bit; and if so and so had taken 
 
 another bottle of Mr. G 's medicine, it would have 
 
 been all up with him. Besides these half-confidential 
 disclosures, there were interesting expositions of do- 
 mestic medical doctrines, and Buchan appeared to 
 have been pretty generally consulted. Many of the 
 patients, however, looked vrretched enough — there 
 were young girls, with hectic flushes on marble cheeks, 
 their large dark eyes and black eyebrows contrasting 
 painfully with their pure and polished foreheads. 
 And then, every minute or two, a white handkerchief 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 177 
 
 would be put up to the mouth, and a half smothered, 
 hacking cough, would sound, as from that sepulchre 
 of hope — a cavernous lung. It was wretched to look 
 at them — hopeful as they were, as consumptives 
 usually are — for their doom was sealed. There was, 
 too, one of the most beautiful looking women I ever 
 saw, in the room, and who would have been singled out, 
 in consequence of her attractions, from amongst a 
 crowd in any drawing room in London, or, indeed, 
 anywhere else. Few casual gazers would have no- 
 ticed that anything ailed her, but one who observed 
 as well as saw, might notice the peculiar appearance 
 of the eye, the sharpened and somewhat shrunken 
 cartilage of the nose, the thin, bluish under lip, which 
 the upper front teeth were continually grinding as if 
 in suppressed agony. All these appearances told 
 but too plainly that the most fearful complaint to 
 which a woman is subject — cancer — was burying its 
 roots deep in her frame, and intertwining its deadly 
 fibres with the springs of life, which soon they would 
 destroy. But why should I dwell on such themes. 
 Let me hurry on to my more immediate subject. 
 
 At last my friend's turn came, and following the 
 ladies, or being about to follow them, the footman re- 
 pulsed me, and refused me admittance, much to my 
 mortification, for I had accompanied the ladies merely 
 for the purpose of seeing the great man. A word or 
 two from the elder lady, to the effect that she " wished 
 Mr. xibernethy to see tw^," (leave women alone for 
 
 I 3 
 
178 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — 
 
 managing these things,) set all to rights, and I 
 effected the much desired entree. 
 
 We were ushered into a large room, the walls of 
 which were covered with books, from floor to ceiling. 
 In the centre of the apartment was a table, covered 
 with green baize, on which was a writing desk. It 
 being winter time, there was a very large fire in the 
 room — and, standing before it, with his back to the 
 mantel-shelf, (over which hung an engraved portrait 
 of John Hunter,) his hands being tucked under his 
 coat-tails, which were drawn forward, and hung in 
 front, over his fore-arms, stood, perfectly at ease, a 
 gentleman whom, from the portraits I had seen, and 
 the descriptions I had heard, I knew could be none 
 other than Abernethy himself. He looked keenly at 
 us, as we entered the apartment, without moving from 
 his comfortable position, which he retained until after 
 the servant had placed chairs for us, and had quitted 
 the room. 
 
 During this period, brief as it was, I had time to 
 examine him pretty closely — and his eyes, too, were 
 by no means unemployed — for they glanced from one 
 to the other of us, as if to discover which of us it was 
 who had come to consult him. 
 
 He was rather under the middle stature, and some- 
 what inclined to corpulency ; yet so slightly, that the 
 idea of fat never entered into the minds of any one 
 who looked on him. His face was very pecuUar, and 
 somewhat pear-shaped — that is, it was narrower than 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 179 
 
 ordinary at the summit of the forehead, which was 
 high, and ploughed transversely with deep furrows. 
 His eyes were small, deep set, grey, and very keen 
 and twinkling. There was evidently a good deal of 
 sarcastic humour in the lines about his mouth. The 
 nose was long and well-shaped. A soiled white cra- 
 vat enveloped his portly double-chin and neck — and 
 his dress, which seemed to have been huddled on, 
 not put on, consisted of a blue dress-coat, cut in an- 
 tique style, and decorated with bright brass buttons — 
 a lemon-coloured waistcoat, and snufF- coloured " con- 
 tinuations;" and a mean looking pair of old red 
 slippers, which only half concealed some whity-brown 
 stockings, completed his costume. 
 
 " Now, then, which of you wants me ?" were his 
 first words, which he uttered without removing from 
 his elegant position before the fire. 
 
 The elder lady, by a sign, indicated that her 
 daughter was the patient ; and was about detailing 
 the symptoms, when he interrupted her with — 
 
 " There, hold your tongue, madam I" then sitting 
 by the young lady, he felt her pulse, asked her a few 
 questions, gave a peculiar shrug with his shoulders, 
 and then said to her mother — 
 
 " And pray, madam, from how far have you brought 
 your daughter to see me ?" 
 
 "From B , sir," was the reply. "Our family 
 
 physician — — " 
 
 " Didn't tell you to send her to Mr. Abernethy, I'll 
 swear ! " interrupted Abernethy — " a fool if he did ! — 
 
180 SURGERY AND SCIENCE 
 
 You've thrown away time and money, madam, by 
 coming here ! " 
 
 "What! is there real danger, sir?" asked the 
 frightened mother. 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee, madam ! There ^ ma'am, (handing 
 her a slip of paper, on which was written the name 
 of his publisher) go and buy my book, and read 
 page 84. I'll tell you how I came to write the book — 
 there, sit down — don't be frightened — we'll get the 
 red edges off your daughter's tongue, and make it less 
 like a lancet in shape, and she'll do well enough. A 
 great bulky Yorkshire farmer came here to consult me, 
 and told me such a long story that it made me sick. 
 Finding he only did what other people did — tire my 
 patience — I thought I'd say, once for all, what I had 
 to say on paper; and so I put it in a book, and it 
 saves me a good deal of trouble. People come to 
 me with their long stories, and then they wonder that 
 I am rude to them. They abuse their systems, and 
 then expect me to set them to rights all at once. 
 Good morning, madam." So bidding us farewell, he 
 handed a prescription, which he had written while 
 talking, put the three guineas, tendered as his fee, 
 into his waistcoat pocket, and rang a small bell, which 
 summoned a servant, who showed us out through a 
 different door from that by which we made our ingress. 
 
 We had not gone half a dozen steps from the door, 
 when the young lady remembered that she had left 
 her parasol on the table. She was hastening back 
 for it, and had just reached the door, when it suddenly 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 181 
 
 opened, and Mr. Abernethy appeared, holding it in 
 his hand : 
 
 ^' Hallo," he called out, in a voice that half fright- 
 ened the poor girl into hysterics, ^' here's your what- 
 d'ye call it. What the devil d'ye leave your d — d traps 
 here for ? I don't want 'em." And he rudely thrust 
 it into her hand. 
 
 Well, thought I, people may well think that you 
 are rude to them ; at all events, I never saw any one 
 so bearish before. 
 
 The second occasion on which I saw him was 
 during the Medical Session in London, when he de- 
 livered his lectures in the Theatre of a Metropo- 
 litan Hospital. Owing to the great reputation of 
 Mr. Abernethy, and in consequence, in some degree, 
 of his eccentricity, as a man and a lecturer, his class 
 was by far the most crowded in London. Hundreds 
 of young men, who did not care a straw for the in- 
 formation he imparted, regularly went to his lectures^ 
 for the sake of the fun. In addition to these, many 
 extra-professional gentlemen, and men about town, 
 regularly attended his course, so that Abernethy's day 
 was always looked for with great anxiety. He was 
 very popular with the pupils, and they paid him every 
 respect ; indeed he was one who would not be trifled 
 with, and did not hesitate, if a pupil misconducted 
 himself, to soundly rate him fr'om the lecturing 
 table. 
 
 He generally lectured at two o'clock in the day — 
 and, at the time I am referring to, I had considerable 
 
182 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — 
 
 difficulty in procuring a seat, so early as one. I was 
 fortunate enough to get a position in front of the gal- 
 lery — fortunate only in one respect — for, as the crowds 
 on the tiers of seats behind and above me increased, 
 I was so pressed upon by the students, that my chest 
 was compressed to half its diameter, against the iron 
 rail which surrounded the gallery in front. They who 
 know anything of medical students, may easily 
 imagine the occurrences which transpired before the 
 commencement of the proceedings. They were, by 
 no means, of the most orderly character. Orange peel 
 flew about, in all directions. Pieces of lint, chewed 
 into pellets, were projected through hollowed arm- 
 bones, and single vertebrae were flung at opposite 
 neighbours. Caricatures of lecturers were drawn, 
 and handed about. One very unpopular, and not 
 particularly profound, examiner at Apothecaries' Hall, 
 
 (a Mr. W ,) was personated by a student, who, 
 
 in a mock examination, proposed questions to a fellow 
 student opposite, who personated an unhappy can- 
 didat3 for the Diploma — and some such catechetical 
 instruction as the following would be the order of the 
 day:— 
 
 " I say, you Mr. Squills, where is the North Pole 
 of the Liver?" 
 
 " You'll find it by digging through the Diaphragm, 
 W ." 
 
 " Why are apoplexy and palsy like spring flowers ?" 
 
 " Because they're the first of the neuroses^'' (new- 
 roses.) 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 183 
 
 " Here, you Tom Tourniquet, why is the Extract 
 of Belladonna like a good lecture ? " 
 
 " Can't tell ; it has something to do with the Iris, 
 I know. Give it up." 
 
 " Because, spooney, it enlarges the capacity of the 
 pupil." 
 
 " What's the dose of French Brandy ? Can any 
 body tell that ? " 
 
 (From a hundred tongues.) "A noggin in the 
 morning, two tumblers after dinner, and as much as 
 you can get tick for at bed-time." 
 
 " What's the best thing for a sweat ? " 
 
 " Antim. Tart., Pulv. Ipecac. Comp., egg-flip, and 
 getting Steggall to grind us." 
 
 " And what, if that should fail ? " 
 
 " Get W to pluck you, at the Hall." 
 
 But, all at once, the hubbub ceased, for the dis- 
 secting-room porter entered, placed some jars, con- 
 taining anatomical preparations, on the table, and, 
 close at his heels, entered Mr Abemethy himself. 
 Every hat and cap was instantly doffed, a round of 
 applause was given, and then only the voice of the 
 lecturer broke the silence. 
 
 Even an abstract of his lecture would be, of course, 
 quite unintelligible. I shall, therefore, content myself 
 with giving an account of his manner, as a lecturer 
 and teacher. 
 
 From what I have already inserted, the reader may 
 imagine his personal appearance. It was much the 
 same on the latter as on the former occasion. He 
 
184 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — 
 
 commenced his lecture in a clear-toned voice, which 
 had something of the Scotch accent, by a recapitula- 
 tion of the heads of the last lecture, and then plunged 
 at once into the subject of the day. During a great 
 portion of the time, his hands were thrust into his 
 breeches pockets, and he appeared to be on quite free 
 and easy terms with his audience. Occasionally he 
 would make some droll remark, which, accompanied 
 by a twinkle of his keen, expressive eye, would con- 
 vulse his hearers with laughter. The manner of his 
 telling quaint stories, too, was quite as mirth-moving 
 as the matter — and half the good things he said 
 would be spoiled entirely if uttered by any other per- 
 son. Of course, he has had a thousand-and-one stories 
 foisted upon his reputation, which were not his ; but 
 he did often make the oddest and rudest remarks 
 possible, and many of them quite unfit for " ears po- 
 lite." 
 
 When I heard him, he was lecturing on diseases 
 of the stomach — and he indulged in some very se- 
 vere remarks on the abuses which this organ was 
 subjected to by various classes of persons — such as 
 epicures and gourmands. I do not know whether it 
 was his remark or a quotation, but I perfectly well 
 remember his saying, in the course of his lecture, 
 when treating of the digestive functions — "Many 
 think, gentlemen, that the stomach resembles some 
 of our culinary articles, in which the food is simmered 
 down ; others fancy it an oven, in which whatever we 
 put into it is cooked by animal heat. There are those 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 185 
 
 who imagine it to be a tub, in which the food is ma- 
 cerated ; but they are all wrong. It is neither a stew- 
 pan — nor an oven — nor a mash-tub — but a stomach, 
 gentlemen — a stomach ! " 
 
 Speaking of the diseases of the stomach, he re- 
 ferred to the sympathetic disturbance of the functions 
 of the optic nerves, and described how, in a case 
 where his own gastric apparatus had got somewhat 
 out of order, his sight was curiously affected. " One 
 day," said he, " I was going up the borough road, 
 when, happening to look into a bookseller's shop win- 
 dow, I discovered that, in addition to the little black 
 spots, and rings, and ribbon-like filaments, which 
 floated before my eyes, the halves of many long words 
 were only visible. For instance, one of my books lay 
 in the window, open at the title-page — and on my 
 honour, gentlemen, I could see the A-her-knee very 
 well, but I couldn't make out the thiffh at all." All 
 these sallies were, of course, received with roars of 
 laughter, during which Abernethy would shrug his 
 shoulders, and occupy himself with his snuff-box. 
 
 I happened recently to hear an anecdote of Aber- 
 nethy which is not generally known, and as it is very 
 characteristic, I will give it in this place. I promise 
 the reader that it shall be the only one of the many 
 current stories respecting this eccentric man, for 
 nearly all I have heard tell better in a merry party 
 than on paper. 
 
 Doctor Tuckerman, an Unitarian clergyman of 
 Boston, United States, some years ago visited London 
 
186 SURGERY AND SCIENCE 
 
 for the express purpose of having Mr. Abernethy's 
 advice on his case. The rev. divine was a very 
 mild, gentlemanly man, and on his being introduced 
 to the great surgeon, commenced talking something 
 in this way : — 
 
 * Mr. Abemethy — I reside many miles from hence, 
 and have the charge of a little flock ; and my little 
 flock, sir, very kindly wishing me to have your opi- 
 nion, consented to spare me for a time. I have, 
 therefore, sir, left my little flock ' 
 
 But Abernethy's patience was exhausted, and, to 
 the horror of the meek clergyman, he burst out with 
 *D — n your little flock, sir, stick out your tongue!'' 
 
 Some of these stories, however, redound much to 
 his credit, for Abernethy, beneath a rough exterior, 
 had a warm and a benevolent heart. Many a poor 
 hard-working student has he not only admitted with- 
 out a fee to his lectures, but assisted in the most 
 delicate and substantial way. He died of a disease 
 which, prior to his dissolution, he had most accu- 
 rately described, and in many respects left not his 
 equal behind him. 
 
 And now for Mr. Faraday. We are always, at 
 least I am, apt to associate high mental acquirements 
 with a somewhat dignified and staid deportment of 
 person. Gravity would almost seem to be the hand- 
 maid of greatness, but they are not always combined ; 
 and certainly, so far as Mr. Faraday is concerned, it 
 seems to keep at a rather respectable distance. 
 
 In illustration of this, I may mention the follow- 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 187 
 
 ing anecdote respecting this distinguished man, which 
 was related to me by one who, in the field of chemical 
 and electrical science, is equally as distinguished, 
 and who deservedly enjoys an European reputation. 
 An American gentleman, some years since, visited 
 England on a tour of pleasure, and being especially 
 anxious to see Faraday, whose brilliant lectures at 
 the Royal Institution had made his name known 
 wherever science had diffused a single ray of its 
 light, procured a letter of introduction to the distin- 
 guished savariy who happened to be, like himself, a 
 member of the Swedenborgian Society. Arrived in 
 London, he had occasion, before he delivered his 
 letter, to meet, on some business or other, the dear 
 cons, elders, managers, or whatever they may be 
 styled, of the Swedenborgian Church there. These 
 officers were two of them grave-looking personages, 
 as would beseem their position; but the third was 
 youthful looking, volatile, and lively, to a degree, 
 which is by no means common in the grave managers 
 of a religious community. The nature of the busi- 
 ness did not render it necessary that the stranger 
 should be made acquainted with the names of the 
 gentlemen alluded to, and he did not know, until the 
 evening of the day, that he had been in company 
 with Mr. Faraday ; of course, when he became cogni- 
 zant of the fact, he imagined that one of the grave- 
 looking gentlemen must have been the celebrated 
 philosopher. The next day he proceeded to Mr. 
 Faraday's house with his letter, and to his utter 
 
188 SURGERY AND SCIENCE — 
 
 astonishment discovered that the young-looking 
 lively gentleman was the great man. 
 
 Some such an erroneous impression was oblite- 
 rated from my mind when I saw Mr. Faraday in the 
 chemical chair. He had a pleasant countenance, 
 lighted up by a pair of the most lively, restless black 
 eyes I ever saw in the head of man, or woman either. 
 His hair too, was jet black, curly, and parted in the 
 very centre of his forehead, not giving him, as hair 
 disposed in that manner sometimes does, a sleek, 
 sheepish appearance, but a smart, jaunty, natty air. 
 In person, he was slender, and of about the average 
 height. It is a common mode of expression, to say 
 that a man who is restless " is upon wires ;" in Fara- 
 day's case, the allusion would be quite appropriate, 
 for he was never still half a minute together, and 
 there was such a continual lively smile, not a smirk, 
 on his lips, that it really was pleasant to look at him. 
 He had the familiar nod and the cheerful recognition 
 for every one, and seemed to feel a real anxiety to 
 make every one about him comfortable ; and with all 
 his splendid attainments, there was so much humility 
 apparent, that his genius blazed ten times the 
 brighter for his seeming unconsciousness of it. 
 
