GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY ESQRE . L.L.B. F.S.S.A.
of Magdalene Hall, Oxford and Student of the Inner Temple, London. Who during the last eighteen Years of his life was the only Child of the
REVD . GEORGE BERKELEY L.L.D.
Prebendary of Canterbury.
CHANCELLOR
of
BRECKNOCK
&c. The only grand child of the Right Revd . George Berkeley
LORD BISHOP of CLOYNE in IRELAND.
and the only great grand child of the eminently pious and learned Francis
Esqre . of Shottesbrook House in the County of Berks.
on the 26th . of January 1793. Aged
. Mr . Berkeleys Death was an unspeakable grief to his Parents.
the loss of his
accomplished Son not quite two Years.
POEMS BY THE LATE GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY, ESQ. LL.B. F.S.S.A.
WITH A PREFACE BY THE EDITOR, CONSISTING OF SOME ANECDOTES OF MR. MONCK BERKELEY AND SEVERAL OF HIS FRIENDS.
LONDON, PRINTED BY J. NICHOLS; AND SOLD BY MESSRS. LEIGH AND SOTHEBY, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN; MR. EDWARDS, PALL MALL; MR. COOKE, OXFORD; MR. TODD, YORK; MESSRS. SIMMONS AND CO.; MESSRS. FLACKTON, MARRABLE, AND CLARIS; AND MR. BRISTOW, CANTERBURY. 1797.
CONTENTS.
THE Author's Preface, p. i
Sonnet on the Death of George-Monck Berkeley, Esq. Grandson of the illustrious Bishop Berkeley, (supposed to be written in Cheltenham Church). By the Rev. Charles Dunster, M.A. of New Grove, Sussex, ix
Impromptu, on hearing accidentally of Mr. Monck Berkeley's characteristic Sympathy with Wretchedness, and which was singularly exemplified during a Residence of the last Summer at Hastings, in the kindest Attention to more than three hundred of the French Emigrant Clergy, xi
Character of Mr. Monck Berkeley, written by one of the most accomplished Gentlemen of the present Time, xiii
Dedication, by the Editor, to the Right Honourable Alexander Lord Loughborough, Lord High Chancellor of England, xvii
MR. MONCK BERKELEY'S POEMS.
Rumora; or the Maid of Raasa. Inscribed to William Burgh
Author of "A Scriptural Confutation of the Arguments against the Godhead of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, produced by the Reverend Mr. Lindsay in his late Apology, by a Layman, 1774," 8vo; and of "An Enquiry into the Belief of the Christians of the Three First Centuries, respecting the one Godhead of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, being a Sequel to the Scriptural Confutation, by William Burgh, Esquire, 1778," 8vo; for which valuable works he was presented by the University of Oxford to a Doctor's degree by diploma.
, Esquire, of York, LL.D. p. 1
Elegy. To Almeria, 4
Invocation to Oblivion. To Robert Merry, Esquire, 6
To Miss
of Dublin, on the Death of her Mother, 11
To Miranda, on her determining to assume the Veil, 12
Epitaph on G. R. Berkeley, Esquire. To Mrs. George Berkeley, his Mother, 15
Epitaph on an unfortunate Lady. To the Rev. George Gleig, A.M. 16
Impromptu, on hearing, as he was rising in the Morning, of the Death of the Rev. John Duncombe, M.A. Inscribed to Mrs. Duncombe, of Canterbury, 18
The Virgin's Midnight Hymn, supposed to be sung by a Chorus of Nuns at Brussels in the Year 1786, when the Author was there. Inscribed to the Honourable Miss Molesworths, Daughters of Lord Molesworth; and to Miss Hornes, Daughters of the Bishop of Norwich, 19
Evening, a Pastoral. To Henry Grimston, Esquire, of Yorkshire, 21
Song. To Almeria, 26
Elegiac Ballad. To Henry M'Kenzie, Esquire, 27
To Miranda, 31
Verses on the Dutchess of Rutland's preferring Mr. Peters. To George Atkinson, M.D. 32
Elegy to the Memory of Lady Jane Gray and Mary Queen of Scots. To Judith Lady Laurie, 34
Address to the Winds. Supposed to be written by a Lady during the Absence of her Lover. To Miss Munroe
Now married to the very worthy Captain Lowis, a sincerely esteemed and beloved friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley.
, 36
To Miranda, on the Death of her Brother-in-law the Earl of
, 37
The Maids of Morven, an Elegiac Ode, To the Right Honourable Mary Viscountess Ruthven, Daughter of the excellent Earl and Countess of Leven and Melvil, 39
Address to the Shade of Shakspeare, on Mrs. B
's visiting his Tomb in company with the Writer of these Lines, August 13, 1787. To the Rev. Henry Todd, A.M. 41
Stanzas written at the Tomb of Shakspeare. To Miss Lee, 43
Verses on seeing the Tragedy of the Regent. To Bertie Greathead, Esquire, 45
The Banks of Almond. (Vide Pennant's Tour.) To Mary Lady Clarke, of Pennycuicke, 48
Verses on Mrs. Billington's Appearance at Oxford. To Thomas Barrett Lennard, Esquire, 51
The Power of Love. To Robert Berkeley, Esquire, Junior, of Spetchley Park, Worcestershire, 54
Invocation to Cupid. To Frederick Reynolds, Esquire, 55
Inscription for a Gothic Niche lined with Ivy, in the Garden of Dr. Berkeley's Prebendal House in the Oaks at Canterbury, where Mr. Berkeley used to sit and read Greek. The Ladies of the Family named it "The Greek Seat." To the Rev. Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, Chancellor of Brecon, &c. 57
The Birth of Bliss. To the Honourable George Leslie, Son of the Earl of Leven, &c. 60
Inscription for the Front of Singleton Abbey. To Miss Malthus's, the beloved, the respected Friends of his early Youth, 63
The Fairies. To Miss Grimston, youngest Sister of Thomas Grimston, Esquire, of Grimston, Yorkshire, 66
The Immortality of Virtue, To Mrs. Frinsham, 68
To a Nightingale in clifden Wood. To Mrs. D. Monck, of Cookham, 69
Farewel Stanzas on leaving Cookham, in the Spring of the Year 1781, when Mr. Berkeley was not quite eighteen Years old, two Years after he left Eton School. To Mrs. Malthus, 71
The Author. To Arthur Murphy, Esquire, 73
Stanzas on Painting. To the Rev. William Peters, LL.B. 83
Ode to Love. To the Right Honourable Lady Dudley and Ward, 86
Ode to Conscience. To Mrs. Yearsley, 92
Ode to Tragedy. To Mrs. Siddons, 95
Ode to Genius. To the Rev. William Mason, A.M. Precentor of the Cathedral Church of York, 99
Prologue, spoken by the Author, on opening the new Theatre at Blenheim, October 1787. To their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, 101
Prologue to Bonds without Judgement, or the Loves of Bengal. Spoken by Mr. Holman, 106
Song. Sung by a Chorus of Peasants. To the Honourable Mrs. Hobart, 109
Lucy, or the Banks of Avon. Written at the Age of Seventeen, and never meant by Mr. Berkeley for the Public Eye, 111
The Rape of the Wig. Written in the Year 1782, 116
Love and Nature; a Piece in one Act, performed at the Theatre Royal in Dublin, March 1789. Inscribed to the Right Honourable Monck Mason, 119
Prologue. To Charles Berkeley Kippax, Esquire, 121
Love and Nature, 123
An Epistle to Mrs. Lennard, 155
A Morning Hymn, written and printed by the late excellent Bishop Horne, April 5, 1755, 159
A Hymn, by Sir Henry Wootton, composed in a Night of extreme Sickness, 163
An Elegy on the Death of Master George-Robert Berkeley, second Son of the Rev. Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, 165
The Editor's Postscript of the Poems, 179
ERRATUM.
P. 21. l. 10. r. "smoak ascending
to
the skies."
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
IT is more usual for Poets, than for Writers of any other description, to apologize for presenting their Works to the Publick. It is not easy to determine, whether this arises from a suspicion that their Talents are unequal to support the Character they have assumed, or whether it proceeds from an idea, that (as of Poetical Merit all the world
are,
or
pretend
to be, Judges) the utmost appearance of diffidence is necessary to defend the Candidates for the Laurel from the Vengeance of Criticism. The Man who publishes a Treatise in Theology, or an Essay on Farriery, comes boldly forward, and delivers his opinion without apparent apprehensions. But such is not the case with the Poet; he generally thinks himself obliged to state,
"that the following Poems were never intended for the Public Eye—that they were written for the entertainment of a select Circle, or (how felfish!) merely to amuse himself—that either the earnest intreaties of friends, or a dread lest their zeal might have tempted them to circulate incorrect copies of his works, are his sole motives for appealing to the Tribunal of Public Criticism."
—Such is the general Prelude to Poems. But the Author of this Volume is much at a loss how he may properly deprecate the Public Vengeance, for having aspired to the title of a Poet; as he confessedly comes forward, neither urged by the intreaties of Friends, nor terrified by the threats of Creditors; and he certainly entertains no apprehensions that his slender stock of Fame may be injured by the publication of spurious Copies, for none such exist.—He has therefore nothing to plead in his own excuse, but that the Publick having without disgust received his humble attempts in Prose, he is encouraged by the Protection he has already experienced, to appear once more as an Author, hoping, that those whom he may fail to please, will pardon his having attempted it.