 His style of lecturing is very brilliant, and I have 
 heard those who had listened to that most poetical 
 and fascinating of scientific lecturers, the late Sir 
 Humphrey Davy, say, that in point of felicitous illus- 
 tration, Faraday is scarcely to be considered his in- 
 ferior. His voice is musical, and well modulated, 
 
ABERNETHY AND FARADAY. 189 
 
 and I can scarcely imagine a higher mental treat than 
 that offered by hearing Faraday lecture at the Royal 
 Institution of Great Britain. There, behind the 
 great lecturing table, with his coat sleeves turned 
 back at the wrists — ^his eyes flashing with enthusiasm, 
 as he discourses on his favourite topic, to perhaps as 
 brilliant an audience, whether personally or mentally 
 considered, as any in the world, he stands one of the 
 wonders of his own wonderful age, discoursing elo- 
 quently on the marvels, which his own mind and 
 hand have in part revealed. 
 
 There, the observed of all observers, stands the 
 quondam bookbinder's boy, who was one day sur- 
 prised whilst busily studying the article " Elec- 
 tricity" in a Cyclopaedia which he was employed to 
 bind. He first " sounded his dim and perilous way" 
 over the ocean of knowledge with few and unim- 
 portant aids. Of an old bottle he made his first 
 electrical machine, and with such like humble aids 
 he went on, until his genius attracted notice. Since 
 then his career has been a brilliant one. The recent 
 discoveries of Mr. Faraday with respect to the in- 
 fluence of magnetism on light have conferred addi- 
 tional lustre on his name. I had the pleasure of 
 hearing his recent lecture on that interesting topic, 
 but was much struck with the change in his personal 
 appearance since I first saw him. His face was 
 paler, and his bright eyes were spectacled; his jet 
 black hair, too, worn parted as of yore, had lost its 
 sable hue, and was iron grey. But the same plea- 
 
190 SURGERY AND SCIENCE. 
 
 sant smile remained, and his voice was as delightful 
 as ever. I thought his style of lecturing was some- 
 what easier and more colloquial. This was espe- 
 cially apparent in his juvenile course of lectures, 
 which it well became. 
 
 Professor Faraday is, unquestionably, one of the 
 first, if not the first, natural philosopher of his day. 
 His brilliant discoveries have wafted his name to the 
 ends of the world, and whilst yet in his prime, he 
 enjoys an universal reputation. Long may the sun 
 of science shine on the pathway of one who follows 
 in the footsteps of those great discoverers, who, in 
 past times, worthily filled the high position which he 
 at present so efficiently occupies. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SKETCHES FROM A " PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 It is many years ago since I first saw Paganini, but 
 the performance of his "Carnival of Venice" by 
 Sivori, at one of JuUien's concerts, a few evenings 
 since, forcibly revived my impressions of that emperor 
 of fiddlers. Few who ever looked upon his gaunt 
 form and spectral face can ever forget it, but as there 
 are hundreds who never had the opportunity of being 
 startled by his wild appearance, I have ventured to 
 include him in my sketch-book, and shall take the 
 opportunity of including in this semi-theatrical chap- 
 ter, a few other pen-and-ink portraits of noticeable 
 people. 
 
 Long before I heard this remarkable musician, a 
 thousand exaggerated rumours were in circulation 
 respecting him. Some said that his violin was his 
 familiar spirit — others, that he had acquired his extra- 
 ordinary skill whilst incarcerated in a dungeon at 
 Naples, for some horrible crime ; and there were not 
 wanting those who hinted that the devil had lent him 
 
192 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 his violin, on the stem condition that after playing on 
 it for a number of years, he should personally return 
 it, and deliver up himself, into the bargain, to the 
 father of evil. Of course great anxiety was mani- 
 fested to see and hear him ; so having paid seven and 
 sixpence sterling for a ticket, and it was hard to pro- 
 cure it at that price, I got tightly packed in the pit 
 
 of the Theatre, where I waited anxiously for 
 
 the appearance of the lord of the " unerring (fiddle) 
 bow." 
 
 Several pieces were to be performed before Paga- 
 NiNi made his appearance, and these, like oysters and 
 lemon juice before a Parisian feast, served only as 
 sharpeners of the appetite for what was to follow. 
 This preliminary playing and singing was doubtless 
 very fine, but it passed off heavily enough, and glad 
 was I to discover, by the aid of the progi'amme, that 
 " The Carnival of Venice," by Paganini, was the next 
 piece. ^ 
 
 An interval of a few minutes. The " gods" of the 
 gallery have sobered down. Nuts are no longer 
 cracked, and the shells showered down on the heads 
 of those in the pit. The popping of ginger beer 
 corks has ceased, and the cry of " apples an' oranges" 
 is heard no more. The pit folks have squeezed 
 themselves into as comfortable positions as possible, 
 and along the boxes is seen a row of anxious faces, 
 and a line of ready opera-glasses. There is a dead 
 silence in the house. The musicians in the orchestra 
 are all on the quivive; the first fiddle looks amazingly 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX.*' 193 
 
 anxious, as if he knew that an extinguisher was about 
 to be put on him ; the flutes rest with their lips half 
 puckered up, and fingers resting lightly on their 
 orifices ; the clarionets stand with their reeds ready 
 for vibration, and the drum-sticks describe an angle 
 of forty-five. There is a waving of the curtain, and 
 
 a prolonged sh goes round the house ; a little 
 
 bell rings once, and the musicians fix their eyes in- 
 tently on their books, all but the flutes, who squint at 
 the stage, — another, and a louder ring — and up goes 
 the green baize. Up — up — up — till the last fold of 
 the curtain is invisible, and there is the broad open 
 stage, with a grand piano in its midst. A gentleman, 
 dressed very neatly in black, with a music book in 
 his primrose gloved hand, enters, bows, and takes his 
 seat at the instrument. He looks first at the audience 
 with quite an air of unconcern, as if he had already 
 seen and knew everything about the great man ; he 
 has all the calm consequence of a person who knows 
 what others do not know about him. Now he hems, 
 looks intently at the wing, and as he gives a jerk on 
 his chair, and takes off" his gloves, it is evident some 
 one is coming. How deathlike is the silence ! 
 
 With the slow and stealthy step of a tiger draw- 
 ing near enough to its victim, in order to make the 
 sure and fatal spring — noiselessly, and with a horribly 
 sardonic smile on his countenance, glides sideways 
 from behind the wing, a being who startles every one 
 that beholds him. He is very tall, and so remarkably 
 thin that his black clothes fall loosely about him — 
 
194 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 his trowsers bagging as if they hung upon poles. 
 These trowsers were so large that, at their termination, 
 where they came in contact with his small, lady-like 
 shoe, the polished leather of which seemed just to 
 cover the tips of his toes, they seemed of exactly the 
 same width, united, as his shoulders. His hips did 
 not in the least project, so that he appeared, from 
 his arm-pits downwards, to be of exactly the same 
 breadth ; there was no projecting point to disturb 
 the straight line. His double-breasted coat had long 
 skirts, and was buttoned up close to his chin, round 
 which was a white cravat, and a turned down collar. 
 But, extraordinary as was his figure, his face and 
 head were the gTcat points of attraction and wonder ; 
 so much so were they, that, when a first glimpse of 
 the face, especially, was caught, people involun- 
 tarily drew back, as if they had seen a spectre. 
 
 He was ghastly pale. In the centre of his fore- 
 head, which had nothing very remarkable as to its 
 developments, that I could see, at least, his jet black 
 hair was parted, and from thence it fell down in curly 
 and waving masses over his shoulders. His eyebrows 
 were dark, and, where the outer parts terminated, 
 there were deeipfossce in the temples. His nose was 
 slightly beaked, and on either side of it were the most 
 remarkable eyes that, I believe, mortal ever possessed. 
 They were small, dark, and not sparkling, but of a 
 lustre more resembling that of polished steel, when 
 seen in a dimly lighted room, than anything else I 
 can compare them to. Their expression, as he smiled 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 195 
 
 horribly at the audience, in recognition of their 
 plaudits, and as he bowed his long back, was abso- 
 lutely snake-like. As I said, he came on the stage 
 sideways, gradually, as he bowed and smiled, ap- 
 proaching to near the centre. His arms were so long, 
 that as he bent, the fiddle and bow, which he held in 
 one hand, would have touched the stage, but that he 
 held them obliquely. At last he reached the front 
 and almost the middle of the stage, near the foot- 
 lights, drew himself up to his full height, held out his 
 violin at arm's length, surveyed it as if it were the 
 most beloved thing in the universe, and then slowly 
 brought it to his shoulder, with as much gravity as if 
 it had been a deity and he a devotee. 
 
 With a firm and decided air the great Maestro 
 planted his right foot a little in advance of his left, 
 which remained with the knee firmly fixed, threw 
 back his head, then inclined his left ear towards his 
 fiddle, smiling faintly, as if it were saying something 
 to him and he was intently listening; and lastly, 
 lifting his long fiddle bow high in the air, stood, with 
 flashing eyes and compressed lips, a few seconds — 
 motionless — a perfect study. 
 
 At a nod from Paganini, the orchestra struck up, 
 and the pianist's fingers flew over the ivory keys — 
 but still, like a sorcerer with his w and, stood the king 
 of fiddlers, with his uplifted bow. At length, a faint 
 smile stole over his rigid and marble-like features, 
 and every heart beat quickly, as his long arm de- 
 scended, so gradually, that you could scarcely see it 
 
 k2 
 
196 SKETCHES FROM A " PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 move ; bringing the lower end of the stick upon the 
 strings of the instrument. To the disappointment 
 of many, however, it rose again, and remained an inch 
 or two from the bridge, whilst the exceedingly long 
 fingers of his left hand struck a few notes, which were 
 heard sharply and distinctly, above the warblings of 
 the flutes and the grumbling of the trombones. Once 
 more his arm ascends, and now it comes down so de- 
 licately on the smallest string, that something like the 
 shadow of an exquisite sound is heard — "so soft, 
 so sweet, so delicately clear," that it is heard as dis- 
 tinctly as a silver rivulet is seen winding its sinuous 
 course through a vernal wood. It is unlike anything 
 one ever before heard produced from the instrument, 
 or rather it seems as if the sense of hearing had been 
 sharpened. And now succeeds a flood of delicious 
 melody, which laps the* audience in elysium. It is 
 not, cannot be fiddling ; and see, the leader of the 
 band has forgotten himself and sits in wide-mouthed 
 wonder, listening to the astonishing effects of Paga- 
 nini's genius. The Maestro, as his inspiration be- 
 comes more profound, partakes of the enthusiasm 
 which he has created, and his snakey eyes flash almost 
 supernatural fire. He smiles a ghastly smile as he 
 
 " Pours forth the notes like enchanted wine, 
 Loosens the chords in a silver shower." 
 
 By a change in the composition, he now produces 
 the most discordant notes, and then surprises all, by 
 alternating them with snatches of almost celestial 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 197 
 
 harmony. Now he moves to tears, and anon con- 
 vulses with laughter. His violin, for a few seconds, 
 nearly roars ; and then, as he slowly draws the bow 
 across the " quivering strings," he elicits a sound 
 
 « so fine that nothing lives 
 
 'Twixt it and silence." 
 
 At length the spell ceases — the finale is played, 
 and with outspread arms, the bow in one hand and 
 the fiddle in the other, he bows himself off the stage, 
 smiling horribly, as when he entered from the wing. 
 
 Not the least interesting portion of the proceed- 
 ings, were the astonished looks of the musicians, 
 especially of the fiddlers ; and when they commenced 
 playing in the interval between the first and second 
 appearance of Paganini, I could not help thinking of 
 the couplet, addressed by some one to a very indif- 
 ferent musician : — 
 
 " When Orpheus played so well, he moved Old Nick, 
 But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle- stick." 
 
 Not that the leader of that evening was a second- 
 rate artist. By no means ; he was one of the first in 
 his line ; but what excellence could stand, when com- 
 pared with Paganini ? Like Cavanagh, the celebrated 
 racket player, to whom Hazlitt refers in his Table 
 Talk — the Italian had not only no equal, but no one 
 stood second to him. 
 
 The only musician who has in popularity at all 
 rivalled Paganini, is Ole Bull. Few, however, who 
 have heard both, will be disposed to admit that the 
 
198 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 latter is worthy to be named with the former. Pa- 
 ganini possessed genius — Ole Bull sedulously culti- 
 vated talent alone. Paganini hopelessly distanced 
 all competitors. Ole Bull has been excelled by 
 Vieuxtemps, Artot, and De Beriot. The former 
 resembled, in his moods of inspiration, the rushing 
 cataract; the latter would be more appropriately 
 symbolized by the placid, rolling river. Energy, 
 force, passion, boundless enthusiasm belonged to the 
 one ; grace, tenderness, mildness, and sweetness to 
 the other. Paganini demanded and received the 
 homage due to exalted genius. Ole Bull wins ap- 
 plause by the very power of his gentleness. In 
 short, the Italian attained, scarcely with an eiFort, to 
 heights which the Norwegian never can reach, though 
 he devote a life-time to the pursuit. I do not wish 
 to depreciate the talents of Ole Bull; he is admi- 
 rable, but he has not, nor has any one else, caught 
 the falling mantle of the wonderful Paganini. 
 
 The next .morning, on passing the door of the 
 Royal Hotel, I observed a crowd in the street. On 
 asking the waiter what caused it, I learned that Pa- 
 ganini's chaise was at the door, and that the people 
 had collected to catch a glimpse of him, as he got 
 into it. " One fool, they say, makes many," and so 
 I joined them. I had not waited long before I saw 
 him coming down the stairs. He had on a blue cloth 
 cap, from which hung what appeared to be a bullion 
 tassel, and he was so muffled up in the folds of a 
 most voluminous fur-lined cloak, that I could see 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 199 
 
 nothing of him but his pale, hawk-like nose, and his 
 two dark, awful-looking eyes, which seemed to have 
 no occupation but in anxiously looking after a little 
 boy, who, muffled up like himself, was taken to the 
 chaise in the arms of an attendant, his own servant. 
 This was his son, the only living thing, it is said, to- 
 wards whom he exhibited any marks of attachment. 
 The landlord afterwards told me that, happening one 
 day to enter his guest's room unannounced, he found 
 Paganini lying on the floor, hugging and kissing the 
 child with the utmost earnestness. The great fiddler, 
 however, was much enraged at the intrusion, and 
 immediately on the man's retiring, locked the door, a 
 precaution he failed not to take during the remainder 
 of his stay. 
 
 ■Sjf '5^ ''if ^ •Jjf 
 
 Whilst I am on the subject of theatrical sights, let 
 me refer to another memorable evening. I once 
 visited one of the London houses, and after having 
 undergone so awful a squeezing that, like poor Hood's 
 Spoiled Child, if I had been held up I could scarcely 
 have been seen edgeways, I found myself in the 
 midst of as dense a crowd as can well be imagined, 
 in the pit of one of the great metropolitan theatres. 
 I had endured the enormous pressure outside the 
 door for more than two hours before they were 
 opened, and w^hen they were unbarred, had literally 
 been carried nearly as far as the paying place, by the 
 living stream which flowed from without, inwards. As 
 soon as I had recovered from the terrific scramble 
 
200 SKETCHES FROM A " PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 for a seat, I looked about me, and a brilliant spec- 
 tacle met my view. 
 
 From orchestra to ceiling was one dense mass of 
 human beings. The dress circle was unusually 
 thronged ; and, amongst the brilliant audience were 
 many of both sexes, whose names have shed a lustre 
 on English literature. Nearly every author of note, 
 in London, was present ; and the reason of this was, 
 that Mr. Sergeant Talfourd's tragedy of " Ion" was 
 to try its chance with the public that night for the 
 first time. 
 
 In the very centre box (I believe) of the dress 
 circle, and on the front seat, sat an elderly lady, 
 whose personal appearance formed a very striking 
 contrast to theirs who sat on either side of her. On 
 her right and left-hand were elegantly and superbly 
 dressed ladies, of exceeding beauty, who shone in 
 all the glories of diamonds and ostrich plumes. 
 Youth and loveliness were all around her; and yet 
 that plain, elderly little lady attracted more notice 
 than the brightest of them. People turned from the 
 belles in the boxes to gaze upon the withered little 
 lady ; who, if she ever possessed any personal charms, 
 had certainly lost them " long, long ago." 
 
 The lady in question was not only elderly — as we 
 courteously call people, who are far down the hill of 
 life — but absolutely old. Although seated, it was 
 plainly to be seen that she was low in stature, and 
 her frame very slender, thin, and attenuated, but 
 graceful withal. Her face was small, and the features 
 
SKETCHES FROM A " PRIVATE BOX." 201 
 
 pinched; I know no other term which would convey 
 what I mean so well as that. The skin of her face 
 was of a bilious hue, much wrinkled, and strained 
 somewhat tightly over the bridge of a rather aquiline 
 and sharply-pointed nose. Her grey hair was simply 
 parted on her fine forehead, and confined beneath a 
 plainly made mob-cap. I do not know whether my 
 lady readers will know what kind of a cap this is. If 
 they do not, I am sorry for it, for I am no great hand 
 at describing such matters. Her eyes were small, 
 dark, and very brilliant ; and, even at her advanced 
 age, she did not wear spectacles constantly — never, 
 indeed, whilst looking at the stage. I only saw them 
 in use when she had occasion to refer to the bill of 
 the play. She was dressed in a very plain, dark 
 (brown, I think) silk gown, made so as to fit closely 
 round the throat ; and had long black silk gloves on, 
 which reached half way up her arms. This was the 
 authoress of the " Plays of the Passions," the most 
 powerful of England's female writers — Joanna 
 Baillie. 
 
 From the somewhat masculine character of Miss 
 Baillie's poetry, I had anticipated seeing quite a 
 different looking personage from what she turned 
 out to be, and I could not help experiencing some- 
 thing like a feeling of disappointment, as I gazed on 
 the frail looking lady before me. Certainly no one, 
 on looking at her, would suspect her of being the 
 Authoress of " De Montfort." 
 
 In the next box to Joanna Baillie, sat William 
 k3 
 
202 SKETCHES FROM A " PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 W0RDSWORTH5 and the great Poet of course was an 
 object of not a little attention. As soon as he entered 
 the house he was recognised and loudly cheered. 
 Whether he was ignorant that the compliment was 
 intended for him, or not, I cannot tell — but he did 
 not notice it. He leaned over and shook hands with 
 Joanna, and then sat down, removed his green spec- 
 tacles, and leaning his thoughtful looking head on 
 his hand, gazed round the house, nodding to one and 
 another, as he recognised them. I always thought 
 that Wordsworth's face had much of sadness in its 
 expression, and this struck me very forcibly on the 
 night in question. He looked more like a man borne 
 down by some heavy grief, than a profound thinker — 
 his smile, whenever he chanced to gTeet any acquaint- 
 ance, was really a solemn affair, and it speedily 
 vanished, as if the effort to display it, if but for a 
 moment, was too painful for long continuance. On 
 my mentioning this circumstance to Mrs. Sigourney, 
 the American poetess, she said, that she had remarked 
 the same ' sad look,' even in his own house, and when 
 surrounded by his family. 
 
 But despite this, who could look at the " Bard of 
 Rydal," and not feel a flush of pride, and a glow of 
 satisfaction, that he was in the presence of one of 
 Nature's High Priests.? During the whole of the 
 Tragedy, and on that first night it occupied nearly 
 five hours in the performance, Wordsworth did not 
 leave his seat, and frequently paid a tribute of ad- 
 miration to his brother poet, by applauding portions 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 203 
 
 of the piece. Indeed, he thumped with his stick 
 most lustily, and if Talfourd saw him, he must have 
 been not a little gratified by such approvals of his 
 Tragedy. 
 
 In a side box of the second tier, sat a lady, whom 
 Lord Byron, in speaking of her, might well call 
 "most gorgeous Lady Blessington," for seldom 
 have mortal eyes rested on a more magnificent speci- 
 men of woman-kind. In this instance, all the ideas 
 of her extraordinary beauty which I had gathered 
 from published portraits were more than realized. 
 She was rather more en hon point than I expected to 
 have seen her — but what in others would have been 
 a defect, seemed, in her case, to be an added charm. 
 As she carelessly leaned against the pillar of her box, 
 she realized Byron's description — her form 
 
 " Being somewhat large, and languishing and lazy, 
 But of a beauty that would drive you crazy." 
 
 She was elegantly and, almost as a matter of course, 
 simply dressed. A black velvet dress displayed her 
 superb figure to the best advantage — her hair was 
 disposed in much the same mode as we see in por- 
 traits of Queen Victoria, and a single row of large 
 pearls encircled her head — a pearl necklace, a dia- 
 mond stomacher, and a plain gold bracelet, were her 
 only extra personal adornments. 
 
 It would be absurd in me to attempt a description 
 of Lady Blessington s style of beauty. The engraved 
 portrait of her, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, which every 
 
204 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 one has seen, will convey all the information that is 
 necessary on this point. Neither Chalon nor Parris 
 have at all succeeded in portraying her to the life. 
 Count D'Orsay's sketch of her is the best. 
 
 Standing behind Lady Blessington, and familiarly 
 conversing with her, was the famous Count D'Orsay, 
 
 " The glass of fashion and the mould of form." 
 
 As he stood, his fine form relieved by the drapery of 
 the box, he certainly appeared to be one of the best 
 looking, and certainly the very best dressed man T 
 ever saw. I say one of the best looking ; for he by 
 no means carries away the palm in this respect. He 
 is rather effeminate than otherwise in face. His hair 
 is light — so are his whiskers, which almost conceal 
 the lower part of his face, and meet, in monstrous 
 bushiness, under his well-shaped chin — and so is his 
 complexion. Seen in profile, his features are exqui- 
 sitely regular ; but still there is an unmanly softness — 
 a prettiness, which ill becomes a lord of the creation, 
 about it. His dress was faultless in colour and cut — 
 perfectly plain and simple, and fitting to a nicety ; 
 but the great perfection of his art in dressing, was 
 the art he showed in concealing it. 
 
 Count D'Orsay, as well as the best dressing, is one 
 of the most accomplished men of his day. A writer 
 in Ainsworth's Magazine says of him, " He has 
 successively enriched the gallery that bears his name, 
 with the portraits of the fair, the learned, the noble, 
 and the highly gifted ; the statesman, the poet, the 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 205 
 
 wit, the beauty, the philosopher, shine Uke stars in 
 the firmament of his creation : 
 
 " lUustre suono 
 E di nome magnifico, e di cose," 
 
 and he, who in after days would seek to know the 
 brightest names in the early annals of Victoria's reign, 
 need only turn the pages which now lie open before 
 us." The same writer remarks : 
 
 " In the sister art of modelling, the accomplished 
 Count has displayed equal skill ; and we propose on 
 an early occasion to recur to his productions ; mean- 
 while, we may mention that a pair of equestrian sta- 
 tuettes of the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, 
 recently completed, are perfect gems, and need only 
 to be seen, to be universally admired." 
 
 Before I quit my sketching-box let us note an in- 
 dividual, whom we can just catch a glimpse of in the 
 " pit." He is strongly built and rather below the middle 
 height — his face is round and fresh coloured, and he 
 wears a profusion of light hair. Were we near 
 enough to hear the remarks he is making to a neigh- 
 bour, we should discover that he has a strong Not- 
 tinghamshire dialect, though he possesses none of the 
 shyness or awkwardness of a countryman. A friend 
 of ours, who, some years since, met him at a party, 
 heard from his own lips the following particulars of 
 his literary history : — 
 
 He was born on the borders of Sherwood Forest, 
 where Robin Hood and his merry men flourished in 
 
206 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 times of old. From childhood (he was then about 
 five or six and twenty) he had loved to wander in the 
 green woods and lanes, and unconsciously his poetic 
 sensibilities were thus fostered. His station in life 
 was very humble, and at an early age he learned 
 basket-making, by which occupation he earned a bare 
 subsistence. He married early, and the increasing 
 wants of a family led him to try the experiment of 
 publishing some poems and sketches, but, owing to 
 want of patronage, no benefit resulted to him. He 
 at last determined to go to London — that fancied 
 paradise of young authors — that great reservoir of 
 talent— too often, that grave of genius. Thither he 
 went, leaving for the present his family behind, and, 
 alighting from the stage coach, found himself in the 
 Strand — a stranger amongst thousands, with just 
 seven shillings and sixpence in his pocket. He soon 
 made the melancholy discovery that a stranger in 
 London, however great may be his talents, stands 
 but a poor chance of getting on, without the assist- 
 ance of some helping hand ; so, to keep body and 
 soul together, he set to work making baskets. In 
 this occupation he continued some time, occasionally 
 sending some little contribution to the periodicals. 
 At length. Fortune smiled on her patient wooer. One 
 day, whilst he was engaged in bending his osiers, he 
 was surprised by a visit from Mr. W. H. Hani son. 
 Editor of the well-known Annual, "Friendship's Offer- 
 ing." That gentleman had seen one or two pieces 
 of Miller's, and been struck with their originality. 
 
SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 207 
 
 He found him out, after much labour, and asked him 
 to write a poem for the forthcoming volume of the 
 " Offering." 
 
 Miller was then so poor that he had not pen, ink, 
 or paper; so he got some whitey-brown paper, in 
 which sugar had been vn'apped, mixed up some soot 
 with water for his ink, and then sat down — the back 
 of a bellows serving for a desk — and wrote his well- 
 known lines on an " Old Fountain." These beautiful 
 verses being completed, he sealed his letter with some 
 moistened bread for a wafer, and forwarded them, 
 with many hopes and fears, to the Editor. They 
 were immediately accepted, and Mr. Harrison for- 
 warded the poet two guineas for them. " I never had 
 been so rich in my life before," said the Basket-maker 
 to my friend, " and I fancied some one would hear 
 of my fortune and try to rob me of it — so, at night, 
 T barred the door and went to bed, but did not 
 sleep all night, from delight and fear." Miller still, 
 to his honour, continued the certain occupation of 
 basket-making, but he was noticed by many — amongst 
 others, by Lady Blessington, who sent for him, re- 
 commended his book, and did him substantial service. 
 " Often," said Miller, " have I been sitting in Lady 
 Blessington's splendid drawing-room in the morning, 
 talking and laughing as familiarly as in the old house 
 at home, and, on the same evening, I might have been 
 seen standing on Westminster Bridge, between an 
 apple-vendor and a baked-potato merchant, vending 
 my baskets." 
 
208 SKETCHES FROM A "PRIVATE BOX." 
 
 Miller now tried his hand at a novel, " Royston 
 Gower," which succeeded well, and then another, 
 " Fair Rosamond;" — he read diligently at the British 
 Museum, and was perseveringly industrious. After- 
 wards he became the publisher of his own works. 
 He now frequently contributes to the Magazines and 
 Annuals, and the freshness of his former works is 
 quite as observable as of yore. He is an amiable 
 man and a true poet. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES AND EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 Everybody has heard of James Montgomery, the 
 " Christian poet," as he has been fitly termed, but I 
 have been surprised to find how many persons, even 
 in this day of general reading, there are who do not 
 sufficiently distinguish between his productions and 
 those of the Montgomery whom we are apt to regard 
 in a Satanic light. I shall endeavour, in this chap- 
 ter, to introduce both to the reader, in order that the 
 Bard of Sheffield may be fairly portrayed, and that 
 he who sung of the devil, may, like that awful per- 
 sonage, have his due. 
 
 Many years ago, I knew Robert Montgomery, 
 when, unadorned with gown and bands, he edited a 
 small periodical in the city of Bath. He was at that 
 time very dapper in appearance, and rather good- 
 looking, but, as a literary man, had attracted little or 
 no notice. Some time after this I lost sight of him 
 altogether, and the next tidings of him were con- 
 tained in the title-page of a volume of poetry, the 
 
210 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES : 
 
 subject being the daring one of the " Omnipresence 
 of the Deity." The name of Montgomery had long 
 been familiar to the poetical world ; for many years 
 James had been before the public, and when a new 
 poem " by Montgomery" was advertised, people over- 
 looked the " Robert," and rushed to purchase. Edi- 
 tion after edition of the " Omnipresence" was rapidly 
 disposed of, and when the new Christian name was 
 at length talked about, the young man's popularity, 
 as evidenced by the great sale of his work, was 
 trumpeted forth in all the old lady coteries of the 
 land. Of course a great many people laughed — but 
 what of that ? a hit had been made, and a little for- 
 tune too. Pollok's " Course of Time," which, I be- 
 lieve, was published about the same period as Mont- 
 gomery's " Omnipresence," was, although really a 
 fine production, almost lost in the blaze of popu- 
 larity which lighted upon the rival poem ; but Wilson, 
 in a slashing critique in Blackwood, stripped the 
 borrowed plumes from one writer, in order to bestow 
 on another the rightful reward of genius. 
 
 Montgomery next produced, I believe, " Satan," 
 and I rather think that it was not to this poem he 
 prefixed the affected portrait of himself, which every 
 one laughed at. The poem, if such it might be 
 called, earned a title for its author which has, in 
 spite of his sacerdotal character, stuck to him ever 
 since, and which effectually distinguishes him from 
 James. Having exhausted his diabolical inventions, 
 he became excessively devoted to the fair sex, and 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 211 
 
 produced his " Woman, the Angel of Life." He 
 afterwards went to Oxford, became an M.A., and 
 after residing some time in Glasgow, was installed 
 minister of Percy Chapel, London, to which place of 
 worship I repaired, a few mornings since, for the 
 purpose of hearing him. 
 
 Percy Chapel is one of the metropolitan fashion- 
 able places of worship. There was a very pompous 
 beadle at the door, who bustled about prodigiously 
 whenever a carriage drew up, and who drove away 
 from the house of the Lord every one who had a 
 poverty-stricken appearance, with most exemplary 
 vigilance. On entering the body of the chapel, this 
 functionary hinted to me that I had better go into 
 the gallery, so I mounted the stairs, and in a trice 
 found myself amongst a company of Lilliputian 
 grandmothers, who are called charity girls. It was 
 rather a chilly morning, and I quite pitied the poor 
 little creatures as they sat in their cold corner, with 
 blue noses and purple arms, on either side of the 
 organ, and thought that a cloak would have been no 
 very great breach of charity-school etiquette. People 
 passed by me to their seats, but no one offered me 
 one, so at last I applied to one of the pew-openers, 
 a pinched-up looking widow, as she hurried past me. 
 It was no use, however ; for although there were 
 plenty of seats vacant, she paid me no more atten- 
 tion than if I had been a block of stone. At last, 
 when tired of standing, I remembered that I was in 
 a fashionable church, where piety must be paid for ; 
 
212 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES : 
 
 SO when the old lady next approached me, I put my 
 hand in my pocket, and immediately perceived that 
 the action had the effect of relaxing the muscles of 
 her grim countenance. ' Will you get me a seat, if 
 possible, ma'am ?' said I, for the twentieth time ; but 
 this time I slipped a shilling into her hand. 
 
 She received it so dexterously, that no one could 
 have suspected her of having taken a bribe — not a 
 bit of it; nor did she betray herself by putting it 
 into her pocket. I heard it clink against some com- 
 panion coin, and have no doubt, from what I after- 
 wards observed, that she made a " pretty penny" of 
 it that morning. Before long (oh ! potent shilling !) 
 I was snugly esconced in a comfortable pew directly 
 fronting the pulpit. 
 
 The morning was very foggy, and so the gas-lights 
 in the chandelier were burning. All round the gal- 
 lery were little festoons of evergreens, for the Christ- 
 mas season had scarcely passed, and on either side 
 the pulpit were two large, showy bouquets of bril- 
 liant flowers. This same pulpit was a very well 
 padded one, and the cushion was so much stuffed 
 that it appeared plethoric and ready to burst with 
 pride, as a fashionable church's pulpit- cushion should. 
 The organ also was decorated with holly, fantastically 
 arranged ; in short, everything looked natty, and the 
 reader will presently agree with me, that if they had 
 not, they would have been quite out of character 
 with the fashionable preacher. A curate read the 
 prayers ; and when they had terminated, and whilst 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 213 
 
 a psalm was being sung, the Rev. Robert Mont- 
 gomery ascended the pulpit stairs, and having bowed 
 his head in private devotion, and then uttered the 
 preliminary prayer, commenced his discourse. 
 
 He stood so high in the pulpit, that two-thirds of 
 his figure were visible above the aforementioned well- 
 stuffed cushion. He was what one would call a 
 '^ pretty looking parson ;" his hair of a dark colour, 
 was carefully parted in the centre of his forehead, 
 and combed aside, terminating in two very precisely 
 arranged curls, which did not look very natural, but 
 they might have been for all that ; his eyebrows were 
 as regular as if pencilled ; he had pretty good dark 
 eyes, and as he affectedly glanced round on the 
 crowded congregation, it seemed as if a faint smile 
 of self-satisfaction played upon his lips. His gown 
 was most carefully disposed — not a fold was out of 
 order, and the bands were of snowy whiteness and 
 most precise pattern. I have heard that Mr. Mont- 
 gomery sometimes sports ruffles, but I did not observe 
 them on this occasion. As it was, there was a good 
 deal too much of the " nice young man" about him to 
 square with my perhaps antiquated notions. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery, after giving out his text, com- 
 menced his discourse with very great fluency, using 
 no notes, excepting occasionally referring to a slip of 
 paper which w^as inserted betw^een the leaves of his 
 small bible. It appeared to me that he had learned 
 his discourse, and was now reciting it, as a school- 
 boy does his lesson. His voice was harsh and ill- 
 
214 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES I 
 
 modulated, and his manner very affected. As to the 
 sermon itself, it appeared to be little else than a 
 tissue of laborious conceits, wrapped up in very hard 
 words. Simplicity had nothing to do with it ; and if 
 ever a grain of wheat showed itself, he immediately 
 hid it beneath the chaff of his illustration. There 
 was nothing like argument ; or, if he did attempt 
 anything in that way, he only created tinselled giants 
 for the purpose of displaying his own dexterity in 
 knocking them down. There were such observations 
 as these, — he talked of " God radiating his own eter- 
 nity from his own essence ;" " God-ward accretions 
 of grace, and Devil- ward accretions of sin ; " of 
 " light touching sentiment in its most exquisite 
 centre." He remarked, that " a holy man in a room 
 radiated sanctity ;" observed, that " when he visited 
 poor people they sometimes said they had such and 
 such a feeling, but that he always told them that they 
 had nothing to do with feeling ! " And in winding 
 up his discourse, he assured his hearers that he had 
 arrived at certain views after "prayerful and hard 
 study." The sermon was indeed 
 
 " a fine specimen on the whole, 
 
 Of rhetoric, which the learned call rigmarole." 
 