To many the Perusal of these Trifles will restore the recollection of times long past. They will be remembered with pleasure, though mingled with that regret which ever attends the recollection of happy days that are to return no more.
In extenuation of any Errors that may occur in these Poems, the Author has only to say, that they were mostly written from the age of Seventeen (when he commenced his Literary Career) to Twenty-four; that at that time of life the Imagination is more active than the Judgement; and that at present he is so reduced by a long and tedious illness, as to be incapable of improving whatever he has written. For the last four years of his life, those hours that have not been marked with disease have been devoted to studies of a severer nature, in order to qualify him for the practice of a profession, which a Constitution debilitated by disease obliges him now, for ever, to relinquish
Had it pleased the all-wise Disposer of all events to have spared Mr. B's life, he hoped to have obtained some appointment in the Diplomatic line, for which, as well as for the Bar, nature and education had excellently qualified him. Mr. B. never had, at any moment of his life, an idea of going into the Ministry—he saying to his friend about a month before his death,
"Nothing
this
world has to offer could ever induce me to go into orders whilst it pleases GOD to spare me my understanding."
Mr. B. had from early youth been
intreated
to read with deep attention the thirty-third chapter of the Prophet Ezekiel, and St. Paul's Epistles to Timothy and Titus; and Mr. B. firmly believed, that
"ALL Scripture was given by inspiration."
.
From a mind exhausted by pain and sickness, emanations of splendor cannot be expected. Had the Author still possessed that share of health, which once constituted his first felicity, he might have rendered his performances less deserving of censure: but, whatever be the result of their publication, the writing of them has occupied many an hour that might have been worse employed; and he may add, that his having a Literary turn of mind has procured him the acquaintance and friendship of many, whose superiority of Talents he readily acknowledges, and from whose Conversation he has derived at once Pleasure and Instruction. Neither has an Attachment to Poetry, as is too often the case, prevented his pursuing Studies of a different cast. From the Works of his Friend Doctor Reid (and those of other able Writers in the same line), he has derived a pleasure more solid than Poetry can bestow. Poetry may charm with the power of Fancy; but it is Philosophy alone that can strengthen the mind.
As the Author's present state of health renders it probable that this may be his last Address to the Publick, he will not lay down his pen without adverting to the Reviews. Those Channels of Literary Intelligence are often censured, as both partial and severe. How far these charges may be just, he will not pretend to determine: but he wishes those who bring the charge to recollect, that Reviewers are men; that some degree of partiality is inseparable from humanity; and that therefore, till we are supplied with Reviews from above, they, like every other human invention, must have their imperfections. However, in matters of Religion, the Reviewers may have improper biasses; in matters of Belles Lettres, their opinion will in general be found to be impartial, and by appeals from their decision little is now to be gained. We live in an age when Literary Merit is throughly understood; and the Volumes that are now condemned, will derive little advantage from the award of Posterity.
Having said thus much on the subject of the Reviews, he thinks it right to declare, that he has not the least personal acquaintance with any of the Gentlemen who compile them. Of his connections with the Reviewers, in his literary capacity, he has no right to complain. Where he has merited censure, they have inflicted it fairly; and they have often cheered him with approbation.
Whatever be the result of their Decision with respect to this Work, he promises to submit without any appeal. With respect to the Trifles that compose this Volume, he has only farther to observe, that, instead of inscribing the whole to one person, he has inscribed the separate Poems to different people, as slight tokens of his esteem. For this mode of Dedication, though now he does not think himself bound to offer any apology, possibly his plan may recall to the memory of his Readers the fable of the Hare and many Friends; and should the Author fail of success in his present attempt, he, like the Hare, may experience the inutility of Friendship. But, whatever be the success of his Volume, he will still have the satisfaction to reflect, that he has never written a line, which,
"dying, he might wish to blot."
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE MONCK BERKELEY, ESQ. GRANDSON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS BISHOP BERKELEY. (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN CHELTENHAM CHURCH.)
BY THE REV. CHARLES DUNSTER, M.A. OF NEW-GROVE, SUSSEX.
"THANK HEAV'N I KNEW THEE NOT,"
o'er the sad bier,
Of Russell, torn by Death's resistless doom,
From each gay flatt'ring hope of manhood's bloom.
See Mr. Anstey's beautiful lines on the Memory of the Marquis of Tavistock, father to the present Duke of Bedford.
So
sang the Bard—but
how
restrain the tear
Which flows impell'd by sympathy sincere?
While 'mid these hallow'd walls at evenings gloom,
I pay my votive strain at BERKELEY's tomb,
A Youth to Genius, Science, Virtue dear!
For, by thy skill in learning's varied lore,
By thy sweet lyre attun'd with ev'ry grace,
Blest Shade! I knew thee well;—but, ah!
still more,
I knew thee in the
virtues
of thy race;
And while their agonizing grief I see,
Deeply I mourn with THEM who weep for THEE.
IMPROMPTU.
ON HEARING ACCIDENTALLY OF MR. MONCK BERKELEY'S CHARACTERISTIC SYMPATHY WITH WRETCHEDNESS—AND WHICH WAS SINGULARLY EXEMPLIFIED, DURING A RESIDENCE OF THE LAST SUMMER AT HASTINGS, IN THE KINDEST ATTENTION TO MORE THAN THREE HUNDRED EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY
Mr. Monck Berkeley was their
sole
Interpreter
For although there were several persons at Hastings that could speak something that was NOT English, yet these poor people used to say,
"No body
comprendres
us but Mons.
Berquelly,
"
as the French always speak and write that, to them, hard name. A ridiculous anecdote might be related of the name being
properly
written, once when Mr. Berkeley's Mother was in France many years ago.
—assisted them (as did his truly respectable unwearied friend the very worthy Henry Grimston, Esq.) most liberally with his purse—and in every other possible way—dying as he then was—They were most gratefully sensible of his truly amiable unwearied attention to them.
.
BY MR. DUNSTER.
AH me! those tears he dried, again shall flow,
Those hearts he eas'd, again shall burst with woe;
The Poor, for him, heart-rending sighs shall heave,
And Gallia's Rev'rend Exiles doubly grieve.
C.D.
CHARACTER OF MR. MONCK BERKELEY;
WRITTEN BY ONE OF THE MOST ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESENT TIME.
MY first knowledge of Mr. Berkeley was at Oxford. He was then a Gentleman Commoner of Magdalen Hall in that University; and though many very respectable names were at the same time on the list of its members, yet Mr. Berkeley was so pre-eminently noble in his manners, so faithful in his friendships, and so benevolent to his associates, that perhaps not one of the society envied his high reputation as a man, or thought themseves lessened by the acknowledged superiority of his talents as a scholar. His delight was in searching out merit; and, well knowing that it fled from the glare of day, and should be sought after in the shade of retirement, he there looked for that humble, but valuable plant, and, having found it, transplanted it instantly into the richest soil he had access to. The soul of the great Bishop Berkeley seemed in every thing to have animated the body of his Grandson, and, like him, to have equally deserved the just tribute of praise recorded by the sweet Poet of his day:
"To Berkeley every virtue under Heaven."
Genius marked him in his earliest years for a child of her own adoption; and had not Providence, for some good purpose, hidden from our eyes, recalled his spirit from the abodes of men, when it was verging upon the years where youth ends and manhood begins, he would not have needed the impartial pen to have told the admiring world that he possessed every power,
"Whether, by various rules of art,
"To touch the soul, or warm the heart;
"To please the eye, delight the mind,
"With objects simple, pure, refin'd:
"To sound sublime the epic strain,
"Like Falccus charm, or with the rage
"Of Juvenal, chastise the age;
"Sweet as the prophet's vision to unfold
"What sainted breasts have felt, but never told:
"What Bards to us with sparing hand have given,
"Of lib'ral gifts bestow'd on them by Heaven."
WEBB.
Through a long and oppressive illness, he supported with unabated vigour the soul of the Christian, the ties of friendship, and the benevolence of the man. Pious without oftentation, gay without licentiousness, a poet without envy, a man without guile. Such was George Monck Berkeley, Esq. now happier far in the region of his kindred spirits, than all the vain pursuits of this earthly globe could bestow upon him.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ALEXANDER LORD LOUGHBOROUGH, LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND.
MY LORD,
PERMIT me to offer to your Lordship the following hasty sketch of the (alas)
short
life of a most accomplished young Man, honoured by your Lordship's throughly amiable attention, when introduced to your Lordship by letter only, from an old acquaintance, of whom perhaps
"you had not heard even the name for near a quarter of a century."
It requires an abler pen than that of a poor infirm Female to do justice to your Lordship's highly polite friendly attentions to that lovely young Man, and to his and his happy Mother's gratitude
for
those
attentions.