 And it concluded, without its having left any abiding 
 impression on the mind, without having aroused any 
 new train of thought, or thrown fresh light on any 
 topic, by the opening of the orator's eyes, which had 
 been closed during the greater part of his discourse? 
 and by a graceful flourish of his pocket-handkerchief 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 215 
 
 I heard many comments on the discourse as I made 
 my way towards the door ; ladies lisped out their 
 admiration of the " sweet sermon," and fragrant 
 young gentlemen chimed in their praises of the 
 " splendid preacher." For my own part, having 
 expected just what I had heard, I was by no means 
 disappointed. 
 
 Asa warning to all who may pay their shillings for 
 seats in fashionable churches, I would record in this 
 place the fact, that I had not long been snug in my 
 corner, when a lady of ponderous proportions came 
 to the pew, and ordered me to "let her have her 
 seat." Common politeness made me vacate it, al- 
 though, having paid for it, I considered it as much 
 or more mine than hers ; and common prudence will 
 in future suggest to me the propriety of keeping my 
 money, and not purchasing with it an already dis- 
 posed-of property. There are bribery and corruption 
 in the seats at Percy Chapel, I find, as well as in 
 those of St. Stephen's. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The first time I ever saw James Montgomery was 
 on the occasion of his presiding at a public Anni- 
 versary meeting of the Wesleyan Missionary Society. 
 As he proceeded down the aisle of the Chapel, to- 
 wards the platform, I had no difficulty whatever in 
 distinguishing the " Christian Poet," as he is termed, 
 fi*om the crowd of gentlemen by whom he was sur- 
 rounded, owing to the resemblance he bore to the 
 many portraits of him which I have seen. Amidst 
 
216 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES : 
 
 much cheering, he took his place in the seat of honour, 
 and I had then a good opportunity of observing him. 
 
 And I looked at him with no little interest, for his 
 sweet and touching poetry had been familiar to me 
 from childhood. He appeared of the middle height, 
 or a trifle under it, and his dress was plain black ; 
 indeed, he would have been taken by most persons 
 for a clergyman. Over a high and well-formed fore- 
 head, were combed some thin locks of hair, the co- 
 lour of which must have, at one time, approached to 
 a sandy hue, but which now was of a yellowish grey 
 colour; the upper portion of the forehead was 
 nearly bald ; his eyes were deep set, of a light 
 colour, and not particularly expressive or lustrous ; 
 the nose was long, and slightly aquiline, and his 
 mouth small, and by no means well formed. A large 
 white cravat enveloped his neck, and almost buried 
 his chin in its ample folds. The prevailing expression 
 of his features was of a very pensive character — 
 almost, indeed, of sadness ; and in this respect he 
 presented a very marked contrast to the pert and 
 perking appearance of his namesake, Robert. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery opened the meeting with a few 
 rather common-place observations. His voice was 
 thin, weak, and very tremulous, and his action by no 
 means graceful. It might be that I had wound up 
 my expectations to too high a pitch, or that the sub- 
 ject on which he spoke was not calculated to display 
 his peculiar powers — but the truth is, I was much 
 disappointed. The speech was anything but what I 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 217 • 
 
 should have expected from the author of the " Pelican 
 Island." 
 
 I afterwards heard Mr. Montgomery deliver a 
 course of lectures on English Poetry. When they 
 were announced, a great sensation was created, for it 
 was naturally supposed that from a poet we should 
 have a brilliant exposition of his theme. They were 
 
 delivered in the theatre of the B Institution, 
 
 and were well attended ; but their success was by no 
 means commensurate with the literary repute of the 
 lecturer. Mr. Montgomery is not adapted by nature 
 for a public orator. There was a tremulous mono- 
 tony in his tones, which induced a listlessness on the 
 part of his auditory : and although now and then the 
 true poet burst forth in a blaze of exceeding beauty, 
 the flashes were meteoric and transient. On the 
 whole, these lectures were a failure ; but their want 
 of success might, perhaps, be more justly attributable 
 to the style of their delivery, than to any glaring de- 
 fects in the subject matter itself. 
 
 A friend of mine, in describing an evening which 
 some years ago he spent with James Montgomery 
 says, — " In the course of the evening the conver- 
 sation turned on Robert Montgomery's poetry, which 
 was then making a great noise; James, for some 
 time, took no part in what was going on, but remained 
 an attentive listener. At last it seemed as if flesh 
 and blood could bear it no longer, for he commented 
 on the meanness of " Satan Bob," in assuming his 
 
 L 
 
218 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES : 
 
 name, for the purpose of cheating the public into the 
 purchase of his wares. " It has been a serious 
 business to me," said the true Montgomery, " for I 
 am constantly receiving letters, evidently intended 
 for another person, in which I am either mercilessly 
 abused, for what I never wrote, or bespattered with 
 compliments of the most nauseating character. Many, 
 to this day, do not distinguish between me and Robert 
 Montgomery, and so I am, in a great measure, robbed 
 of what little hard-earned fame I possess." The poet 
 evidently was much mortified by Robert's bearing his 
 name, and did not endeavour to disguise his chagrin. 
 His intimate friends say that this is the only subject 
 which rufiles the habitual serenity of his mind ; and 
 well it may, for it must be no trifling annoyance to 
 see that fame, which was acquired by years of toil 
 and patient endurance, perilled in the minds of many 
 by the productions of the author of " Oxford," and 
 ^' Woman." 
 
 Every lover of James Montgomery's poetry will 
 be gratified by my inserting in this volume, a copy of 
 verses by him, but very little known. They were 
 produced under the following circumstances. Such 
 a poem, written "to order" on no very arousing 
 theme, proves genius as much as his " Wanderer of 
 Switzerland," or the " World before the Flood." 
 
 Four years since a ladies' bazaar was got up in 
 Cardiff Castle, for the purpose of procuring funds to 
 aid in the erection of a Church, on the site of one 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 219 
 
 which had been washed away, two hundred years be- 
 fore, by a flood of the River Severn, and consequently 
 of a great influx of waters into the Estuary of the 
 Bristol Channel. It was considered that if some 
 poems on the subject could be procured from popular 
 writers, and published in an embellished form, they 
 would materially aid the objects in view. Mr. James 
 Montgomery, and also Mr. Wordsworth, were applied 
 to, and both of them kindly complied with the re- 
 quest made, by sending, the former a poem, and the 
 latter a sonnet. Two other poems were published, 
 by friends to the cause. The four were brought out 
 in very splendid style, and fully answered the ob- 
 jects for which they were written. I now subjoin the 
 contributions of Montgomery and Wordsworth ; the 
 latter, principally for the purpose of showing how 
 differently two great poets would treat a common 
 subject. Both "productions have long since been out 
 of print, and are not included in any collected 
 volume. They will therefore have almost all the 
 charm of perfect novelty. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown 
 
 St. Mary's Church, the preacher then would cry 
 *' Thus, Christian people, God his might hath shown 
 
 That ye to Him your love may testify ; 
 Haste, and rebuild the Pile" — But not a stone 
 
 Resumed its place. Age after age went by 
 And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety 
 
 In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan. 
 But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim 
 
 In power, and Poesy would lend her voic 
 l2 
 
220 THE TWO MONTGOMERIES : 
 
 Let the new Church be worthy of its aim, 
 
 That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice ! 
 Oh ! in the Past if cause there was for shame, 
 
 Let not our Times halt in their better choice. 
 
 Wm. Wordsworth. 
 Rydal Mount, 23rd Jan. 1842. 
 
 The following is Mr. Montgomery's poem, which 
 he entitles 
 
 CARDIFF CHURCH LOST AND RESTORED. 
 
 Here stood a Church, — a house of God, 
 An earthly temple, built with stones; 
 
 Its courts our father's footsteps trod, 
 Its graves received our father's bones : 
 
 The hymn of praise, the voice of prayer, 
 
 The gospel trumpet sounded there ; 
 
 And ransomed spirits, in Heaven's bliss. 
 
 May round the throne remember this. 
 
 But earthly temples must decay — 
 
 By slow or swift destruction fall ; 
 And time or tide will wear away 
 
 The stateliest tower, the strongest wall : 
 Here both conspired ; in one dark hour, 
 To sap the wall — bring down the tower ; 
 To storm the sanctuary, and sweep 
 Its very ruins to the deep ! 
 
 The river rushed upon the sea — 
 
 The sea the river's rage repelled. 
 All the wild winds, at once set free. 
 
 War with the warring waters held : 
 On fire with foam the surges seem, 
 While vehemently beat the stream, 
 And rocked the fabric to and fro. 
 As if an Earthquake heaved below. 
 
 Till, as in dead of night, the flash 
 
 Of lightning issues from a cloud. 
 Chased by the thunder, crash on crash, 
 
 Down to the galph the Temple bowed ; 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 221 
 
 Bowed, for a moment, on the spot, 
 Another moment, it was not ! 
 O'er the Lost Church the billows boomed. 
 And with its wreck its tombs entombed ! 
 
 " Thus far, nor farther shall ye go," 
 The river heard that voice and fled ; 
 
 Spanning the firmament, God*s bow. 
 The sign of wrath retiring, spread ; 
 
 Promise of future glory gave. 
 
 And resurrection from the grave, 
 
 When circling seasons had fulfilled 
 
 The term his sovereign counsel willed. 
 
 The fulness of that time behold ! 
 
 Nine generations, in their haste. 
 Have passed where stood that Church of old. 
 
 Yet still the hallowed ground lies waste ; 
 Ye, who where they once breathed now breathe, 
 To your posterity bequeath 
 Of your existence here well spent, 
 A House of Prayer, as monument. 
 
 From granite rocks the pile renew — 
 
 From Cambrian mines the ore be wrought, 
 
 From ancient woods the timber hew. 
 To body forth creative thought ; 
 
 And bid the second temple rise 
 
 A land and sea-mark to all eyes. 
 
 Which shall outshine the first as far 
 
 As harvest-moon the morning star. 
 
 " There is a house not built with hands, 
 
 Eternal in the Heavens," for them 
 Who journey singly or in bands, 
 
 To seek the New Jerusalem ; 
 With these may all who worship here, 
 Age after age, in turn appear, 
 Where that which men call death on earth, 
 Spirits shall deem their better birth. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 The Mount, near Sheffield, Feb. 23rd, 1842. 
 
 ^ ^ * ^ 
 
222 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 ' Have you ever heard Elliott, the Corn Law 
 Rhymer, speak ?' said a friend to me, when I was once 
 visiting Sheffield. 
 
 ' Never,' I replied, ' but I should much like to.' 
 
 ' Well, he lives some three miles from here, at 
 Upperthorpe ; but he is to speak to-night, at a Corn 
 Law meeting, in Sheffield, and, if you like, after tea, 
 we'll go and hear him.' 
 
 At the time specified, we set out — ^the place where 
 the lecture was to be delivered was situated in one 
 of the most densely inhabited portions of the smoky 
 town of Sheffield. As we entered the hall, groups 
 of dark-looking unwashed artizans were seen, pro- 
 ceeding in the same direction as ourselves — all of 
 them engaged in deep and earnest conversation on 
 the then one great subject. The Corn Laws. Strong 
 men, as they hurried by, clenched their hands, and 
 knitted their brows, and ground their teeth, as they 
 muttered imprecations on those whom they considered 
 to be their oppressors. Here we would encounter a 
 crowd of dusky forms, circling around a pale, anxious 
 man, who was reading by the light of a gas lamp, a 
 speech reported in the " Northern Star," or the last 
 letter of Publicola, in the " Weekly Despatch"— and 
 women, with meagre children in their arms — children 
 drugged to a death-like sleep, by that curse of the 
 manufacturing districts of England — laudanum, dis- 
 guised as Godfrey's Cordial, were raising their shrill, 
 shrewish voices, and execrating the laws which ground 
 them to the dust — and there were fierce denunciations 
 
EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 223 
 
 from mere boys, and treasonable speeches from young 
 men — old men, with half-paralyzed energies, moaned 
 and groaned, and said they had never known such 
 times — all seemed gaunt and fierce, and ripe for re- 
 volt. It was an audience of working men — of such 
 as these, that Ebenezer Elliott was to address that 
 evening. 
 
 The lecturing hall was crammed with the working 
 classes, and as the orator of the evening mounted 
 the rostrum, a wild burst of applause rung from every 
 part of the house. He bowed slightly, smiled sternly, 
 and took a seat, whilst a hymn, which he had com- 
 posed for the occasion, was roared forth by hundreds 
 of brazen lungs. 
 
 He was a man rather under than above what is 
 termed the middle height. Like the class from 
 whence he sprung, and which he was about to 
 address, he was attired in working clothes — clothes 
 plain even to coarseness. He had a high, broad, 
 very intellectual forehead, with rough ridges on the 
 temples, from the sides and summit of which thick 
 stubby hair was brushed up — streaks of grey mingling 
 with the coarse black hair — his eyebrows were dark 
 and thick, and shaded two large, deeply set, glaring 
 eyes, which rolled every way, and seemed to surv^ey 
 the whole of that vast assembly at a glance. His 
 nasal organ was as if it were grafted on his face, the 
 mouth was thick-lipped, and the lines, from the angles 
 of the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, were 
 deeply indented — graven in. A very black beard, 
 
224 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 lately shaven, made his chin and neck appear as if it 
 was covered with dots, and he had a thick, massive 
 throat. His figure was indicative of great muscular 
 strength, and his big horny fists seemed more fitted 
 to wield a sledge hammer than to flourish a pen. 
 Looking at him, the most casual observer would be 
 impressed with the idea that no common man was 
 before him. 
 
 He rose amidst great cheering, and for an hour and 
 a half held that great audience in entire subjection 
 by one of the most powerful addresses I ever listened 
 to. With a terrible distinctness he painted the 
 situation of the working man — he showed what he 
 might have been, and contrasted his possible and 
 probable situation with what it then was. On the 
 heads of those who opposed Free Trade, the Corn 
 Law Rhymer poured out all the vials of his wrath — 
 but, vigorous and forcible as was his language, there 
 was no coarseness ; and frequently, over the landscape 
 which he had painted with all the wild force of a 
 Spagnoletti or a Caravaggio, he flung a gleam of 
 sunshine, which made the moral wilderness he had 
 pictured to rejoice and blossom as the rose. And 
 there were passages in his speech of such extreme 
 pathos, that strong men would bow down and weep, 
 like little children — to these would succeed such 
 sledge-hammer denunciations, that his hearers sat 
 with compressed lips, and glaring eyes, and resolute 
 hearts. When he sat down, after an appeal to the 
 justice of the Law Makers, the whole audience burst 
 
EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 225 
 
 forth into one loud cheer, and those near the speaker 
 gripped his hand in fierce delight. I never saw such 
 a scene, nor could I have conceived it possible that 
 one working man should have so carried with him 
 the passions and feelings of an audience, consisting 
 entirely of those of his own class. 
 
 L 3 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SKETCHES OF A FEW POPULAR PREACHERS, 
 LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ROWLAND HILL. 
 
 Who does not remember Rowland Hill ? or who at 
 least does not know him by repute ? I never re- 
 member to have heard him preach more than once, 
 and that was when he was drawing near to the close 
 of his long and useful career. I think this must 
 have been about eighteen hundred and twenty- seven 
 or eight. It was on some anniversary occasion that 
 he preached ; and after having with much difficulty 
 gained admission to the crowded chapel, I observed, 
 whilst a hymn was being sung, a vestry-door open, 
 and an old gentleman emerge, who, with a very slow 
 and feeble step, ascended the pulpit stairs. 
 
 And, thought I, as I looked at him, can that be he 
 of whom I have heard such quaint anecdotes, who 
 has given birth to so many witty conceits, and whose 
 very name had come to have a something comical 
 associated with it.? Could that be the man whom 
 
SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS. 227 
 
 some profane and heartless scribbler had called the 
 Merry Andrew of the pulpit ? Yes — it was even 
 so — but let me describe him. 
 
 He appeared to be of the middle height ; and as 
 his old wrinkled hand nervously clutched the railing 
 of the staircase, I could see it tremble so that the 
 balustrade shook, as if in sympathy. There was a 
 considerable stoop in his shoulders, and his knees 
 were scarcely able to support the weight of his broken 
 down, almost worn out body. His head was thinly 
 covered with grey, wiry, standing up hair, combed 
 directly backward from his forehead, which was 
 covered all over with deeply furrowed lines, and from 
 his temples. The nose was long and aquiline, the 
 mouth sunken, the lips retracted and small — the fire 
 of his eyes had become dim ; they looked pale, and 
 from their angles little streams of rheum ran down 
 into the channels which time had made round the 
 once keen orbs. From the corners of his mouth, too, 
 the saliva flowed involuntarily — in other words, the 
 poor old gentleman drivelled, and as he was helped 
 into a high chair, for he could not stand and preach, 
 I thought it almost a pity that he should encounter 
 the fatigue of going through the pulpit exercises. 
 