By those who have known her best through life, GRATITUDE has been said to be the distinguishing, the strongest feature in her character, and she is tempted to believe it; for the death of her angelic-hearted Son certainly blasted every
other
passion of her mind. But gratitude, perhaps indigenous, if any good in our fallen nature may be said to be so, still blossoms in her heart. No affliction has eradicated, has blasted, or frozen it. Whilst it continues sensible to any sublunary objects, it will reflect with pleasure, with delight, often with extacy, on the goodness of your Lordship, and your incomparable compeer, the excellent Earl of Leven, to the descendant of those two great and good Men, Bishop Berkeley and Francis Cherry, Esquire, and the happiness thereby conferred on her who has the honour to be, with the sincerest gratitude,
My LORD,
Your Lordship's very highly obliged, and very faithful humble Servant, ELIZA BERKELEY.
Magdalene Lodge,
Nov. 1795.
ERRATA.
P. xxvi. l. 18. r. "
de l'ouvrier.
"
P. lxvii. note, l. 2. for "the
learned,
" r. "the
late.
"
P. c. note, l. 4. r. "to the gardener, who is now living, at a great age, in the alms-house at Maidenhead;" and l. 11. for "
I
cannot," r. "
he
cannot."
P. cv. note, l. 18, r. "Oh! Leoline,
be
obstinately just:"
P. cviii. l. 6. for "
with,
" r. "
when
worshiping."
P. cx. note, l. 1. for "handsome," r. "
beautiful
painting."—The word
handsome
was intended to precede the word
church.
It could not have been prefixed by the Editor to a very beautiful small painting, exactly the size of the frontispiece to the beautiful Elegy on the death of Miss M
l
s, designed by Mr. Monck Berkeley. Both, elegantly framed, hang in the Editor's dressing-room, to
delight
her eyes.
P. cxiii. note, l. 1. r. "
in good humour
half an hour in a week."
P. cxxv. note, l. ult. for "I
know,
" r. "I
knew.
"
P. cxxxvi. l. 4. for "Itning," r. "Ixning."
P. clxx. note, l. ult. for "a future state," r. "a pleasanter place."
P. cxcvi. l. 4. r. "
Mr.
S
t
z."
P. ccxi. note, l. 2. for "
Iver,
" r. "
Ives-Place,
near Maidenhead."
P. ccxii. l. 20. r. "to
save
us."
P. ccxv. l. 16, 17. for "in
parts,
" r. "in
any part.
"
P. ccxlv. note, l. 1. r. "
the
buck-hounds."
P. ccxlvii. l. 21. Expunge the words "
It was.
"
P. ccl. l. 16. for "
John,
" r. "
Johnson;
" and l. 19. for "
then,
" r. "
there.
"
P. cclii. l. 19. for "brother," r. "mother."
P. cclxxxii. note, l. 9. for "
where,
" r. "
whose
it was."
P. cclxxxviii. note, l. 1. for "
or,
" r. "
and
Spanish;" l. 1, 2, r. "excellent work of that kind—Heloise
or
(not
in
) The Siege of Rhodes, a legendary Tale; with the second (not last) edition of which is bound up The Vicar's Tale.
Ibid. l. 9. read "my dear Madam;" and l. 13. for "
he,
" r. "
the.
"
P. cccix. l. 12. for "
as,
" r. "
that;
" and l. 17. r. "
Prebendaries.
"
P. Dlxxiv. note, l. 10. after "Lord Mulgrave," add, "sent to her by the hands of his excellent eldest brother, the Rev. Richard Harvey, of St. Lawrence, a most amiable respected old friend of the Editor."
P. Dlxxvi. note, l. 9. for "Porter of
College," r. "Porter of Ch. Ch." The calling
Christ Church
a College is a
vulgarity,
which could not have escaped the pen of an aged Matron, 36 years the wife of a Ch. Ch. Gentleman.
AT PAGE cccc. LINE 20. IS A MOST
CAPITAL ERRATUM
INDEED, CERTAINLY CHARGEABLE TO THE DEVIL, OR THE COMPOSITOR.
IN THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE GOOD ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY AND THE ELEGANT BISHOP OF DURHAM, CONCERNING PRINCESS EMELEY, IS OMITTED WHAT THE EDITOR MARKED AS CAPITALS—
"AND THAT BOOK WAS
BISHOP HALL'S
WORKS."
THE EDITOR CONCEIVES, WHICHEVER WAS IN FAULT, THAT HE IS AN ARIAN. SHE REJOICES THAT HE DID NOT PRINT "BISHOP H." AS IT MIGHT THEN HAVE BEEN SUPPOSED TO BE BISHOP HOADLY, WHO, AS DR. BERKELEY USED TO SAY,
"CREPT INTO HOUSES, AND LED SILLY WOMEN CAPTIVE,"
AS SPEAKES ST. PAUL TO TIMOTHY, IN HIS SECOND EPISTLE, HER ROYAL HIGHNESS WAS A WOMAN OF A VERY GOOD UNDERSTANDING, AND SHOWED IT BY HER ATTENTION TO THE INCOMPARABLE WRITINGS OF BISHOP HALL.
GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY, Esquire, LL.B. and F.S.S.A. was the eldest, and, during the last eighteen years of his life, the only child of the Reverend GEORGE BERKELEY, LL.D. Prebendary of Canterbury (son of George Lord Bishop of Cloyne by Anne eldest daughter of the Right Honourable John Forster, Speaker of the House of Commons in Ireland) and Eliza eldest daughter of the Reverend Henry Frinsham, M.A. (by Eliza youngest daughter and co-heiress of Francis Cherry, Esquire, of Shottesbrook House in the county of Berks
A friend of Mr. Berkeley used to tell him, that he was as remarkably descended by his Mother, as he was nobly by his Father. Two of Mrs. Berkeley's paternal grandsires were killed in one day at the Isle of Rhée. Sir John Heidon and Sir George Blundell, Baronets; and the son of the former was highly favoured by Providence to
escape
an untimely death, by the wretched Lord Bruce's objecting to
his
being second in that tremendous duel fought between him and Sir Edward Sackville, ancestor to the present worthy Duke of Dorset. Some years ago, when Mr. Berkeley visited France, and got a letter of introduction to his Grace, then Ambassador at Paris, containing a very urgent request that Mr. Berkeley might have particular attention, his Father, laughing, said,
"You may plead your grandsire's
merits
in crossing the ocean to prevent his Grace's grandsire's being
butchered
by that
wretch
Lord Bruce."
All who have read that tragical tale related by Mr. Addison in "The Guardian," and in the second volume of Collin's Peerage, p. 196, must rejoice that poor Lord Bruce died possessed of a very different spirit from that which influenced him in life; that he, like the thief on the cross, was called into the vineyard at the eleventh hour and a half, or rather
three quarters,
just before the
final
close of the day of MERCY and GRACE; for his soul passed into the region of spirits within the hour.
).
Mr. Berkeley was born at Bray, in the county of Berks, on Tuesday, February 8, 1763, at half past two in the morning.
It is frequently said by Biographers, that nothing remarkable occurred during childhood. Of Mr. Berkeley this cannot be asserted; for, throughout childhood, youth, manhood, and till within a
very
few months of his death, the hair-breadth escapes of losing life were almost innumerable; an all-gracious Providence constantly interposing, sometimes very remarkably, to rescue him from death, until he was enabled, by free Sovereign Grace, through Redeeming Mercy, to meet that King of Terrors with joy; for he died triumphing in Christ.
A little before the birth of Mr. Berkeley, Dr. Cadogan's "Essay on the Nursing of Children" made its appearance, when the depositing children in cradles was exploded; accordingly a large easy chair during the day was appropriated to his use. When he was about six weeks old, a person going into the nursery in the dusk, before the servant had lighted candles, sat down on this chair; but providentially did not sit quite to the back, it being very deep. She soon felt something move; the infant, finding itself incommoded, began to struggle with its arms and legs. Mr. Berkeley, from his birth, shewed the very uncommon strength of limbs, which, as he grew up, increased; and he was esteemed the strongest man in England, by those who were judges. Some of his intimate friends have owed their lives, in a tumultuous crowd, to the strength of his arm, joined to his true resolute cool courage, where he did not wish to have recourse to his sword. Mr. Berkeley's strength was muscular, as his bones were remarkably small; his wrist, some time before his death, measuring little more than six inches.
When he was about three months old, his mother was attacked by so desperate an ague, that it was supposed another fit must have proved fatal to her; yet so unwilling was she, that her darling, her idol (alas) from his cradle to his coffin, should be indebted for his early nourishment to any but herself, that she resolved to attempt the bringing him up by hand; but he had very nearly lost his life in the attempt, before a nurse could be procured.
At a very early period of his life he began to shew signs of that uncommon brilliancy of parts, quickness of wit, and soundness of judgement, which so remarkably distinguished him through life, even to its latest period. To relate witticisms of a child to any but a fond parent would be ridiculous; one or two instances, it is hoped, may, however, be pardoned. When about three years old, he was searching the house for his mother, whom from his earliest infancy, he passionately loved. Unable to find her, he walked from room to room, calling her. A lady, who was staying in the family, said,
"My dear child, what a bleating thou dost make!"
He instantly turned round, and said,
"To be sure I do, for I am
bleating for my Dam.
"
When he was little more than three years and a half old, he was diverting himself in the garden. A beggar came to the gate, and, seeing the hall doors and windows all open, and no one in sight, said,
"My pretty little Master, what are you doing here alone?"