 He was assisted, in the preliminary portions of the 
 service, by the regular minister of the chapel, and 
 after they had been gone through, he commenced 
 his discourse — but they who were present, and better 
 qualified to judge than I, who had never heard him 
 before, all agreed that the preacher of it was not the 
 
228 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 Rowland Hill of other days. It was, to me, almost 
 painful to see that decayed old man muttering almost 
 unintelligible sentences, and compelled, nearly every 
 five minutes, to remove with his handkerchief the ac- 
 cumulated saliva from the corners of his mouth. His 
 eye had paled its fires, and only once they lighted 
 up with something of the former blaze in them. He 
 said one or two queerish things, and many of the 
 audience began to smile and bustle about in their 
 seats, as if they hoped more was coming — and people 
 would turn to each other and nod, as much as to say — 
 That's it, now he's going to be funny — just as if they 
 had gone there to see Grimaldi, in Mother Goose ; 
 and when the feeble old preacher sank back, half ex- 
 hausted, in his chair, they looked as disappointed as 
 if they had paid half a crown for a pantomime, and 
 been cheated out of the clown. For my own part, I 
 felt, on the whole, gratified at having looked even on 
 the remains, for it could be considered nothing more, 
 of a great and good man, who had almost done his 
 generation work, and was soon to be garnered in his 
 master's house. He died, not very long afterward, 
 " fully ripe." 
 
 MR. SHERMAN. 
 
 Although not exactly in the order of recollection, 
 this will, perhaps, be the most appropriate place for 
 a sketch of Rowland Hill's successor in the Pastor- 
 ship of Surrey Chapel — the Rev. James Sherman — 
 one of the most attractive pulpit orators in London. 
 
JAMES SHERMAN. 229 
 
 Without having any claims to the character of a 
 profound thinker, Mr. Sherman is one of the most 
 popular, and, at the same time, useful preachers of 
 the day. With the young, he is an especial favourite; 
 and I remember the time, when, to have heard him, 
 I would cheerfully have walked miles, with unboiled 
 peas in my shoes. Fancy, reader, that you are in 
 Surrey Chapel — better, or as well known, as Rowland 
 Hill's Chapel, in the Blackfriars road. It is a 
 spacious, circular building — galleries run all round 
 the walls — and these, together with the body of the 
 Chapel, are crowded to suffocation. The service of 
 the Church of England, slightly modified — for Mr. 
 Sherman belongs to the connexion named after the 
 Countess of Huntingdon, who founded it, is read ; 
 and, whilst a hymn is being gloriously sung, and the 
 notes of the organ are resounding beneath the domed 
 roof the preacher ascends to the pulpit, behind which 
 is a bust, in marble, of Rowland Hill. Thus the 
 imaged face of him, " who, being dead, yet speaketh," 
 and the living features of him who is about to address 
 them, are both seen at a glance. The Past and the 
 Present are pictured on the mental retina — and the 
 invitations of him who has passed into the promised 
 land seem to blend with the exhortations of his 
 successor, that they be followers of those who, 
 through faith and patience, are now inheriting the 
 promises. 
 
 The preacher is tall, and clad in pulpit habihments. 
 His head is round, and once covered with short crisp, 
 
230 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 curling dark hair, now rapidly thinning, and turning 
 by the touch of time. As seen in the pulpit, there is 
 an inexpressible sweetness in a countenance, the 
 features of which taken separately would be almost 
 plain. I except the eyes, which are dark, brilliant, 
 and expressive of any feeling which soothes or 
 agitates the mind of their owner. The last time I saw 
 him, he gave another indication of approaching age 
 by ^mounting' spectacles. He commences his ser- 
 mon by reading the text in a distinct musical voice, 
 and then, without the aid of notes, he proceeds in a 
 discourse to which the attention of the most careless 
 hearer becomes riveted until it terminates. As an 
 apt quoter of scripture, he surpasses every one whom 
 I have ever heard. His action in the pulpit is re- 
 markably graceful and unaffected, and I never saw 
 any one who so completely demonstrated what I 
 will ventiu-e to call the eloquence of the hand. By 
 means of this oratorical aid, he frequently produces 
 the most startling effects, and the happiest results — 
 but he does not depend on such adventitious resources. 
 He has however one extremely awkward habit, 
 that of half-jumping, whilst engaged in prayer ; the 
 action is perhaps involuntary, but the shrugging of 
 the shoulders and the lifting of his entire frame, is, 
 to say the least of it, very ungraceful. His eloquence 
 is the eloquence of truth, clad in its most attractive 
 dress, proceeding directly from the heart, and to the 
 hearts of his hearers, it consequently finds its way. 
 He is not what is called " flowery" in his discourses. 
 
JAMES SHERMAN. 231 
 
 yet his style is sufficiently ornate — it is redolent of 
 sweets, but it clogs not. His sermons have not the 
 massive grandeur which distinguishes those of Jay ; 
 nor the bursts of vehement eloquence Parsons de- 
 lights in. There is not in them the stern, vigorous 
 illustrations of Leifchild, neither is there the exquisite 
 polish of Melville. He possesses not the metaphy- 
 sical insight, and the profound research of Harris, 
 nor the exuberant imagination of Newton, but with 
 as deep, as genuine a piety as either, he is in posses- 
 sion of a charm, exclusively his own, which wins all 
 men to love and admire him. Look at him, as he is 
 painting the glories of the Heavenly world. His 
 face glows with unearthly brightness, as if he was 
 gazing in at the half opened golden gates, from 
 whence issue some beams of the living light, irradi- 
 ating his features. In a voice sweetly musical, in all 
 its inflections and modulations, he leads us by living 
 streams, and, listening, we almost see the great white 
 •throne, and the Elders waving their palms, and 
 wearing their crowns, or laying them down before 
 Him who sitteth thereon. He changes the theme, 
 and dark and fearful is the picture which he draws 
 of the domains of Satan and his Angels — and as, 
 with deep toned voice, he paints the horrors of the 
 abysm of despair, we almost see 
 
 " The world of woe before us opening wide," 
 
 as did Southey's hero, on entering Padalon. And 
 yet, in all this there is no affectation, no studied 
 prettiness, no ridiculous conceits, no puerilities, all 
 
232 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS 
 
 is genuine, impassioned eloquence. And it all 
 "tells." 
 
 Mr. Sherman is as much admired in private life, as 
 he is almost adored by his hearers. For years, he 
 has retained his great popularity, and it is still on 
 the increase. To keep together Rowland Hill's con- 
 gregation, after the death of the latter, was no light 
 task — but he has accomplished it. As an author, he 
 is well known, and his works, chiefly small treatises 
 on religious subjects, and sermons, are very exten- 
 sively circulated. He has, however, written no book 
 which it is likely will become a standard work. In- 
 deed, his incessant labours leave him little time to 
 devote to authorship. 
 
 EDWARD IRVING. 
 
 It was my good fortune frequently to hear this 
 great genius preach, both before and after his seces- 
 sion from the Church of Scotland, and never shall 1 
 forget his matter, and his manner. I once, also, met 
 him towards the close of his life, in the social circle, 
 and I will endeavour to give the reader some idea of 
 him as a man and a minister. 
 
 He was, as every one knows, at one period, pastor 
 of a Scotch Church, in London, and there it was that 
 I first heard this remarkable individual. One Sunday 
 morning, I proceeded, two hours before the time ap- 
 pointed for the commencement of the services of the 
 church, and even at that early hour, hundreds were 
 waiting until the doors should be opened, all eager 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 233 
 
 to obtain admission. Long before the crowd was let 
 in, the carriages of Duke this, Lord that, and Sir 
 something the other, drove up and disgorged their 
 freights of wealth and fashion, and beauty, for Irving 
 was then the rage, and undergoing the process of 
 being spoiled. He was, indeed, the great Sunday 
 lion of London, and what would the fashion-hunters 
 of the modern Babylon do without an idol. Have 
 one they must, and have one they will, whether it be 
 a specimen of mental greatness, or corporeal littleness. 
 From the Queen on the throne, down to the giver of 
 a good dinner, there must be the daily monstrej as 
 well as the daily bread. Anything will do; for we 
 have seen, in this our day, an infinitesimal fraction of 
 humanity petted in a palace by royalty itself, whilst 
 genius stood shivedng at the portals, wishing that 
 God had conferred upon it the distinction of little- 
 ness. Anything outre, and Irving was outre enough 
 to satisfy the morbid cravings of a fashionable mob.^v. 
 Well, having squeezed myself in, I got a standing 
 place, where I could see pretty well all that was 
 going on, and presently Irving ascended the pulpit. 
 
 And never saw I such another man. Look, reader, 
 at the pictures of the Evangelists by some of the old 
 masters — pictures where John, for example, is repre- 
 sented with dark locks flowing down on his shoulders, 
 and with a countenance majestic in its solemn re- 
 pose — and you will have some idea of his head. As 
 for his face, when the muscles were in action, it would 
 have required the very Caravaggio or Spagnoletti of 
 
234 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHEPvS — 
 
 portrait-painters to have correctly transferred it to 
 canvass, so wild, striking and solemn was it in its 
 manifold expressions. 
 
 He was tall and slender, but apparently firmly 
 knit, and originally he must have possessed con- 
 siderable strength. There was a slight stoop of the 
 shoulders — most studious men have that — but his 
 head, face, and long arms were the most striking 
 portions of his person. 
 
 He gave out a hymn, and read a chapter, in a 
 deep-toned, solemn voice, as though he was ftdly 
 aware of the importance of the great themes on which 
 he was fixing his attention ; afterwards he offered up 
 an extemporaneous prayer, in a broad Scotch accent, 
 which was at first rather difficult to understand, and 
 then came the sermon. 
 
 His subject was taken from the book of Daniel, 
 the fifth chapter, and the 25th, 26th and 27th verses, 
 in which the words written by the mystic hand on 
 the wall of Belshazzar's palace, " Mene, Mene, 
 Tekel, Upharsin," are translated by the Prophet. 
 
 He commenced his discourse in a low, monotonous 
 tone, and gave a brief historical sketch of the men 
 and times referred to in the prophecy ; and then, as 
 if to suit his wealthy and aristocratical congregation, 
 he commenced a violent and terrific attack on the 
 Dives of the day. As he became fairly involved in 
 his subject, his attitudes were extraordinary — and 
 speaking on this part of my subject, I am reminded that 
 I have not fully described his personal appeaance. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 235 
 
 His face and head were majestically formed, as 
 far as features were concerned. From a high and 
 broad forehead, an abundance of raven black hair, 
 parted exactly in the centre, streamed down in luxu- 
 riant ringlets over his broad shoulders. His nose 
 was large and prominent, and his mouth well- shaped, 
 and very versatile in expression. He had high cheek 
 bones, and his complexion was very dark — yet, 
 swarthy as it was, a still deeper shade on the 
 lower portion of the face showed that, in shaving, 
 a beard blacker than usual had been shorn. But 
 the most peculiar features of his face were the 
 eyes, which were black, and would, had they ever 
 seemed to have looked at^ have seen through one. 
 Both of these organs of vision were strangely dis- 
 figured and distorted by strabismus — in plain lan- 
 guage, he squinted most awfully. It was not a " cast" 
 in the eye — such as George Whitfield had — and 
 which, his biographers tell us, was at times rather a 
 grace than a defect, but a downright deformity. And 
 so bright were these eccentric " optics," that, when 
 he was animated, he seemed to shoot from them 
 oblique lightning. His figure was attired in the 
 peculiarly fashioned gown worn by Ministers of the 
 Kirk of Scotland, so that his long arms were not en- 
 veloped in silken folds, but the coat sleeve was visible, 
 from wrist to arm-pit. 
 
 He had not proceeded far in his sermon, when he 
 began to lash the vices and extravagances of the 
 
236 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 rich, and then I thought, at first, that the pulpit 
 would not long contain him, for now he would stretch 
 his long body over the cushion, and with the bible in 
 his outstretched hands, he seemed in imminent peril 
 of falling on the heads of those immediately under — 
 then he would suddenly straighten himself, and ex- 
 tending his arms, he would look something like one 
 of the models on which we see coats exhibited at the 
 doors of tailor's shops. For a few minutes he would 
 stand quietly, with his right hand pointing to heaven, 
 and his left fore-finger resting on the bible, pouring 
 forth a stream of eloquence, worthy, as to language 
 and style, the old divines ; and, as if a fury had sud- 
 denly possessed him, he would rush from one side 
 of the pulpit to the other, flinging himself into all 
 imaginable positions, and making the most singular 
 and grotesque faces imaginable. To give on paper 
 a correct idea of Irving's style, would be a sheer im- 
 possibility, for his manner, which had a vast deal to 
 do vnth his popularity, could not be transferred by 
 pen and ink. But spite of his eccentricities and ex- 
 travagances, he was wonderfully eloquent. There 
 was neither trick nor artifice about him — nothing 
 about his genius — and sterling genius was his — of a 
 meretricious nature — it was all good, hard, solid 
 sterling stuff, and would have passed current in any 
 assembly, however intellectual, in Christendom. His 
 denunciations were most terrific, and he somewhat 
 reminded me, in many portions of his sermons, of 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 237 
 
 the elder Kean — indeed, Irving made one read the 
 Prophecies, as Coleridge said Edmund Kean made 
 one read Shakspeare — by flashes of lightning, daz- 
 zling, but not confounding. 
 
 I left Irving' s church with the impression that he 
 was a' wild genius — ^but still a mighty one — the 
 man was original in every respect, and profoundly 
 learned. Like a comet, he swept across the religious 
 hemisphere, astonishing all, and dismaying many; 
 assuming, in his eccentric course, numberless changes; 
 and at last appalling those who gazed in wonder at 
 his splendid and perilous career. 
 
 They who would know more of Irving's mind, 
 should read his friend and countryman, Carlyle's, 
 article on his death. I pretend not to dive beneath 
 the surface of things, in these papers, and therefore 
 pass on to record my last recollections of him. 
 
 Soon after the occurrences just noted, Mr. Irving 
 embraced those doctrines — in all sincerity, I have 
 not the slightest doubt — which led to his removal 
 from the Kirk of Scotland; and then, two or three 
 affluent followers of the preacher procured him a 
 place of worship in Berners street, Oxford street. In 
 this place, the mad scenes of the " Unknown Tongue" 
 delusion were enacted, and, to the sincere regret of 
 all Mr. Irving' s sane admirers, he fostered and en- 
 couraged the fanaticism. Happening to be in town 
 whilst he occupied this church, I went there one 
 Sunday evening, and got in with great difficulty. On 
 a platform at one end of the building, a little altar 
 
238 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PPvEACHERS — 
 
 was erected, on which was a cushion and a bible. 
 By this stood Irving, with one hand resting on the 
 sacred volume, and the other holding a book, from 
 which, in deep, guttural tones, he was reading a 
 hymn. Above his head was a single globular lamp, 
 which, casting a subdued light on his gowned figure, 
 and on his picturesque head, produced a strikingly 
 fine effect. He preached a short sermon, but, to my 
 surprise, used very little action— for he stood ma- 
 jestically still, only, at times, moving his arms a 
 little. His language was remarkably and impressively 
 beautiful, reminding one of the diction of some of 
 the quaint old writers and dramatists. Had I not 
 known it was Irving, I should scarcely have taken the 
 solemn, dignified looking individual before me, for 
 the same person as him whom I had previously heard 
 in Regent Square Church. 
 
 The last time I saw Edward Irving was at Chep- 
 stow, in South Wales, and not long before his death. 
 He was then visiting an elderly lady there, who had 
 erected an Irvingite place of worship in that town, 
 in which he preached at the opening. I was, with 
 others, invited to spend the evening in his company; 
 and if I had been struck with the alteration in his 
 appearance in Berners street from what it had been 
 in Regent square, I was even startled at the difference 
 in his person since I had noted him at the former 
 place. He was half seated, half lying on a sofa, 
 when I entered the room, in a languid and half worn 
 out state, and evidently undergoing great bodily suf- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 239 
 
 fering. His long black hair was, now that I saw it 
 near, prematurely streaked with grey ; his eyes were 
 sunken, his nose pinched up, and a damp sweat was 
 on his face. When I took his hand in mine, I knew 
 there was death in it — he had a short, troublesome 
 cough; but on his face was a pleasant smile, and 
 now his strabismus was not disagreeable in appear- 
 ance. During the evening he talked very little. Be- 
 fore we left he read a chapter. I remember it well ; 
 it was the twenty-second of Revelations — and when 
 he came to the 14th verse, " Blessed are they that 
 do his commandments, that they may have right to 
 the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates 
 into the city," he repeated the words "into the city — 
 into the city," twice, with solemn emphasis ; and then 
 kneeling down, he poured forth one of the most 
 beautiful appeals to the Deity which mortal ear ever 
 heard, or mortal tongue could ever utter. That 
 prayer closed the evening — and ere many weeks, 
 into the city on whose glories he so loved to dwell, 
 passed Edward Irving. A brilliant constellation, he 
 had " shot madly from his sphere," not to be quenched 
 in the blackness of darkness, but, by its own un- 
 quenchable light, to be guided back again into its 
 heavenward course, and to be destined to shine for- 
 ever and forever in the paradise of God. 
 