He replied,
"I am watering some flowers for the gardener."
The old fox said,
"I think I must come in and help you;"
on which Mr. Berkeley flew to the gate, and bolted it, saying,
"No, I thank you, I can do it very well by myself."
On his maid's asking him why he bolted the gate, he replied,
"Why, if he had got into the house now that the men are out with the coach, perhaps the maids and I could not have got him out again."
Generosity and compassion are indeed very rarely found until instilled into the breasts of very young children: in Mr. Berkeley they were certainly indigenous. When a child in arms, if he was asked to give a piece of cake out of his hand, he would instantly break off three-fourths of it, reserving only a very small piece for himself, and be unhappy if the petitioner did not take and eat it. On receiving his orange after dinner, when it was peeled, he would retire to the window ahd carefully separate the quills, then go out into the servants' hall, and force one upon every servant, eight in number. One evening his mother observing that he kept his left hand closed, enquired whether he had hurt it; the servant replied, that he had not, but that he had kept since dinner, full four hours, a quill of his orange to give to the coachman, who had been sent to Windsor on a message, and that no promises of care could prevail on Master Berkeley to entrust her with it, adding, that he assured her,
"it would
comfort
him after his ride."
Mr. Berkeley had been told, as all children should be, that the poor had a right to a share of all his money; accordingly, the first bright sixpence of which he was master, he procured a hammer, and attempted to break it. On his servant's asking him what he was about, he replied,
"Why Mamma says, the poor must have their share of it, so I am going to break it for them."
This attended him to his latest hour; for the distressed ever shared largely indeed in every guinea he possessed.
Mr. Berkeley's understanding was such as often, when a child, to occasion his Mother to say, she hoped he would not, in other instances, resemble the famous Marquis de Bedmar, of whom, in his Memoires, it is said, he had the power of appearing to be entirely taken up with bagatelles, when he was listening to every thing that was saying by various persons, and when he was plotting the destruction of Venice.
Mr. Berkeley, when only five years old, would stand at the window seat, and hum a tune, and three weeks afterwards would relate two different conversations carried on at the same time, and not only relate them verbatim, but take off exactly the action and tone of voice of every speaker. Of this dangerous, however diverting amusement, Mr. Berkeley was early broke by his Mother.
The first eight years and a half of his life Mr. Berkeley had no other instructor than his Mother; and such was the extreme volatility of his genius, the wonderful
strength
of his understanding, and the
natural
wilfulness of his temper, that the difficulty of teaching him to read was an Herculean labour, so much as often to occasion him to say, when grown up, that
"he was
resolved
not to learn to read; that he did verily believe his Mother was the only
human
being who could have accomplished it until he was old enough to feel the necessity of it
A brother of the late Sir Thomas Stapleton, of Gray's Court, persisted in a like resolution, saying it was nonsense to learn, until he, at thirteen, was sent to sea on board a ship commanded by Sir John Norris, who, on learning the young gentleman's sentiments, assured him, that he should be flogged every day until he could read. The Chaplain was appointed his Tutor. He was, after this declaration, a very apt scholar. This acute, worthy, young gentleman died at the age of twenty-two. It is sometimes a misfortune to children to be too clever.
;"
—adding,
"I think my dear Mother seemed to have been sent into this world on purpose to
teach
and
govern
me, as I attended to, nor cared for any one but herself; finding that
she
alone had that
invincible
perseverance requisite to govern me."
Before he attained his sixth year, he read incomparably; and his comments on what he read, and what he saw, often occasioned the late George Lord Lyttelton, when staying at his father's on a visit, to declare
"he had the
strongest,
as well as the
most brilliant
powers of mind he had ever seen;"
often exclaiming, as did the late learned Dr. Sumner of Harrow School, and many other great men,
"What a
man
this
very extraordinary child
must become!"
and Mr. Berkeley more than answered the expectations of his childhood, as all the learned and great men who had share in his education bore testimony. His beloved and respected tutor at Eton, the Reverend Dr. Norbury, too well known in the learned world to need any eulogium from a feeble pen, used to say, that there were wonderful traits of originality in all Mr. Berkeley's exercises. On this being mentioned one day by a friend to his Father, Mr. Berkeley, then a young man, said,
"Ah! my
dear Tutor
(as, to the time of his death, he ever termed Dr. Norbury) I do pity him. He used to storm, and say, 'I have thirty
dolts,
that
cannot
do any thing; and I have three or four, with that idle varlet Berkeley at their head, that
can do every thing,
and that
will
do nothing."
And when Dr. Berkeley used to complain of his son's idleness to Dr. Norbury, his reply was,
"Sir, if your son would apply at
all,
he must carry the world before him; but I must tell you fairly, such is his genius, that I do not believe that
man lives,
who can make him apply regularly, until he comes
himself
to see the necessity of it."
The very learned Dr. Hill, professor of Greek at the university of St. Andrew's, (now Dean of the Chapel Royal at Edinburgh,) where Mr. Berkeley
did
apply, used to say, that he would engage to select Mr. Berkeley's exercise from amongst a thousand, without any other mark than what the French term
"
le marque
d'ouvrier."
Mr. Berkeley, although he could not be called a
man
of business, might with propriety be termed a
creature
of business, from seven years old; for he always felt himself, as he thought, equal to transact any thing that he offered his services to perform. The following little incident may serve to illustrate this: before he was seven years old, his Mother, being alarmed lest one of his front teeth should grow uneven from the old one not being removed, had sent him to town to Hemmet, who very honestly said,
"All would be right if let alone;"
and he proved that his judgement was as great as his honesty; for, when Mr. Berkeley grew up, and sometimes went to him for his tooth powder, he often said, that Mr. Berkeley had the finest and strongest set of teeth he ever saw in any head. He returned home with a gentleman who was coming on a visit to his Father's. A lady of very large fortune happened to be in the machine, going on a visit to a friend at Taplow. Finding that he lived in the neighbourhood, she asked him how far it was from Maidenhead Bridge to Taplow? He replied, that it was about ten minutes drive. She said, she must walk, as her friends, not knowing the day of her arrival, could not send their carriage. He replied, that she certainly should not do that; for that his Father's coach would be sent to convey the gentleman and himself; and that he would certainly have the pleasure of taking her up the hill to her friend's house. The instant he got out of the machine he enquired of Mr. March if his Father's coach was come, and had the mortification to hear, that the coachman had called to say, that the carriage was gone on to carry some gentlemen over Maidenhead Thicket, and would call for him in an hour. Mr. Berkeley, not then seven years old, said,
"Madam, it is very
improper that a lady
should walk on the high road
alone;
so
I
will have the honour of walking up with you. I can borrow a
stick
of Mr. March."
This
protection
was, as will naturally be supposed, politely declined; and the lady ordered a chaise. As soon as she alighted, her first question was,
"Do you know Dr. Berkeley of Cookham?"
"Yes, intimately."
"Do you know his little boy? If you do not, you do not know, I very believe, the most sensible little creature in the world, and the politest;"
adding,
"there was a tall young man (of, I suppose, near thirty) with him; but the dear child has twenty times his sense, and forty times his politeness."
The gentleman was a learned man, who laughed at that pleasing accomplishment, politeness: he was
then
what
fine
men are
now.
Mr. Berkeley was almost idolized by the family to whom the lady was going; so it appeared not so wonderful to them.
In the May after he had completed his eighth year, Dr. Berkeley went to reside at his prebendal house in the Oaks at Canterbury, where he was immediately sent to the King's school, under the care of those two eminent masters, the learned, accomplished, elegant Dr. Beauvoir, and the reverend, learned, and worthy Mr. Tucker. In August, a gentleman's family going to France to place a son at St. Quintin, to learn the language; his Mother suggested to his Father the advantage of sending Mr. Berkeley, who, although she had taught him to read French well, yet found it impossible, with an house full of English servants, to make him speak it; and as it never was the consideration of a moment with his parents, whether any thing concerning their children's education was to cost one guinea or one hundred, immediately determined to send him. Young as he was, he was the only one of the party who knew any thing of French; and the sensible amiable lady, whose son was going to learn the French language, at her return, declared, that they should have been half starved at the inns and hotels, had not Mr. Berkeley been with them, saying,
"That lovely little creature seemed quite inspired; for he began in French telling the waiters it was a shame to let English ladies and gentlemen sit there without their tea and chocolate."
He used to run to the bar, and drive them in before him with whatever was wanted. In his own language, it may with strictest truth be asserted, that even at that early period of life he was a great proficient; for there is not a word in the English language which, at the age of seven years, he could not spell without book; and of most of the difficult words, he perfectly understood their sense, and used them with the strictest propriety; which occasioned the sensible Sir J. Temple, brother of the abovenamed amiable lady, who accompanied her to France, repeatedly to say,
"I never saw so sensible a creature. Here is my nephew
The very amiable D
L
, Esquire, of Hampshire.