 BAPTIST NOEL. 
 
 We will suppose this gentleman speaking in Exeter 
 Hall, and for the information of readers who may 
 
240 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 not have visited that celebrated place, suppose we 
 first give a brief description of it, referring those who 
 desire a more detailed account, to the work from 
 which we have abridged our notice — Mr. Charles 
 Knight's "London." It is a large building in the 
 Strand, London, containing rooms of different sizes, 
 appropriated exclusively to the uses of religious and 
 benevolent societies, especially for their anniversary 
 meetings. It has a narrow frontage, and few, con- 
 templating it from the outside, would imagine that it 
 possessed so capacious an interior. Entering it from 
 the Strand, a wide hall is gained, which, at the ex- 
 tremity, branches off into transverse passages. Two 
 flights of steps, which meet above,leadto the great hall, 
 ninety feet broad, one hundred and thirty-eight long 
 and forty- eight high. It will hold four thousand per- 
 sons, and with scarcely any discomfort, a much larger 
 number. The ranges of one half the seats rise in an 
 amphitheatrical form, and the platform at one end is 
 raised about six feet, and will accommodate five hun- 
 dred persons. The " Chair" in front somewhat re- 
 sembles that of Edward the Confessor, in West- 
 minster Abbey. The speakers, near the front, are 
 accommodated with chairs, behind which rise rows of 
 benches. Two flights of steps extend from the front 
 row to the entrances at the back. 
 
 When this magnificent hall is filled, as it is every 
 day during the month of May, when the religious an- 
 niversaries are held in London, and to which persons 
 flock from all parts of the country, the sight is grand 
 
BAPTIST NOEL. 241 
 
 and striking. The finest view is from the deep re- 
 cesses behind the platform : below you lies the plat- 
 form, slanting downwards, and extending into a 
 crescent shape, with its crowds, sitting or standing ; 
 beyond them is the large flat surface of the area, its 
 close benches all filled, and the avenues among them 
 occupied by chairs, or by persons who are fain to 
 stand, for want of sitting room. Behind them are 
 the raised seats, gradually appearing, one behind the 
 other, and occupying a space equal to half the size 
 of the whole room ; all, again, fully crowded, and 
 the descending steps among the benches, filled by 
 the standing multitude. Over their heads, the whole 
 scene is crowned by the back gallery, at a height of 
 many feet. They who wish to realize Daniel Web- 
 ster's idea of a " sea of upturned faces," should take 
 this view of Exeter Hall, on some popular occasion.: 
 When such an assembly arises, for prayer or praise, 
 at the beginning or end of a meeting, the sight is still 
 more stupendous ; and the degree of sound they are 
 able to produce, in the way of cheering or singing, 
 is almost incredible. There have been occasions 
 when that vast room has rung with the voices of 
 those assembled within its walls ; and a second peal 
 of cheers succeeding, before the echoes of the first 
 have died away, the noise, altogether, has been of a 
 nature that few persons could hear unmoved. Be- 
 neath the great Hall is a smaller one, and sometimes 
 meetings are held in both at the same time ; and the 
 acclamations of the larger audience, reverberating in 
 
 M 
 
242 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 the smaller hall, a speaker unaccustomed to the place, 
 perhaps, pauses until the plaudits have died away, 
 thinking they proceeded from the audience he was 
 addressing. 
 
 Exeter Hall, modern as it is, is rich in association. 
 In it Slavery received its death blow, and the abolition 
 of capital punishment, except for atrocious crimes, 
 was effected. Perhaps, however, whilst from the plat- 
 form of that large room distant evils are contemplated, 
 those nearer home are in a measure overlooked ; and 
 this fact has led one of the most nervous writers and 
 profound thinkers of modern times to utter the fol- 
 lowing striking apostrophe : 
 
 " Oh ! Anti-Slavery Convention ! loud- sounding, 
 long-eared Exeter Hall ! But in thee, too, is a kind 
 of instinct towards Justice, and I will complain of 
 nothing. Only, black Quashee over the seas being 
 once sufficiently attended to, wilt not thou, perhaps, 
 open thy dull, sodden eyes to the hunger-stricken, 
 pallid, yellow coloured ^free labourers,' in Lancashire, 
 Yorkshire, Buckinghamshire, and all other shires ? 
 These yellow coloured for the present absorb all my 
 sympathies. If I had twenty millions, with model- 
 farms and Niger expeditions, it is to these that I 
 would give them. Quashee has already victuals, 
 clothing ; Quashee is not dying of such despair as 
 the yellow coloured pale man's. Quashee, it must be 
 owned, is hitherto a kind of blockhead. The Haiti 
 Duke of Marmalade, educated now for nearly half a 
 century, seems to have next to no sense in him. 
 
BAPTIST NOEL. 243 
 
 Why, in one of these Lancashire weavers, dying of 
 hunger, there is more thought and heart, a greater 
 arithmetical amount of misery and desperation than 
 in whole gangs of Quashees. It must be owned, thy 
 eyes are of the sodden sort ; and with thy emanci- 
 pations, and thy twenty millionings, and long eared 
 clamourings, thou, like Robespierre with his paste- 
 board Eire Supreme^ threatenest to become a bore to 
 us : ' Avec ton Eire Supreme tu commences m'em- 
 beter.'" * 
 
 A gentleman rises to address the vast assemblage. 
 He is tall, thin, and delicate looking. His head is 
 beautifully shaped — indeed, I have never seen so 
 perfect a model of a cranium, if I may so express 
 myself. It is covered by lightish coloured hair, 
 easily and naturally disposed over a finely shaped, 
 marble white forehead. There is in the face of this 
 gentleman a remarkably sweet expression. The 
 eyes are grey, and beaming with mild radiance — the 
 nose Grecian — and the mouth and chin finely formed. 
 The whole head and face somewhat reminds one of 
 some of the portraits of Byron. This resemblance 
 may owe its origin to something more substantial 
 than fancy, for the individual I am describing is a 
 relative of the noble Poet's, rae of whose names he 
 bears. It is the Honourable and Reverend Baptist 
 Noel, one of the most popular of the EvangeHcal 
 section of the Church of England. Some persons 
 
 * Carlyle. 
 M 2 
 
244 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 think him, when he is arrayed in his surplice, much 
 like Bishop Heber. 
 
 Listen as he speaks. Surely there was never so 
 sweet a voice as his. Clear, distinct, and extremely 
 musical. Although he commences in a somewhat 
 subdued tone, not a word is uttered which is not 
 heard by the most far away individual in the hall. 
 As he proceeds, his voice increases in volume, and is 
 beautifully modulated. A sweet smile occasionally 
 irradiates his countenance, but its prevalent and 
 general expression is that of calm and dignified re- 
 pose. His heart is in his subject, for he talks of 
 missions. With an easy grace he introduces the 
 subject, and then, having impressed on his hearers 
 its importance, he takes a survey of the rise and pro- 
 gress of that society whose claims he may be 
 advocating. Listening to his description of what 
 has been done, and is doing, is like taking a journey 
 through the scenes he describes. With amazing 
 facility he passes over the vast plains of Hindoostan, 
 painting the lovely scenery on the banks of the 
 Ganges, and exhibiting, as it were, panoramic views 
 of places — 
 
 " Where all but the spirit of man is divine." 
 
 We sit with him beneath the banyan or the 
 palmetto, and behold the Brahmin with his shaster, 
 and the heathen perishing for lack of knowledge. 
 He takes us to where China, with its teeming millions 
 of Budhists, and the countless followers of Confucius, 
 
MRS. FRY. 245 
 
 sit in darkness. We sail amidst the coral reefs of 
 the Southern Pacific, or feel 
 
 " the spicy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er Ceylon's Isle ;" 
 
 He guides us over the sterile African deserts, and 
 pictures the Hottentot lying in his kraal, more like a 
 brute than one of God's intelligent creation. With 
 a power peculiarly his own, he vividly depicts such 
 scenes as these, and then he appeals to the hearts 
 of his hearers for their aid and support. And seldom 
 does he plead in vain — for Baptist Noel is beloved 
 by all parties, in the Church of England as well as 
 out of it. To be sure, a few of the High Church 
 party affect him not, because he is liberally disposed 
 towards the dissenters, and respects every man's con- 
 science — but that is of little consequence. Royalty 
 has gone to his chapel incog, to hear him, and he is 
 now, I believe, one of the Queen's Chaplains. 
 
 Whilst some routine business is going on, prepara- 
 tory to the next speech, let us look about us a little, 
 and see if there be any noticeable people present 
 
 Yes — there is one; I mean yonder lady, who is 
 seated on the platform, dressed in the plain garb of a 
 Friend. Her name is a familiar one, in every circle 
 of humanity. She has long passed her grand 
 climacteric — but years sit lightly on her calm, 
 pleasant-looking face. As her bonnet is removed, 
 we can see her features without any obstruction. 
 Beneath the close, plain Quaker cap is seen through 
 
246 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 the fine material, her grey hair, which is simply parted 
 in front, over her smooth, intelligent forehead. Her 
 eyes are dark grey, and peculiarly sweet and mild in 
 their expression. There is a quiet benevolence 
 about the mouth, and old as she is, she might almost 
 be called pretty. Her dress is scrupulously plain 
 and neat. A sober coloured gown, a pearl white 
 shawl, and a simple muslin or net kerchief, being all 
 that is visible. It is Mrs. Fry, the celebrated female 
 visitor of prisons and lunatic asylums. 
 
 Quiet and unobtrusive as she appears, a great 
 portion of her life has been spent in going about 
 doing good. Where bold men have hesitated to lift 
 up their voices, there have her mild, persuasive tones 
 been heard. In the cell of the maniac — in the 
 dungeon of the condemned — wherever suffering has 
 taken up its abode, or sin degraded its victim, there 
 has she gone, with love upon her lips, and consolation 
 in her tones. To her, society is deeply indebted for 
 many of the prison reformations which have been of 
 late years made — and owing to her humane labours, 
 many a wanderer has been reclaimed fi'om the paths 
 of vice. It mu^t have been a strange and striking 
 sight to have witnessed a recent scene in Newgate. 
 The King of Prussia, being on a visit to this country, 
 went to see the great metropolitan prison, and there 
 met Mrs. Fry, who was engaged in imparting in- 
 struction to the female prisoners. At her invitation, 
 the Monarch and his attendants knelt down in that 
 assembly of felons, whilst Mrs. Fry offered up an ex- 
 
JOHN WILLIAMS. 247 
 
 temporaneous prayer. It must have been a strange 
 sight, alike for the Sovereign and the criminals, to 
 witness each other bowing before the Maker of them 
 both, in so gloomy a sanctuary. 
 
 There is a beautifiil anecdote, connected with Mrs. 
 Fry, which I am tempted to relate here. It is the 
 habit of that lady, when she visits a lunatic asylum, 
 to sit down quietly and calmly amongst the poor 
 people, however turbulent or noisy they, may be, and 
 commence, in her low, musical voice, reading the 
 Bible. Her tones, generally, soon attract attention, 
 and order is gradually produced. On one of these 
 occasions a young man was observed to listen very 
 attentively ; and though ordinarily one of the most 
 violent of the patients, he became subdued, even 
 to tears. When Mrs. Fry ceased reading, this poor 
 maniac exclaimed to her, " Hush ! the angels have lent 
 you their voicesJ^ Perhaps a more beautiful or more 
 truly poetic compliment has never been paid to phi- 
 lanthropy. 
 
 Another speaker rises — and a low murmur of ap- 
 plause resounds through the room, as a gentleman, 
 evidently a minister, advances to the front of the 
 platform. It is John Williams, the Missionary of the 
 Pacific, and he who is now known as the " Martyr of 
 Erromanga." 
 
 He is rather under than over the middle height, 
 strongly built, with a broad, deep chest, and a 
 powerful and well knit frame. He is not fat, but 
 robust ; and rude, vigorous health is evident from his 
 
248 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS — 
 
 whole appearance. He has an open, benevolent coun- 
 tenance — hair, black as jet, is plainly combed aside 
 from his broad forehead, and a pair of large eyes, in 
 one of which there is a slight defect, (not exactly 
 strabismus,) which does not, however, impair the 
 sweetness of their expression. His speech consists, 
 principally, of a detail of his labours amongst the 
 islands of the South, and of interesting anecdotes 
 connected with his missionary operations there. 
 Perfectly unadorned, his address gives pleasure, 
 from its very simplicity. Mr. Williams's book is so 
 generally read, that I need say little more about him, 
 or it. As a preacher, he did not shine. I heard him 
 on two occasions, during his last visit to London, 
 and do not myself think that his pulpit efforts were 
 his happiest. He was just the man for the missionary 
 post he occupied, and from which he was so sud- 
 denly and mysteriously removed. 
 
 I had the happiness of meeting him once or twice, 
 in private, and saw him, for the last time, when he 
 sailed from the Thames in his missionary ship — the 
 "Camden;" but as the newspapers and religious 
 periodicals published long since an account of that 
 farewell occasion, it is unnecessary for me to say any- 
 thing respecting it in this place. 
 
 A gentleman now rises, who is evidently a clergy- 
 man. He is rather tall, somewhat thin and wiry in 
 frame, and is of dark, iron-grey sort of complexion, 
 His hair is grizzled by time, and his face is ploughed 
 by the furrows of thought. He does not seem much 
 
REV. EDWARD BICKERSTETH. 249 
 
 over fifty years of age. His manner is rather 
 fidgetty — and the expression of his countenance 
 indicates some degree of nervous irritability. That 
 is one who is well known, both in England and in 
 America, as a prolific and able writer on religious 
 topics. It is the Reverend Edward Bickersteth. 
 
 Mr. Bickersteth has not the most musical voice in 
 the world, and is a much better writer than a speaker; 
 still, from his great popularity as an author, he is a 
 prodigious favourite, and is always enthusiastically 
 received at public meetings. He is a most uncom- 
 promising opponent of the Roman Catholics, and 
 seldom fails, in any address, upon whatever occasion 
 it may be, to attack Popery. On the last occasion 
 of my hearing him address a public meeting, he com- 
 mented with the utmost severity on the Tractarian 
 movement, and read, with considerable exultation, a 
 letter from the Rev. Mr. Sibthorp, in which the latter 
 gentleman, who had, it is well known, embraced the 
 doctrines of the Romish Church, declared that he had 
 become convinced of his errors, and partaken of the 
 Sacrament in St. Helen's Church, in the Isle of 
 Wight, (I believe.) Much, however, to Mr. Bicker- 
 steth's chagrin, it was announced by another clergy- 
 man on the platform, that Mr. Sibthorp had, since 
 the writing of the letter to Mr. Bickersteth, again 
 lapsed into the Romish faith. Mr. Bickersteth might, 
 perhaps, have learned a lesson from Mr. Sibthorp's 
 previous weathercock changes, that gentleman having, 
 during the previous twelvemonth, been constantly 
 M 3 
 
250 SKETCHES OF POPULAR PREACHERS. 
 
 oscilliating, like a pious pendulum, between Popery 
 and Protestanism. I believe the former has at last 
 been embraced by him, in good earnest. 
 
 Another speaker ; and this one, too, is an author, 
 and a clergyman. He must be over three-score 
 years, for his somewhat tall and robust figure stoops 
 a trifle, and the flowers of the church-yard are upon 
 his head. He has a rather stern countenance, and 
 is what an Irishman would call a " bould spaker." 
 Mr. Grimshaw, for it is him, is well known as the 
 author of many religious works, and also of some 
 biographies — the latest of which were those of his 
 friend, Legh Richmond, and the Poet, Cowper. 
 
 It was my intention to have included the Rev. W. 
 Knibb in this article, but its length must be my excuse 
 for the omission — this is the less to be regretted, as 
 the numerous notices of him consequent on his re- 
 cent decease must be fresh in the recollection of all 
 his friends. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 The earliest visit to the House of Commons almost 
 invariably causes a feeling of disappointment. It is 
 now many years ago since I first entered the gallery 
 of the old building. I did not know so much about 
 legislative assemblies then as I do now, and in my 
 greenness supposed that the sitting of a Parliament 
 was a very grave and dignified affair, indeed. Pro- 
 vided with an order from a Member, I presented it 
 at the doorway of the gallery, and after sundry 
 squeezings, and many vigorous efforts, I managed to 
 wriggle into a back seat in the gallery allotted to the 
 public, whence I had a tolerable view of the house 
 and its members. 
 
 " What a bear garden ! " was my exclamation of 
 surprise, as I looked down on the honourable House. 
 It was an oblong apartment, ill lighted and badly 
 ventilated; on the walls were hung old tapestries, 
 which more resembled the refuse of a rag-shop than 
 anything else. In a chair, at the upper end, sat the 
 
252 GLIMPSES FROM "THE GALLERY." 
 
 Speaker, grotesquely attired in a wig, and on either 
 side of the apartment were arranged benches, placed 
 parallel with the side walls ; in the centre of the floor 
 was an open space. 
 