, just double his age, who has been under private tuition for five years, is no more capable of expressing himself in the elegant language
This had been by him easily acquired; his Mother having, from the age of three years, every morning, after he had spelt his lesson, regularly explained to him the meaning of two words, of five, six, or seven syllables. This easy task, to both mistress and scholar, produced a laughable circumstance. One day, when Mr. Berkeley was about three years and a half old, after dinner he being at play in the window, a gentleman who had dined at Dr. Berkeley's speaking of the unfortunate Captain B
, said,
"Ah! poor man; it is pity his father and mother did not take it into their heads to marry before he was born: it makes the difference of 4000 l. a year to him."
Mr. Berkeley turned round, and said,
"Poor man! I pity him exceedingly. It is a
very
great misfortune to be illegitimate."
The gentleman, turning to him, said
"You little animal, how could you become acquainted with a word almost as long as yourself?"
No one supposed him attending to the conversation; but, from the time he was capable of speaking, although deeply engaged at play, he would frequently, a week after, relate
verbatim
even long conversations, with every gesture, and the tone of voice of every speaker. In mimickry he was an adept, but was early taught by his Mother the danger of indulging it, and very rarely indeed practised it, never but when earnestly requested by some very intimate friend, and in very select company.
of this little creature, than I am of scaling the skies;"
adding,
"I shall watch him through life, and bid adieu to all
my
sagacity, if he does not become one of the greatest men of the age."
Mr. Berkeley remained somewhat less than a year in France, boarding in the house of a truly respectable Roman catholic
negociant
of the name of Montjole, under the kind inspection of the truly amiable Protestant family of Fitzou. The unfeigned affection he ever retained for the French friends of his early youth appeared when, at the age of seventeen, he published his
"Maria, or the Generous Rustic,"
by his selecting the names of his actors in that beautiful little volume from the families with whom he lived, and those by whom he was caressed and delighted, indeed almost idolized, for he had ever most engaging attracting manners. His heroine took her name from the servant of Monsieur and Madame Montjole, who loved him so tenderly, that when he was to quit St. Quintin, at the age of between nine and ten, she was obliged to be sent by her mistress for two or three days to visit her parents, while
le petit général Angloise,
as he was universally called at that place, from his collecting a number of boys a little older than himself, and exercising them every evening, and marching them with a drum and other martial music about the town, after which he used frequently to entertain them with fruit, cakes, &c. His
séjour
in France fully answered, as perhaps very few Englishmen were ever more throughly masters of the French language, speaking and writing it as correctly as he did his mother tongue. On being thanked by a gentleman, who had requested him to take up his pen, for his elegant translation of "Nina," inscribed to the Honourable Mr. Hobart, he replied,
"Sir, the favour was very trifling, for (excepting the sonnet) it employed me only just six hours."
When a child at the King's School at Canterbury, his mother used to rise at six o'clock in summer, to walk with him out of the city for country air. One morning, about seven o'clock, passing by the city wall, a woman with a child sat begging. As Mrs. Berkeley never gave to trampers, she told the woman, she could not relieve her. Mr. Berkeley, then little more than eight years old, unobserved, stayed behind talking to her. When he joined his Mother, she began reproving him, by saying,
"It is very wrong to talk to such persons without one means to relieve them, and that she was persuaded his yesterday's allowance was all gone:"
to which he replied, in his sweetly melodious voice,
"Why, the poor woman said she had not ate a
morsel to-day
(the church clock struck
seven
as he was speaking); and I told her, I had no money; but asked her, if some gingerbread nuts that I bought last night would be any comfort to her and her
poor little child;
and she said yes; so I stayed that I might get them
all
out of my pocket for her."
His mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude to God for having blessed her child with
such
an heart; and she has frequently declared that had she been offered fifty thousand pounds not to have heard that early ebullition of that (through life) lovely heart, she would have rejected it. The same sweet spirit attended him amidst all his torturing illness. Not many days before his death, a poor family in distress being named, he turned on the sofa on which he was lying, and, not finding in his pocket what he thought sufficient to send them, eagerly desired his servant might be called, to take his keys to get him some more money, to send to them; and, when his mother assured him that they had been already relieved by his father and aunt, he replied,
"that a
little
more would comfort them!"
When Mr. Berkeley was between ten and eleven years old, a melancholy affair happened at Canterbury. One of those unfortunate orphans who are said to be
happy
in having CAREFUL guardians, had, in the summer vacation, stepped over from London to Paris, had there spent more than his scanty allowance, had repeatedly applied to his
careful
guardians (one, I think, his maternal uncle) for a little of his
own
money. His humble suit was rejected. He, however, reached Dover without a guinea; he again applied, but in vain. Utterly unable to reach London, this unfortunate youth, not yet nineteen, sallied forth on the high road between Dover and Canterbury. He unfortunately met with an
amiable
farmer and his
compassionate cara-sposa
in what is called an hurdy-gurdy. From the former he took a silver-pewter watch with a greasy leather chain, and a fox's head set in brass; from the other, about seventeen shillings. This worthy pair drove with all speed to raise an hue and cry after their
foot
highwayman. The poor youth returned to the alehouse whence he sallied out, borrowed a petticoat of the maid servant, got a cork, blacked his face, and escaped into a wood, where he was taken, and in this wretched disguise brought to Canterbury. The news of so extraordinary a figure was soon spread; the children belonging to the King's School went beyond their bounds to see him. Mr. Berkeley soon returned, and told his Mother the lamentable tale. She, of course, moralized on the subject. Soon a violent noise was heard; Mr. Berkeley started to the window; then, sitting down, exclaimed,
"Good God! how can our boys be such brutes!"
and looked as pale as death. His Mother, who is shortsighted, asked him what it was? He replied,
"The justices are sitting, and this poor creature is going to be examined, and our boys are hallooing after him, as if he were a mad dog."
It being one of those days on which the school hours permit the gentlemen's sons who board at home to dine with their families, Mrs. Berkeley observed, that her son did not eat at all, but leaned back in his chair. She enquired if he was ill; he replied,
"No."
"What ails you then, that you do not eat? Eat your dinner, I desire you."
He replied,
"
I cannot eat a morsel,
for thinking of this poor creature, just gone to St. Dunstan's gaol
At his examination several questions were asked him, the answering of which tended to his crimination. Dr. Berkeley, who, although in the commission for Kent, Berks, and Middlesex, never acted, called out aloud,
"Young man, do not answer any question that is asked you. Thank God the laws of England do not oblige any man to accuse himself."
The youth took his advice. The farmer and his odious dame swore so
readily
and so
positively
through every thing, that he was committed, and took his trial at Maidstone, and was transported for three years. He lived, however, to return, and enjoy a good fortune, and, no doubt, thank his careful guardians.
."
He accordingly went without his dinner. The next day, when he came in from school at twelve o'clock, he repaired, as usual, to his Mother's dressing-room. He gently approached his Mother, and began as follows:
"My dear Mamma, I am sure I should be very sorry to ask
you
to do
any thing improper
for a lady to do; but could there be any impropriety in your ordering John
The very worthy Mr. Wrightson, now master of the workhouse at Canterbury, who lived with Dr. Berkeley near thirty years, and married from his service, was in the house when Mr. Berkeley was born. He ever took the most tender, judicious, and respectful care of him in infancy and youth. A very ludicrous little anecdote might be repeated, of Mr. Wrightson's bargaining with a bargeman, to buy Mr. Berkeley, then six years old, which entirely cured Mr. Berkeley of a
most dangerous
trick, of which had Mr. Wrightson told his Mother, the little man would have received a heavy chastisement indeed.
to carry that
poor
young man a few bottles of wine to the gaol? for my heart bleeds for him, and
I
have not money enough to buy him wine."
His Mother told him she would mention it at dinner to his Father, who, she was very certain, would give orders concerning it. Perhaps the poor young man owed the preservation of his life to Dr. Berkeley's philanthropy.
At the age of twelve, he lost his only brother, near four years younger than himself, of whom he was most passionately fond, and whose death he ever lamented till he was going to rejoin him in the realms of bliss. As children this was remarkable. The exquisite beauty of his brother attracted the eyes of all beholders, drew persons to their doors and windows to look at him, which, so entirely void of envy was Mr. Berkeley through life, that he used to come home in extacies, telling his mother how every body admired his
brother's
beauty. When he was about six years old, a lady meeting him one day, who admired him much, asked him if his little brother was like him. He instantly replied,
"O dear, Madam, not at all; he is a vast deal handsomer than I am: every body wonders at his beauty that meets him in the street."
When one was about eight, the other rather more than four years old, the celebrated George Lord Lyttelton, staying some time on a visit at Dr. Berkeley's, said to a gentleman,
"that he did really think, that, mind and person, they were the very finest children he had ever seen during the course of his life."
The death of Mr. Berkeley's younger brother, caused by a dreadful fever which raged at that time in Canterbury, occasioned his being removed to Eton school some months sooner than was intended by his Father; but his Mother, trembling for her darling, the moment the physician pronounced his brother's fever infectious, begged he might be sent away immediately, which he was within the hour, under the care of a faithful tender servant, who lived at his Father's family at the time of his birth, and until within about four years of Mr. Berkeley's death, when he married. For this worthy man Mr. Berkeley ever retained the most grateful regard and affection, as did his Parents, for his constant unwearied attention paid by him to the health, the manners, the morals, of their ever-to-be-lamented son. To this worthy person's care was he constantly confided, from the time that he began to run alone, until after he quitted Eton school, and had a servant of his own. Mr. Berkeley used frequently to say,
"It is not easy to express the gratitude I feel towards John, for his wonderfully judicious method of managing such a refractory chap as I was, especially when I was from home, and he had not my Mother to call in to his aid."