 The members and supporters of the Government 
 sat on one side of the House, and the Opposition 
 party on the other. Some were lolling listlessly on 
 their seats — many were stretched, at their fall length, 
 asleep, on the back benches — some were conversing — 
 and all, with the exception of the member addressing 
 the House, had their hats on. A member was making 
 his speech, but not a word of his address could I 
 hear, owing to the multitudinous noises which as- 
 sailed my ears ; it was to me all dumb show. Now 
 an honourable member would imitate the crowing of 
 a cock — then the barking of a dog would create a 
 peal of laughter — cries of " oh ! oh ! " and " hear ! 
 hear ! " were every moment heard ; and what with all 
 this, and the noises made by continually entering 
 and departing members, the confusion was such that 
 all my ideas of the dignity of " Parliament" were at 
 once scattered to the winds. 
 
 On the occasion of one of my visits, the celebrated 
 Radical, Cobbett, happened to speak. I looked at 
 him with great interest, of course. He was a tall, 
 well-built, portly man, with a good-humoured face, a 
 keen grey eye, and white hair. He was dressed in 
 nankeen trousers, and had on a coat and waistcoat of 
 some light material. On the bench, beside him, was 
 his famous white hat. He spoke unaffectedly, and to 
 
HENRY HUNT. 253 
 
 the point, using no effort, and without any apparent 
 attempt at display. No one, who was unacquainted 
 with him, would have supposed him to be the bitter 
 and vigorous political writer; and I believe it is 
 generally acknowledged that he failed as a Parlia- 
 mentary speaker. 
 
 On another occasion, I saw Henry Hunt in the 
 House. I had but a slight glimpse of the celebrated 
 mob orator, and should have retained, at the present 
 time, but a very uncertain recollection of him, had it 
 not been for the following circumstance : 
 
 In the year 1833, I was staying with a friend, 
 a tradesman, at his house, in one of the market 
 towns of Somersetshire ; and one day, whilst stand- 
 ing at the door of his shop, he directed my attention 
 to a gentleman who was walking on the other side of 
 the street. The stranger was upwards of six feet 
 high, with a fresh, country, pure red and white com- 
 plexion, hair white as the driven snow, and a form 
 which, at one time, must have been very powerful. 
 His face wore a pleasant smile, and his bearing was 
 very gentlemanly — it was Hunt ; he had then quitted 
 Parliament, and was travelling on his business, being 
 an extensive manufacturer of the noted "Matchless 
 Blacking." He called, in the course of the morn- 
 ing, at my friend's shop, and accepted his invitation 
 to spend the evening — and a pleasanter time I have 
 seldom passed; for Mr. Hunt's career had been a 
 very eventful one, and he was full of anecdote re- 
 specting the various celebrated men of his day. 
 
254 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 He was very bitter against Mr., now Sir Robert 
 Peel, and told us that on one occasion the latter had, 
 in his place in Parliament, twitted him with being a 
 tradesman. I was not in my seat, remarked Hunt, 
 when the remark was said, but I soon after entered 
 the House, and some one told me what Peel had 
 said of me. So I rose, and admitted the fact that I 
 was a Blacking Manufacturer ; and added, " I am the 
 first of my family who ever was a tradesman, but the 
 honourable member is the first of his who ever was a 
 gentleman^ 
 
 He hated O'Connell with a perfect hatred, and 
 said that he was the greatest hypocrite breathing. 
 He averred that he knew it to be a fact, that the 
 Agitator had a little chapel in his house in Merrion- 
 square, Dublin, in which was a painting of the Cruci- 
 fixion — and that it was O'Connell's habit to suffer 
 himself to be surprised at his devotions, by those 
 whom he desired to impress with an idea of his 
 sanctity. I forget now half of the anecdotes and 
 tales he told us, but they were very interesting. He 
 had a quick perception of the ludicrous, and told a 
 story well ; but he was vain of his own deeds, and of 
 the power which he once possessed. His description 
 of the famous Peterloo Massacre was very graphic. 
 
 Amongst the members of the House of Commons 
 are some of our most celebrated wiiters of fiction. 
 In general, they do not shine as orators, although, 
 as in the case of D'Israeli, they put themselves 
 " pretty considerably" forward. Southey, to whom a 
 
BULWER. 255 
 
 place in Parliament was frequently offered, had the 
 good sense to decline it; and it would have been 
 well for the reputation of some of our writers if they 
 had followed his example. 
 
 Let the reader suppose himself seated beside me 
 in the gallery of the House, gazing on the assembled 
 wisdom of the nation, below us. Yonder is Bulwer, 
 conversing with a gentleman under the gallery. If 
 you have formed any idea of the man, from the ridi- 
 culously effeminate looking bust of him prefixed to 
 his " Pilgrims of the Rhine," or from the three- 
 quarter portrait of him by Maclise, you must expect 
 to be disappointed, for the novelist is by no means 
 handsome, as the generality of his readers suppose 
 him to be. Instead of the spruce, popinjay per- 
 sonage, who figures in the picture to which I have 
 alluded, you behold a man, who is so far below the 
 medium height as to be almost short in stature. Nor 
 is he bolt upright, as painters have delighted to re- 
 present him ; for there is a considerable bend in his 
 back, a slight stoop in his shoulders, and his legs are 
 anything but good. I may, perhaps, render myself 
 more intelligible by saying that he is slightly knock- 
 kneed. Over a very thin and frail-looking frame were 
 ill-fitting and slovenly put on garments; whereas, 
 from the pictured semblances of him, one would take 
 him to be a dandy of the first water. 
 
 But let us observe him as he rises in his place, in 
 the House, to speak. Now that his hat is removed, 
 his well-shaped head is observable : perhaps a phre- 
 
256 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 nologist would be somewhat puzzled by the forehead, 
 which is low and rather receding ; what it loses, how- 
 ever, in height, it amply makes up for in breadth. 
 He has a very large, aquiline nose, much too large 
 for his face; but, if we are to credit Napoleon's 
 assertion, that long-nosed men are the most to be 
 relied on for achieving great deeds, that must be 
 rather a beauty than a defect. His hair is curly, and 
 of a light brown colour ; but his whiskers, which half 
 cover his cheeks and chin, are red, and very bushy. 
 There is nothing extraordinary about the expression 
 of his mouth or eye. Such is England's most popular 
 novelist — so far, at least, as his outward man is con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Bulwer is no great things as a speaker. His voice 
 is low, clear, and sweet ; but, like most active writers, 
 he wants the faculty of thinking " on his legs" — an 
 art more difficult of acquirement than persons " not 
 accustomed to public speaking" would be apt to sup- 
 pose. He hesitates a good deal, and seldom goes to 
 the point, excepting by a roundabout way — remind- 
 ing us of the man whose modes of thinking were so 
 tortuous, that Sidney Smith said he must have been 
 born with a corkscrew in his head. His action, too, 
 is very ungraceful, and he fidgets excessively while 
 speaking. It is evident that, with him, hand and 
 head must go together. 
 
 And now, having sketched one literary M.P., let 
 us take a companion portrait: 
 
 A few years since, the Conservative voters of 
 
d'israeli. 257 
 
 Taunton invited Benjamin D'Israeli to become a 
 candidate for the honour of representing them in 
 Parliament, and it was on the occasion of his visit- 
 ing Somersetshire, during an election struggle, that I 
 first saw him. He must then have been about thirty 
 years of age, but his novel of " Vivian Grey" had 
 spread his reputation far and wide. 
 
 It was arranged that a procession should accom- 
 pany the candidate into the town, and snugly en- 
 sconced in the window of a friend's house, I anxiously 
 awaited his arrival. Nor was my patience put to any 
 very severe test, for ere long the head of the pro- 
 cession came in sight, and the long train commenced 
 passing before me. 
 
 After a multitude of farmers had passed by, un- 
 usually vociferous shouts announced that the "ob- 
 served of all observers" was near at hand, and in 
 the midst of a dense crowd of bawling politicians, 
 in an open carriage, from which men had removed 
 the horses, and to draw which they had themselves 
 become beasts of burthen, stood the would-be M.P. 
 
 Never in my life had I been so struck by a face 
 as I was by that of D'Israeli. It was lividly pale; 
 and from beneath two finely arched eyebrows blazed 
 out a pair of intensely black eyes. I never have seen 
 such orbs in mortal sockets, either before or since. 
 His physiognomy was strictly Jewish. Over a broad, 
 high forehead, were ringlets of coal-black, glossy 
 hair — which, combed away from his right temple, 
 fell in luxuriant clusters, or bunches, over his left 
 
258 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 cheek and ear, which it entirely concealed from view. 
 There was a sort of half-smile half-sneer playing 
 about his beautifully formed mouth — the upper lip 
 of which was curved, as we see it in the portraits of 
 Byron. I could not but imagine, that whilst listen- 
 ing to the "most sweet voices" of the multitude, he 
 despised the clodhopper in his heart — so contemp- 
 tuous was at times his expression. He was very 
 showily attired, in a dark bottle-green frock coat — a 
 waistcoat of the most extravagant pattern, the front 
 of which was almost covered vrith glittering chains ; 
 and in fancy pattern pantaloons. He wore a plain 
 black stock, but no collar was visible. Altogether, 
 he was the most intellectual looking exquisite I had 
 ever seen. 
 
 The windows in the line of procession were filled 
 with ladies, to whom DTsraeli was prodigal of his 
 bows, and many an exclamation of delight was ut- 
 tered, as his slight form bent in acknowledgment of 
 the cheers and wavings of kerchiefs which greeted 
 him. I, regarding him more in the light of a literary 
 man, than as a politician, did not fail to pay him due 
 honour. 
 
 The election was lost by DTsraeli ; but as a salve 
 to the sore, the rejected candidate was, a short time- 
 afterward, invited by the ladies and gentlemen of 
 Taunton to a public banquet in that town, at which 
 I had the good fortune to be present. 
 
 The room was exceedingly crowded, and when 
 everything was in readiness, accompanied by the 
 
d'israeli. 269 
 
 gentlemen who had superintended the arrangements, 
 Mr. D'israeli entered the room, amidst vociferous 
 cheering. Surrounded as he was by burly yeomen, 
 and fat farmers, who were habited in plain attire, his 
 slight and graceful figure, and London-made gar- 
 ments, presented a marked contrast. Having taken 
 his seat on the left of the President, the business of 
 eating and drinking commenced — ^which, being des- 
 patched, the most attractive part of the day's pro- 
 ceedings, at least to my thinking, commenced. 
 
 After the usual loyal and constitutional toasts had 
 been drunk — the President proposed the health of 
 their distinguished guest; and when the applause 
 which followed had subsided, D'israeli rose to 
 respond to the compliment which had been paid to 
 him. 
 
 He commenced in a lisping, lack-a-daisical tone of 
 voice, which, had I not listened to with my own 
 proper ears, I never could have believed to have be- 
 longed to the author of " Vivian Grey." He minced 
 his phrases in apparently the most affected manner, 
 and whilst he w^as speaking, placed his hands in all 
 imaginable positions. Not because he felt awkward, 
 and did not know, like a booby in a drawing-room, 
 where to put them, but apparently for the purpose 
 of exhibiting to the best advantage the glittering 
 rings which decked his white and taper fingers. Now, 
 he would place his thumbs in the arm-holes of his 
 waistcoat, and spread out his fingers on its flashy 
 surface — then, one set of digits would be released, 
 
260 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 and he would lean affectedly on the table, supporting 
 himself with his right hand — anon he would push 
 aside the curls from his forehead — but it would be 
 ridiculous to note down all his motions. Boz had 
 not then created Mantalini, or that personage might 
 have been cited as D'Israeli's prototype. 
 
 But as he proceeded, all traces of this dandyism 
 and affectation were lost. With a rapidity of utter- 
 ance perfectly astonishing, he referred to past events, 
 and indulged in anticipations of the future. The 
 Whigs were, of course, the objects of his unsparing 
 satire, and his eloquent denunciations of them were 
 applauded to the echo. In all he said, he proved 
 himself to be the finished orator — every period was 
 rounded with the utmost elegance, and in his most 
 daring flights, when one trembled lest he should fall 
 from the giddy height to which he had attained, he 
 so gracpfully descended, that every hearer was wrapt 
 in admiring surprise. His vast information seemed 
 scarcely less limited than his brilliant imagination. 
 Even common place subjects, in his hand, underwent 
 transformation by a process of mental alchymy. 
 Midas-like, he turned all he touched into gold. Yet 
 there was no lack of good, sound, sterling common 
 sense — he never forgot the real in the ideal. His 
 voice, at first so finical, gradually became full, musical, 
 and sonorous, and with every varying sentiment was 
 beautiftilly modulated. His arms no longer appeared 
 to be exhibited for show, but he exemplified the elo- 
 quence of the hand. The dandy was transformed 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 261 
 
 into a man of mind — the Mantalini looking personage 
 into a practised orator, and a finished elocutionist. 
 He spoke for more than two hours, having in the 
 course of his address embraced a vast range of 
 subjects, many of them seeming, at the first blush, to 
 have no connexion with the theme of the day, but 
 which he managed, by the force of his genius, to in- 
 vest with a charm, and to render appropriate to his 
 subject matter. 
 
 In the evening of that day, I sat in the next box to 
 him at the theatre, where, of course, he was a 
 greater attraction than the men who were murdering 
 Shakspeare ; but what a change ! D'Israeli was the 
 dandy again. Attired in the extreme of fashion, he 
 sat in his box with the same sarcastic smile on his 
 countenance as I had observed in the morning ; and 
 whilst he patted the edge of his box with his primrose 
 gloved hand, there was a mockingly scornful expres- 
 sion in his lustrous eyes. 
 
 But there is yet another celebrated literary member 
 w^ho must not be passed by. It is Thomas Babington 
 Macaulay. That is him who has just risen. He 
 is of about the middle height, his head is rather of 
 the " rotund " formation, and one would not think, 
 on looking at the forehead, which is low, that behind 
 its barrier of bone was so busy a brain. His eyes 
 are small, quick, and vivacious, and a faint smile 
 plays about the corners of the mouth. Altogether, it 
 might be called a good humoured, rather than an intel- 
 lectual looking countenance. Macaulay's figure is a 
 
262 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 trifle awkward, and his action by no means graceful — 
 but just watch him as he proceeds with his speech, 
 and you will soon lose all perception of the man. 
 Your closest attention will be demanded to, and 
 rivetted by his matter. 
 
 Some member of the House — one of the illus- 
 trious obscures — has been theorizing away for the 
 last half hour, and now Macaulay is about to de- 
 molish his Aladdin's palace-like structure, with a few 
 balls from his practical battery. See — he catches the 
 Speaker's eye, and listen, as he commences his ad- 
 dress in a low tone of voice — pausing between each 
 sentence, as if to reconsider what he had said, or 
 well weigh what he is about to advance. Slowly he 
 goes on at first, like a practised swimmer, who wades 
 carefully over unseen rocks, and looking somewhat 
 awkward as he picks his way ; but he is soon in deep 
 water, and away he dashes, fearlessly flinging around 
 him the glittering spray, and rejoicing in his strength. 
 Macaulay is now fairly released from the shallowness 
 of introductory matter, and away he goes, far and 
 fast. As he proceeds, his voice increases in volume 
 and force — his right arm is in incessant motion — his 
 eye kindles, and from his eloquent lips, brilliant 
 ideas chase each other in rapid succession, until the 
 House is wrapt in the closest attention. But Ma- 
 caulay's speeches consist not of ideas only — he grap- 
 ples with no shadows. Truth is his weapon, honesty 
 is his armour, and facts are the weapons with which 
 he fights. Woe be unto the unlucky wight, who, for 
 
SIR ROBERT PEEL. 263 
 
 the sake of display, has gone forth to the wordy 
 combat, clad in the gew-gaw panoply of sophism. 
 For him, and for such as he, Macaulay has no mercy. 
 He proceeds to the attack on such an adversary, 
 smiling in undissembled scorn, as he raises the point 
 of his glittering lance ; and almost ere we can suffi- 
 ciently admire the temper and polish of the weapon, 
 his victim is unhorsed, a " spectacle to gods and 
 men." Champion after champion he disposes of in 
 a like manner; and when the lists are cleared, and 
 not another foe presents himself, he stands alone in 
 his glory — a sturdy and victorious champion of the 
 truth. When Macaulay resumes his seat, a dead 
 silence for a few minutes ensues, and then a burst of 
 applause, such as only sterling eloquence can com- 
 mand, is heard ; before it ceases, some nobody chirps 
 out " Mr. Speaker," and in a twinkling the benches 
 are half cleared — the library is filled with loungers — 
 the lobbies are crowded, and sleepy country mem- 
 bers repair to the side galleries, there to finish their 
 slumbers, and indulge in dreams of places and pen- 
 sions. 
 
 There is, seated on the Ministerial side of the 
 House, a gentleman of a remarkably bland and open 
 countenance. He is tall and well proportioned, but 
 rather inclining to corpulency. To look at him, one 
 would imagine that nothing could ruffle the placidity 
 of his countenance. His air and bearing is that of a 
 perfect gentleman, and he is dressed with scrupulous 
 care — even nicety. A snow-white cambric neckcloth 
 
264 GLIMPSES FROM " THE GALLERY." 
 
 and collar surmounts a white waistcoat and blue 
 frock coat ; and nether garments of the same colour, 
 which cover ill-formed lower extremities, complete 
 his costume. Not a muscle of his face moves — as 
 he hears the government attacked or commended — 
 the fiercest ebullition of party wrath, and the most 
 violent invective, are alike unheeded; the same bland 
 smile — the same courteous demeanour is exhibited. 
 Sir Robert Peel never exhibits himself — his mind 
 is busily working, but not a wheel of the machinery 
 is to be seen. He rises, the very personification of 
 candour — the incarnation of courtesy — he speaks, 
 and his persuasive, plausible tones allure your 
 attention and almost win your confidence — and you 
 admire the colour of the fish which you think you 
 have caught — but while gazing, it slips through your 
 fingers — you have not made anything out of Sir 
 Robert. 
 