Mr. Berkeley, with perhaps as amiable, as lovely a nature as ever God bestowed on any fallen child of Adam, had a very high spirit, and a very uncommonly wilful temper. Mr. Wrightson, by civility, gentleness, and ridicule, as a child and youth could prevail on Mr. Berkeley to give up any project to do any thing. Mr. Berkeley had a very affectionate regard for him; and, when visiting at his Father's from Oxford or the Temple, if it were but from Saturday to Monday, he used constantly to say,
"I must go and sit half an hour with my old friend John in his pantry, and talk over old times, or he will think me unkind;"
adding,
"I am sure I owe it to him, for the
judicious
care he took of me in childhood and youth."
Mr. Berkeley's behaviour to servants, as servants, was, from early youth, very remarkably kind; and he never had any servant who would not have risqued almost every thing to serve and oblige him, excepting one Italian, whom he took for a few weeks, after an old servant of his married. This execrable villain threatened to murder him, for having ordered him to go a journey on the top of a stage-coach, Mr. Berkeley having a friend in the post-chaise with him. Such are foreign servants more frequently than is imagined by the
wise
persons who confide in them in preference to their own countrymen, who are seldom tempted to rob or murder a master, having no foreign tongue to secure them a
safe
retreat on the Continent.
Mr. Berkeley's tutor at Eton was, as mentioned above, the learned and respectable Dr. Norbury, under whose tuition he had been placed by his Father, at the
earnest
request of his Mother, who knew his merits as a tutor, having resided at Windsor four years before her marriage, and conceived him particularly calculated to direct
such
a spirit as her darling son. The event proved that she was not mistaken; for, volatile and idle as Mr. Berkeley was, it is certain Dr. Norbury contrived to make him apply more than ever any one before had done, excepting his Mother, who often regretted, that, finding what cast of genius her eldest son had, she had not set about learning Latin and Greek, that she might have
made
him apply more closely in his youth. As a proof of Mrs. Berkeley's inflexible steadiness, in teaching her son and correcting his perverseness of temper, she once made him say the word "Nicodemus"
thirty
times, when he was about five years old, which he either could not, or would not, pronounce properly. When grown up, he used to say,
"Oh! my dear Mother, it was
would not;
for it was one of my numerous trials of skill with you;"
adding,
"but you were
very wise
to do it, or God knows what must have become of me!"
Dr. Berkeley's grand object was to see his son as great a scholar as his father Bishop Berkeley. Never having been at any school himself, but coming immediately from the palace of Cloyne to Christ Church in Oxford, he had conceived that Eton collegers, if they had talents, must necessarily be excellent scholars; and, after his son had been a considerable time at Eton, boarding at the house of the worthy Mrs. Tyrrell, and her truly amiable niece Mrs. Brookland, whom Mr. Berkeley, through his life, termed
"that angelic-tempered woman,"
he dutifully submitted to go into the long chamber, to the extreme affliction of his Mother, who conjured his Father, with many tears, not to remove him; but he consulted, and followed the advice of, the then provost of Eton, Dr. Barnard, although he had, by his accomplished, worthy friend, the late Dr. Sumner, of Harrow, been cautioned against his wiles, in these remarkable words:
"Never trust that man: he has a
black
heart: I had myself been head master of Eton, my friends in power having secured it for me; but, on my asking if Dr. Barnard was to be provost, and being answered in the affirmative, I, for that
sole
reason, begged to decline it."
The subsequent conduct of Dr. Barnard fully justified the truth of the character Dr. Sumner had given of him. Could any man but Dr. Barnard have treated the first school in England, over which he had so long presided, and which he had, upon the whole
Upon the
whole
so well; for certainly, in some instances, he was tyrannical, even cruel, which the following well-known fact must prove to all impartial persons. The late General Brudenell, deputy governor of Windsor Castle, being with his regiment in Germany, one day, as his lady was sitting at dinner, her son from Eton came in. She naturally enquired what could bring him up at that hour on a whole school day. The youth (aged between thirteen and fourteen) replied,
"Why, I am expelled."
Mrs. Brudenell (the knife and fork dropping from her hand) exclaimed,
"Good God! child, what have you done? Have you killed a boy?"
"No, I have done nothing but called my dame's upper maid a thief."
"That is impossible, child: you must have done something worse than that, or I am sure Dr. Barnard would not have expelled you."
The boy related the whole transaction, which appeared to her so utterly incredible, that she instantly sent a servant to request a gentleman of large fortune, her near neighbour, to call on her immediately; when the youth related to him the following facts, as they proved to be:
"That, having lost his Dictionary, he borrowed one, for two or three days, of some boys; but, finding that inconvenient, he and two of his friends went to the second-hand bookseller's in Eton, to try to buy one. A Dictionary was immediately produced, when one of his friends said, 'It is exactly like your own.' The other said, 'I verily believe it is your own.' Young Brudenell asked of whom he bought it. The man without hesitation said, 'Of dame
's upper maid. She told me, a boy, who had left school, had given it to her.' On a close inspection, there appeared a paper pasted over the inside of the cover. This being removed, Master Brudenell's name, and the date of the year when it was bought at Mr. Pote's, appeared. They carried it off; and, as soon as they arrived there, shewed it to the rest of the boys of the house, who unanimously agreed to interrogate the woman, how it came into her possession. She coloured, and replied, that she picked it up in their gateway. They asked her, if she could not read writing. She said, 'No.' This they knew to be false; but one of the larger boys said, 'You must naturally have supposed that it belonged to some of us, and you are a thief; so they agreed to call her thief for a week. This so exasperated her, that she complained to her Mistress, who instantly shewed Brudenell up to Dr. Barnard, the boy refused to be flogged until Dr. Barnard had heard his case; and if he did not find it true, he would suffer any thing he pleased to inflict. This he utterly refused, and instantly expelled him."
The gentleman immediately went down to Eton, and, on examination, every tittle of Brudenell's account appeared to be literally true; but Dr. Barnard positively refused to re-admit him—Dr. Barnard shewed of what
materials
his heart was composed, by his
conduct to several amiable worthy young ladies in the neighbourhood.
, so well governed, with such marked contempt as he did, by not suffering his son to be educated at that school, but keeping him at home in his own house, and introducing some person to teach him there, never permitting him to associate or play with the fine youths of the school. A few insignicant boys were now and then introduced to play with Master Barnard. Could five hundred youths and boys, some of them sons of the first
noblesse
of these three kingdoms, others sons of the first scholars in those kingdoms, degenerate in a
few days
after the
famous
Dr. Barnard ceased to govern them, that he could prefer all the
uncomfortable inconveniences of an home-education
for his only child? Had Dr. Barnard been removed to the provostship of King's College,
something
might have been offered in excuse for this cruel conduct to the new Master, a man of profound erudition, and, before he became master
He was well known to the Writer before he became Master; she meeting him often at the house of her learned, sensible, throughly agreeable, lively, friend, the late H. B. Buckeridge, Esquire; where some of the most joyous evenings—mornings of her life, alas for poor Mr. Buckeridge—were (what, as with every body, late-early hours) sadly injured, in company with many amiable old friends and neighbours, now no more. It used to be said, that the party would last a week round, but for the agreeable, amiable Dr. Bostock, father of Sir C. Rich, and the Writer; who jointly agreed, that they could not live without sleep.
, of amiable disposition and gentle manners; but Dr. Barnard, the world at that time said, meant to have a foil, as he never could shew his wit without a
but;
which occasioned his bringing in that poor weak creature, Teddy Betham, fellow of Eton.
Mr. Berkeley, being ever a most obedient son, went into college; but he soon found very different treatment from what he had a right to expect from some of those in power. Dr. Barnard promised Dr. Berkeley, that he would send for him frequently, and pay every attention to the grandson of the great Bishop Berkeley. Mr. Berkeley never entered the provost's house after he became
"
a poor colleger
The style of Dr. Barnard for the younger sons of many gentlemen of good family.
."
His father, in order to remedy the evil, permitted him to spend two hundred pounds a year during the whole time he remained in the college.
It was evident, that Mr. Berkeley
never
escaped punishment, when it could at any rate be contrived to inflict it; and as a colleger, he became more liable to it. His Father, learning this from other young men, as well as from his son, offered to take him from college; but, with that fortitude, which attended him through life, through his torturing illness for the last three years of it to his latest breath, he declined it, saying,
"It was but for a few years."
However, when he was a little turned of sixteen, his Father, instead of letting him remain until nineteen, which was his original intention, took him home to his house at Cookham, determining to become his tutor for two years, until he went to Oxford, whither he intended to remove his family during Mr. Berkeley's
séjour
at that university; and the refusal of a house in St. Giles's was secured to Dr. Berkeley, which was occupied by the very sensible R. Harcourt, Esquire, for the same wise and kind purpose; and it happily succeeded.
On Mr. Berkeley's quitting school, in order to atone for the want of cricket at dear Eton, Mr. Berkeley had a fine hunter kept for him by his Father, and he generally hunted twice a week with the buck hounds. Mr. Berkeley rode remarkably well.
The village and neighbourhood of Cookham, it should be observed, though a very fluctuating one, happened, very lukily for Mr. Berkeley, just at that time, to abound with sensible, cultivated, polished families; had his Parents selected them, they could not have done it more in general to their wish. These families, viz. the polite Lord Conyngham's; the learned, accomplished Daniel Malthus's, Esquire; the very sensible Thomas Forster's, Esquire; Thomas Parry's, Esquire; and those of two very sensible Ladies, in two small houses; lived in the strictest harmony, perpetually meeting at each other's houses; which occasioned Mr. Berkeley's Mother one day to ask,
"Where is our next PARISH meeting to be held?"
and they ever after retained the name. In the summer, parties on the water to different parts of the banks of that beautiful river the Thames; in the winter evenings, music, little dances, and that most amusing of all round games, Pope Joan.
To the above may be added, the large and agreeable society at Taplow; the politest of men, Lord Inchiquin, and the Honourable, Reverend, sensible, and truly worthy Mr. Hamilton, with his agreeable family, the sensible, and worthy relict of General Leighton, with her accomplished daughters. It will naturally be supposed, that Mr. Berkeley could not quit such
very
agreeable society without a pang
The "Farewell to the Banks of the Thames" was written about this time.
, especially when part of it was composed of more than half a score such young ladies, of whom it may, without flattery or compliment, be asserted, were very rarely to be met with
even then;
and Mr. Berkeley was ever a much greater admirer of a sensible accomplished, than of a very beautiful woman, insomuch that his beloved, respected, revered friend, Miss M-lth-s
Mr. Berkeley wrote and printed, but never published, a most beautiful, elegant Elegy on the ever to be lamented death of that lovely, all-accomplished, angelic young lady, which happened in the summer of the year 1786.
, used laughingly to tell him,
"that HE really did not know a beautiful woman from a plain one;"
so that it became a kind of cant expression amongst his young friends, if any sensible, plain, young woman was named,
"that she was one of BERKELEY's beauties."
But to return. When the time of Mr. Berkeley's departure drew near, he, very humbly and sensibly, requested his Father to permit him to pass three years at the university of St. Andrew in Scotland; by which time, to use his own words,
"All my
dear
idle Eton friends will have quitted Oxford, and
I
shall not be tempted to go out twice a week with Lord Abingdon's hounds."
When Mr. Berkeley took his last farewell of his amiable friends at the Ferry-house, he could not articulate, went out, mounted his horse, and followed the carriage over the Ferry. It was a long, and not a very pleasant journey, to quit a beautiful native country, to adopt the language of the poet, speaking of the soul entering the world of spirits,
— to go,
To be she knows not what, she knows not where.
His parents accompanied him to the land of kind hospitality, as it must ever be termed by the Writer of this Preface, where Mr. Berkeley passed three years and an half most happily; where he formed a friendship with some of the first characters in that kingdom, with many persons of rank, and also amongst the literati, which ended
but with his life.
Mr. Berkeley had the honour, the
happiness,
to be
enfant de famille
at Melvil House; and he, with heart-felt gratitude, termed the exquisitely pious Earl and Countess of Leven his
Scottish parents.
The goodness of that illustrious pair not only invited him to visit there for weeks himself, but also to carry any English or Scotch student he pleased with him. Mr. Berkeley was too judicious, and too well-bred, to make an improper use of this condescending goodness, having never introduced any but two or three Englishmen, sons of men of rank or fashion, constantly saying,
"Lord Leven
must
know the characters of the
Fathers
of young Scottish gentlemen too well for
me
to introduce them."
With what delight would he often talk of the happy hours spent at Melvil House, and his gratitude to his honoured friend for inviting him attend him to Edinburgh, when his lordship was appointed by his Majesty lord high commissioner of Scotland, as also one of his introduced-friends, the son of an English Peer, and his lordship's giving
express
orders, that Mr. Berkeley should never dine any one day at the purse bearer's table, but always at the commissioner's! It is impossible to dismiss this article without attempting to celebrate the wonderful condescending amiability of the
noblesse
of Scotland particularly, and in common with the ancient gentry of that kingdom, to strangers of any degree of fashion, and decent character. It was a common remark of Dr. Berkeley,
"Were a Scotch gentleman to settle for some time in any
southern
or
eastern
county of England, I wonder how many peers, or men who in
fortune
equal peers, would visit him?"
And almost every peer and man of fortune in Fife have done us that honour; which must ever be remembered with the most heart-felt gratitude by the Writer of this Preface.
"Oh! shame to our
English pride!
"
used to exclaim Dr. Berkeley. Although born in London, he spent the first eighteen years of his life under the roof of his noble illustrious-minded Father in the
next
hospitable country in Europe to Scotland: for the Scotch do certainly exceed even the Irish. As Mrs. Wedderburn used to say to the Writer of these pages,
"The Irish give you an excellent dinner and supper, and let you go out to
seek
a bed;
we
always find one."
The remark was just, and worthy the great good sense of that throughly hospitable polite lady, who, having heard that Dr. Berkeley's family, none of whom she had ever then seen, were travelling near her house, immediately ordered her beds to be prepared, and most politely visited them at their inn, telling them that every thing was ready for their reception. This, and numberless other almost similar attentions from numerous other families of rank and fashion has, for the last fifteen years, caused the writer of this to term Scotland the Land of polite
kind
Hospitality. Such may it long continue; and they meet a more grateful return than they often do, when they visit England; than did the amiable
of Scotland, from the
of
, who went in and
hid
himself when he saw the equipage of his noble host in his park—one is tempted to wonder that he ever could emerge from his hiding place. One of the amiable sons of Lord Leven, coming from abroad, went to an inn at Canterbury before he went to Dr. Berkeley's. He reproached him, on Mr. Leslie's saying,
"He feared being troublesome."
Dr. Berkeley replied,
"My dear Sir, if a
dog
came hither with a collar on his neck from Melvil house, I should feel myself a monster not to entertain him."
Mr. Monck Berkeley used often to be accused of partiality to Scotland, and to his Scottish friends. Indeed he had one of the most amiable hearts that ever beat in a human breast. It must have been a
very cold
heart that had not felt such amiable, such respectful, attentions as Mr. Berkeley received in his seven hundred miles tour through the unfrequented parts of the Highlands; which was chiefly performed on foot, although Mr. Berkeley had three horses and two servants, but he often went where they could not follow him; and at Edinburgh, where he generally passed the first part of the St. Andrew's vacation, until the grouse shooting season commenced. Although greatly his superiors in learning, Mr. Berkeley had the honour to rank amongst his literary friends, Lord Buchan, the profoundly learned, highly polished, all-accomplished Lord Monboddo, Mr. M'Kenzie, and Dr. Reid. It is hoped that the introducing here a
bon mot
of Mr. Berkeley's may be pardoned. Lord Monboddo, when visiting Dr. Berkeley at St. Andrew's, with his usual exquisite politeness, pressed the Doctor and his family to visit him at Monboddo, and invited Mr. Berkeley to pass the next vacation there. Mrs. Berkeley said to her son,
"Surely you will go: it will be a wonderful advantage to you, to pass so many weeks under the roof of
such
a man as Lord Monboddo
Mrs. George Berkeley, from its first publication, was an enthusiastic admirer of Lord Monboddo's "Ancient Metaphysics," so as to occasion Mr. Monck Berkeley's always styling it his Mother's
second
Bible. The first volume then only published, Lord Monboddo did Mrs. Berkeley the honour to send her the second, saying, he found she understood it, with a note by the hand of the very deeply learned, worthy Professor Hunter, a very sincerely highly respected friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley. One of the most striking likenesses ever produced by the pencil is a portrait of this wonderful genius, now in the possession of Mrs. George Berkeley, in his robes of a throughly upright just Judge. It instantly, on entering the room, catches the eye of every stranger who has any skill in painting, and very often of those who are honest enough to declare they have not any skill.
."
Mr. Berkeley replied,
"My dear Madam, I am convinced, that if I do go, I shall return home the best Greek scholar in the university; but I have great doubts, whether my
heart
may not be more injured than my
head
benefited;"
alluding to that loveliest of women, Miss Burnett, his Lordship's truly angelic darling daughter, no longer an inhabitant of this sublunary world, but gone to join her kindred spirits. That lovely young lady can be only a
very
little more angelic in mind than when on earth. Shakspeare's beautiful distich on a young woman in a country church-yard in Gloucestershire might have been inscribed on the monument of Eliza Burnett, rather than on that of Eleanor Freeman:
"Rest here, blest Maid, and wait th' Almighty's will;
"Then rise unchang'd, and be an Angel still."
Perhaps very few females, in any age or country, have united so much beauty, good sense, and amiableness of disposition,
"and have borne their faculties so meekly,"
as the lovely Miss Burnett. She possessed all her honourable father's great superiority of understanding, and all the refined delicacy and genuine humility of her very lovely mother. She saw, she could not
but see,
herself the idol of all the young men; yet not one air of superiority, not a grain of affectation, ever appeared in her conduct. A variety of diverting little anecdotes of the universal desire of the young gentlemen students of St. Andrew's to appear agreeable, at least not disagreeable, to Miss Burnett, might be related by the writer, to the amusement of the reader.