 Just observe him for a few moments, as he stands 
 with one of his hands under the tails of his coat, and 
 the other playing with the glass which hangs by a 
 ribbon from his neck — some member of the opposition 
 has put a few plain questions to him — questions to 
 which plain answers have been requested. The 
 Premier is surely going to give candid replies — his 
 face looks as innocent as that of a lamb. Those who 
 see him for the first time, fling at once to the winds 
 all their preconceived notions of Sir Robert's cunning. 
 The house is silent, anxious, and expectant. O'Con- 
 nell looks up from under his broad brimmed hat, with 
 
SIR CHARLES WETHERELL. 205 
 
 an incredulous sneer on his countenance ; some of the 
 ex-ministers wink knowingly at each other ; the green 
 ones of the house, and the greenest of them all who 
 ventured to puzzle Peel, sit with gaping mouths and 
 open ears. At last, a soft voice issues from those 
 wreathed lips — soft, yet perfectly distinct, and very 
 harmonious. As he proceeds, the manufacturers, 
 whose stern faces are made up for a burst of disap- 
 probation, begin to relax the rigidity of their features, 
 as the importance of their interests is adverted to. 
 Then the agriculturists, whose visages had been grow- 
 ing lengthy, are tickled by the knowing hand of the 
 Minister, like so many trout, and they ^re smilingly 
 taken in the snare. Cheer after cheer bursts forth, 
 and Sir Robert's face is radiant with smiles. No 
 decided answer has been given, but promises have 
 been made ; the very soul of candour seems to have 
 possessed the Premier, who now becomes earnest and 
 eloquent — he finds a way to the hearts of his hearers ; 
 which way, like the road to a certain place which 
 shall be nameless, is paved with good intentions. 
 He at last sits down amidst " cheers from all parts of 
 the house." Not a question replied to — not an ex- 
 plicit statement made — not a person satisfied — but 
 all, saving a few knowing ones, cleverly bamboozled. 
 No — Sir Robert Peel is not to be caught ; you may 
 as well try to fix a shadow. Nay, the pinning of the 
 Premier would be the more difficult to accomplish of 
 the two. 
 
 On the same bench with Sir Robert is an old 
 
 N 
 
266 GLIMPSES FROM THE "GALLERY." 
 
 gentleman^whose extreme slovenliness in dress affords 
 a striking contrast to the personal appearance of the 
 prim Premier. The individual referred to is upwards 
 of sixty-five years of age. His face is wrinkled, and of 
 the colour of the parchment over which he has pored 
 for so many years. His eyes are light, and large, 
 and are deeply set beneath a pair of shaggy eye- 
 brows. His nose is somewhat beak-like, and the 
 mouth stern, and obstinate in expression. But the 
 dress of the man is more remarkable than the wearer. 
 An old, rusty black coat envelopes his chest, which 
 is deep and broad. Round his neck is a dingy white 
 neck-cloth. His waistcoat is shabby — and between 
 it and his nether habiliments is a space, two inches 
 deep, from which his shirt rumples out ; for he is 
 suspenderless, although he has doomed many a poor 
 mortal to the suspending rope. It is Sir Charles 
 Wetherell, formerly Attorney General, and now 
 Recorder of Bristol. A singular personage is he, 
 obstinate to the last degree, but very learned in his 
 profession. His absence of mind is remarkable. As- 
 an instance take the following : — Sir Charles recently 
 married a lady much younger than himself. After 
 the ceremony had been concluded, he proceeded to 
 his chambers, in the Temple, and there an intricate 
 cause so absorbed his attention that he forgot all 
 about his bride — and, according to his old custom, 
 went to bed in his -bachelor apartments, apd slept. 
 In the interim, gi'eat anxiety was caused in the wed- 
 ding circle, respecting Sir Charles's whereabouts. 
 
RICHARD LALOR SHIEL. 267 
 
 Evening came, but no bridegroom, and it was not 
 until late in the evening that some one, acquainted 
 v^ith his eccentric habits, suggested that he might be 
 at his chambers. Thither messengers were sent, who 
 knocked up Sir Charles, who had actually forgotten 
 that a bride awaited him at home. This story has 
 been told, I believe, of some others ; but Sir Charles 
 Wetherell was the real Simon Pure. The part 
 which this gentleman took in the debates on Catholic 
 Emancipation will not soon be forgotten. Nor will 
 the great riots in Bristol, a few years since, be un- 
 remembered by those who witnessed them, and with 
 which Sir Charles Wetherell was so intimately con- 
 nected. 
 
 Do you see that little man who has just risen, near 
 the table ? What an enormous head he has, for so 
 small a body. Look at those flashing eyes — how 
 they glance, here, there, and everywhere. His face 
 is rather cynical in expression, ill-humour and pride 
 seem combined in it ; and one might imagine that 
 it was washed every morning in vinegar. What a 
 sneer there is on the curved upper lip ! Who may 
 be the owner of that ill-matched head and ex- 
 tremities? It is Richard Lalor Shiel — known, 
 some years since, as the author of " The Apostate," 
 an unsuccessful tragedy — but, now, more extensively 
 celebrated as an orator. It was he*who defended 
 O'Connell, on the occasion of the late State Trials. 
 
 Shiel's voice is harsh, grating, and disagreeable — 
 at times, shrill, almost as a whistle — and occasionally 
 
 n2 
 
:268 GLIMPSES FROM THE "GALLERY." 
 
 in the lower tones, cracked and dissonant. His 
 style is florid, and his speeches are crowded with 
 metaphors, occasionally of the most brilliant and 
 ornate character. As a flowery speaker, he has not 
 his equal in the house ; but he lacks depth, and 
 power, and originality. His speeches — which are all 
 carefully written, and committed to memory, before 
 they are delivered — lose most of their' force, in their 
 exquisite polish. His action is abundant, and oc- 
 casionally grotesque. Whilst speaking, and when 
 much excited, he flings himself into all imaginable 
 attitudes. Now almost bending himself double, and 
 then drawing himself, as if by a sudden jerk, to his 
 full height, he looks like a pigmy in convulsions. 
 Sometimes he bends over the table before him, until 
 his chin almost touches the green baize. He flings 
 his arms about him, in some such a manner as a 
 pugilist does, when, in the language of the " Ring," 
 he " fights wildly ;" — and, every two or three minutes, 
 his clenched fist descends with such amazing force 
 on a box which stands on the table, that it is a 
 marvel it is not shivered into splinters. Some wag, 
 in allusion to this box-thumping propensity of the 
 little agitator, once perpetrated the following : — 
 
 " Shiel ! Shiel ! why do you give 
 Such harsh-resounding knocks ? 
 
 You will not clinch the argument ; 
 You'll only break the box.'' 
 
 I just now said that Shiel always wrote his speeches. 
 It is, also, well known, that he was in the habit of him- 
 
RICHARD LALOR SHIEL. 269 
 
 self farnisliing the manuscripts to a certain journal, 
 for publication. Indeed, it would be a work of great 
 difficulty to report Shiel — for his sentences are so in- 
 volved, and they are uttered with such amazing 
 volubility, that he almost sets short hand at defiance. 
 * * * * 
 
 Before I conclude, let me first sketch one or two 
 members of the Upper House. For this purpose, the 
 reader must in imagination quit the gallery, and pro- 
 ceed to the Lords, below whose bar we will take our 
 places. We are crowded together, but can, never- 
 theless, obtain pretty fair glimpses of the Peers. 
 The Lord Chancellor, wigged and gowned, is sitting 
 on the woolsack ; before him lies the mace, and, en- 
 closed in its bag the great seal of England, of which, 
 by virtue of his office, he is the keeper. Near him 
 sit the twelve Judges, in their wigs, and scarlet robes 
 trimmed with ermine, and the lawn-sleeved Bishops. 
 The Peers are dressed in plain clothes, as they always 
 are indeed, excepting on the occasions of the Queen's 
 opening, proroguing, or dissolving Parliament. We 
 may recognise several of them, by the resemblance 
 they bear to certain personages in the caricatures of 
 H. B. or Punch. For instance, look at that tall, un- 
 gainly looking figure, which leans carelessly against 
 the back of the bench. Mark those strapless trou- 
 sers, of dark check — those wrinkled boots — that rusty, 
 ill-cut coat — that voluminous neck-cloth, in whose 
 folds the chin is half buried; glance at that hat, 
 which covers the owner of those slovenly habili- 
 
270 LORD BROUGHAM. 
 
 ments, and, without a glimpse of the face beneath 
 it, you cannot make a mistake about the Lord who 
 is so busily employed in reading, perhaps, a report 
 of one of his own speeches. Most probably he is, 
 or fancies himself to be, mis-reported ; for see how 
 furiously his eyes twinkle, how nervously agitated 
 are his brows, how his mouth describes all imagin- 
 able angles and curves, and how that " lithe pro- 
 boscis" of his writhes, as if in mortal agony. See, 
 he springs to his feet, and having caught the Chan- 
 cellor's eye, he raps the paper violently with the 
 back of his right hand, whilst the words " breach of 
 privilege," are over and over again uttered. It is 
 Brougham — who else on earth can it be } " None 
 but himself can be his parallel." And he vehemently 
 pours forth a denunciatory flood against, and empties 
 all the vials of his wrath upon the unlucky print, 
 whilst his compeers sit, regarding him with mingled 
 admiration and amusement. 
 
 What a contrast does the Lord Chancellor's per- 
 sonal appearance present to that of Brougham's ! 
 He, too, is no ordinary man. Look at his singularly 
 intellectual countenance — severe dignity is its pre- 
 dominating characteristic. The forehead is high and 
 ample — the eyebrows large and prominent, and be- 
 neath them a pair of keen, intellectual orbs. The 
 mouth is grandly formed, and is indicative of vast 
 firmness and quick decision. How majestic is the 
 whole expression of the face, in spite of the grotesque 
 powdered curly wig which surrounds it. That is the 
 
LORD LYNDHURST. 271 
 
 son of an American painter — a Bostonian by birth — 
 but now the Lord Chancellor of England — Lord 
 Lyndhurst. 
 
 I remember, many years ago. Lord Lyndhurst's 
 (then Sir John Copley,) furnishing a proof of his pro- 
 digious powers of memory. He was trying a prisoner 
 for murder. The case was one in which the evidence 
 was purely circumstantial, and, as the crime was 
 committed by means of poison, medical and chemical 
 evidence, of the most complicated description, was 
 adduced, both for and against the accused. During 
 three days the trial proceeded, and, on the morning 
 of the fourth. Sir John Copley was to sum up. 
 Much anxiety was felt, as to his charge to the jury, 
 and the Court was crowded at an early hour. At 
 nine o'clock he entered the Court, seemingly as fresh 
 and vigorous as if he had not, for the last three days, 
 applied all the powers of his mind to the investiga- 
 tion and disentanglement of the web of evidence 
 which had been woven by the counsellors for the 
 prosecution and defence. 
 
 It is well known that Sir John Copley, when he 
 sat on the Bench, took very few notes of what was 
 transpiring, trusting chiefly to his memory. Such 
 was his course in the present instance. Before com- 
 mencing his charge, he looked, for a minute or two, 
 over a few sheets of paper which he brought into 
 Court with him ; and then, rolling them up, and 
 taking them in his hand, he commenced his address 
 to the jury. In the course of his charge, without 
 
272 LORD LYNDHURST. 
 
 referring, for an instant, to a note, (excepting, in two 
 or three instances, for the purpose of ascertaining 
 the name of a witness,) he recapitulated the evidence, 
 commented on it, stripped the arguments of counsel 
 of their sophistries, detailed the medical and chemical 
 opinions, and, divesting the evidence of the profes- 
 sional gentlemen of all technicalities, placed their 
 testimonies in such clear light before the jury, that it 
 astonished the doctors and the chemists themselves — 
 and then, having concluded the whole of the evidence, 
 he went over and over it again, dissecting it with the 
 utmost nicety, and stating how it bore for or against 
 the prisoner — and concluded by some of the most 
 solemn remarks, on the fallibility of human judgment, 
 that I ever heard. 
 
 Will it be believed that this most luminous charge, 
 which occupied nine hours in the delivery, (with only 
 half an hour's interval of rest,) was delivered with- 
 out the aid of notes ? Yet such was the case. And 
 so intensely interesting was it that no one tired. Yet 
 this is but one of many instances of Lord Lynd- 
 hurst's peculiar power. Many such might, if neces- 
 sary, be adduced. 
 
 Lord Lyndhurst's voice is deep-toned, musical, 
 and finely modulated. A writer in Fraser says of 
 him, " His bearing is dignified in the extreme ; it 
 exhibits the boldness of the Tribune, tempered by 
 the calmness of the Senator. Self-possessed, cool, 
 impressive, he elevates his audience to the level of 
 his own mind, and sustains them there ; he never 
 
LORD LYNDHURST. 273 
 
 descends from his elevation, as other orators do, to 
 obtain applause by echoing current prejudices or 
 party passions. When he uses those passions and 
 prejudices, he compels them, by superior power, to 
 his own purpose, and does not become the slave of 
 his own agents." 
 
 And again : 
 
 " Lord Lyndhurst, rising in his remote corner on 
 the extreme left of the opposition bench, and deliver- 
 ing one of those teasing, terrific attacks on the Whig 
 government, which formed the staple of his annual 
 review of the session, was a very different man from 
 Lord Lyndhurst the Chancellor, the moderator of the 
 debates, the triumphant warrior, indulging in indo- 
 lent repose, or the statesman delivering the pure dic- 
 tates of his judgment for the general good of the 
 whole country, instead of the temporary battle-cries 
 of a party. At all times, however, his oratory has 
 displayed a rare union of power and good taste. He 
 is very self-denying, for so powerful a speaker. Great 
 as his triumphs have been as an orator, he always 
 left one under the impression that he could effect 
 much more if he chose." 
 
 Near I^yqdhurst sits the Duke of Wellington— 
 that is(him in a blue frock coat, closely buttoned up 
 to his chin, with his left hand behind his ear, and 
 placed there, seemingly, for the purpose of assisting 
 his hearing, by acting as a sort of trumpet. His 
 right hand holds his narrow-rimmed hat, which is 
 placed on his knee. A very clever sketch of him re- 
 
274 DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 cently appeared in one of the illustrated London 
 papers. It represents him in this, his usual position 
 in the House, and, as a likeness, I would rather have 
 it than many costly engravings of him. The Duke 
 appears quite the old man — but glance at his tough 
 looking countenance — his determined looking nose, 
 and his firm mouth, and you will perceive that his 
 frame has much stamina in it yet. His hair and 
 whiskers are grey, but the fire of his eye is un- 
 dimmed. As a speaker, he does not particularly 
 shine, but what he does say is to the point. All the 
 firmness and decision are displayed which we may 
 easily believe are distinguishing traits of his cha- 
 racter. His speeches are curt and business-like af- 
 fairs. There is no more attempt at oratorical display 
 than if he were giving the word of command, at the 
 head of an army. If one did not know him to be the 
 Duke, he would be set down as some little, business- 
 attending-to member of the Government, and excite 
 scarcely a passing remark. But as the Duke, the 
 greatest respect is shown him by all parties, and 
 marked attention is paid to every word which he 
 utters. 
 
 No one in London streets attracts greater attention 
 than the Duke. Wherever he is recognised, every 
 hat is touched, and if he happens to be on foot, he 
 is followed by crowds eager to catch a glimpse of the 
 Hero of Waterloo. No stranger who visits London 
 considers that he has seen all the " Lions," if he has 
 not caught a glimpse of the Duke. In illustration 
 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 275 
 
 of this remark, I may mention one circumstance. A 
 lady of my acquaintance, on the morning of her in- 
 tended departure from London, after a short visit, 
 was walking with a friend in Hyde Park, near Apsley 
 House, one morning as early as six o'clock. As they 
 walked along, she said, " Well, I have seen everything 
 I wanted to see in London, excepting the Duke of 
 Wellington, and I would rather have seen him than 
 all the rest." She uttered this remark in a loud, 
 sprightly voice, little dreaming that any but her 
 friend heard it. Immediately, however, a gentleman 
 passed her, raised his hat, and smilingly said, 
 " Madam, I am happy to present him to you," and, 
 again bowing, passed on, followed, at a little distance, 
 by his groom. There was no mistaking the personage 
 who spoke. It was the Duke himself, and I need 
 hardly say, that the lady was, in spite of her con- 
 fusion, not a little gratified by the incident. 
 
 But there would be no end to pen-and-ink sketching 
 in the House, if amusement alone had to be con- 
 sulted. As, however, time and space will not permit 
 of more portraits being taken, I must quit the gal- 
 lery, leaving the reader to select other gentlemen for 
 his subjects, and to "touch them off" for himself. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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