D
M
, Esquire, one of those few Laymen, as Dr. Berkeley used to observe, who kept up their classical learning after they had quitted the university, (for he generally redde Greek from four to six hours every day,) was a great admirer of the rising genius of Mr. Berkeley, insomuch that he became sincerely attached to him; and Mr. Berkeley ever retained a most affectionate grateful regard for this gentleman's condescension, as he termed it, in suffering a youth from school to enjoy so much of his society, who had children elder than Mr. Berkeley.
As the families lived in the greatest intimacy, in the happiest friendship, they generally met three or four times a week. One evening, at Dr. Berkeley's, the barenness of newspapers was, as was
then
usual, I think, everywhere lamented;
"nothing worth reading in them."
Mr. Berkeley reached out his arm, and taking Dr. Berkeley's constant paper, the St. James's Chronicle, ran his eye over it, and said,
"I think there is something in this to-day;"
and began reading something, which lasted about ten minutes, that every body agreed
was
worth reading. At night Mr. M
desired permission to take it home, saying, he would return it in the morning. The next day at noon he brought it to Dr. Berkeley's, telling him,
"that he believed he had taken the wrong paper, for he could not find what Mr. Berkeley read the evening before."
Mrs. Berkeley shewed him all the last papers, but in vain. At dinner, Mrs. Berkeley asked her son,
"out of what paper he had read the evening before; not out of the St. James's Chronicle, for that Mr. M
and she had been searching several of them, and could not find it."
Mr. Berkeley replied,
"My dear Madam, I never doubted of yours or Mr. M
's cleverness; but you must both be much cleverer than I take either of you to be, if you
could
have found it."
"Why should we not find it?"
"Because it was not to be found."
"Where is it then? Tell Mr. M
, that he may read it."
"Alas! I cannot; for it never was any where but in your son's brain."
"What do you mean, child? I do not understand you."
"Why, my dear Madam, when I hear people finding such fault with the poor newspapers, I often take them up, and help them out, as I did last night. I have done it scores of times before for my Father and Aunt, who only
skim
a newspaper. You know, they say you study it."
It must, however, be observed, in order to do justice to Mr. Berkeley's gratitude for the numberless polite, amiable, friendly attentions received from every rank in that land of kind hospitality during his three years and a half
séjour
there, that he was almost broken-hearted at quitting it, and twice after revisited it, and would have continued to do so had his life been spared. Dr. Berkeley being at that time in an indifferent state of health, the journey was about six weeks in performing, as he rested some time at York; where Mr. Berkeley had, what he ever esteemed an honour, young as he was, of commencing an acquaintance with the truly learned and pious Dr. Burgh, by the polite attentions of his Mother's respected friends, Mrs. Moritts
Every person of any fashion, who visits York, endeavours to obtain an introduction to those sensible cultivated ladies; the many only to gratify their eyes with a sight of the exquisitely fine
paintings in needle-work
of the eldest Mrs. Morritt; those who are capable of relishing refined conversation, to feast their minds: the house of those excellent ladies being the general rendezvous of every one who can relish the charms of refined conversation. Mr. Berkeley lamented that his
living
idol, as Gray was his dead one, amongst poets, Mr. Mason, was absent from York at that time.
, whose beautifully adorned house is admired by all persons who have any skill in painting. By the very polite attentions of the Dean of York, his Lady, and several other families of fashion, which were ever most gratefully remembered, Mr. Berkeley and the family passed their time most agreeably in that antient city, to which the library of the very civil Mr. Todd contributed in no small degree, one of the delights of Mr. Berkeley's life being to read in a library; a happiness he enjoyed in his Father's house, Bishop Berkeley's library being valued at two thousand pounds at the time of his death. Dr. Berkeley, being indisposed, rested some time at Newcastle.
In their road to Edinburgh, they passed through the town of Lauder. A very little way out of the town stands Lauder Castle, one of the seats of the late worthy Earl of Lauderdale. As the horses were to bait at least two hours, Mr. Berkeley, after dinner, went down to the castle; the family being absent, he requested the porter to permit him to enter, and look at the pictures. He had from his childhood a wonderfully fine eye for painting. It is probable he owed it to the so often hearing the merits and demerits of his grandfather's collection of pictures talked over. The man, who was a tailor, and hard at work, said he would call his
gewd weef
to shew him the castle.
It is hoped the reader will pardon the introducing a dialogue between the Gewd Weef and Mr. Berkeley.
Gewd Weef.—
"Pray, Laddie, whence come ye, and whither gang ye, that ye be come to Lauder?
Mr. Berkeley.—
"I came from England, and I am going to St. Andrew's.
G. W.—
"Belike ye come from London.
Mr. B.—
"I came from within about twenty miles of it.
G. W.—
"Were ye ever at the greet toon?
Mr. B.—
"Yes, very often.
G. W.—
"Then ye can tell me what they pay there for washing a
sark,
(i. e. shirt,) for it would be a
great savice
to me to know. I have always washed my Lord's men's when the family is at the castle, and they will pay me but two pence a sark, and I have been told by a many that they pay
nine
pence there for every sark; and I sadly want to ken."
Mr. B.—
"You have been misinformed; I never pay more than four pence for a full trimmed shirt.
G. W.—
"Well-ee wat, that is but little. I have been told, it is always
nine
pence."
During this dialogue a young woman entered, with her hair curled and powdered. Mr. Berkeley had asked the Gewd Weef, how many miles it was to St. Andrew's. She replied to that, as to almost every thing,
"Don-a-ken."
On the appearance of the young woman, she said,
"If you ask this lassey, she can tell you. She knows muckle things."
Mr. Berkeley, taking off his hat, made the enquiry, and was very civilly informed. The young woman, having dispatched her business with the tailor, went away; and the dialogue recommenced.
Gewd Weef.—
"I suppose you 'll gang home this way from St.
Anders.
Hoo long shall ye tarry there?
Mr. Berkeley.—
"About three years, if it please God I live so long."
G. W.—
"Three years! for what can ye stay there three years
It may not be amiss to remark here, that every Scotsman thinks it incumbent on him to visit St. Andrew's once in his life, and take a view of the beautiful ruins of the finest Christian temple perhaps ever built by man. During Dr. Berkeley's residence there, one party arrived so late, that they only saw it by the light of an old horn lantern; but, they would say they saw it.
?
Mr. B.—
"To study at the university there.
G. W.—
"Aye, Laddie! ye ha studied enough. Ye seem to ken a
vast
deal of pictures, and other larning. No, no: ye had better tarry here, and marry yon lassey. She has houses twa, and parks
The Scots call fields, parks; and a wood, a policy.
five. She 'll mak a gewd weef, I can tell ye, and you 'll make her a rare
gewd mon.
Mr. B.—
"I am much obliged to you for your good will to me; but I am afraid my Father and Mother would think me too young to marry and settle.
G. W.—
"And where be they?
Mr. B.—
"At the inn in the town.
G. W.—
"Aye, there's twa pretty lasseys at the inn. They 'll haa muckle siller. An, aye, take one of them."
At that instant a coach and four drove down, when the Gewd Weef exclaimed,
"What haa we got coming here?
Mr. B.—
"The carriage in which I came from England.
G. W.—
"Ye come from England in
that
an-a-carriage; and wha came wee ye?
Mr. B.—
"Why, my Father and my Mother, and my Mother's maid.
G. W.—
"Aye, Laddie, Laddie; if you came in that an-a-coach, ye 'll not marry oone of oor Lasseys. What muckle siller it must haa cost your Father to bring ye
aa
(i.e. all) doon here."
Mr. Berkeley then took his leave of the Gewd Weef, presenting her with a bright half crown, with which she was much delighted, and wished him a
fine Laady
when he married.
About three years after, Mr. Berkeley accompanied his worthy friend, Henry Grimston, Esquire, to the famous contested election for Yorkshire, Mr. Grimston going up from St. Andrew's, to assist in supporting the interests of his godfather and friend
Duncombe, Esquire. They returned by Lauder, when they, together with their learned lively tutor, Mr. Bruce, whom they agreed to treat with a sight of York, visited the castle. Mr. Grimston archly asked the
gewd weef,
"If she had ever seen that gentleman before?"
pointing to Mr. Berkeley; when she exclaimed,
"Aye, that I have; and he gave me
half a croon.
"
Mr. Berkeley, at his second visit, doubled the bounty, and used frequently to laugh with his friends, and say, that he had
"never met with
such
a friend
since;
for that she endeavoured, according to her idea, to procure him a wife with a
large
fortune."
Soon after his first visit to the castle, he made a song, entitled, "The Lass of Lauder," and had it set to music by Mr. Jenkins, the music-master at St. Andrew's, but now a teacher of that science in London. Mr. Berkeley used jocularly to remark,
"It is very certain, that I had not made so
favourable
an impression on the
lassey
as I had on the
gewd weef
at Lauder; for she stayed only to settle her business with the tailor, and then went off."
Some years after, Mr. Berkeley, being on a visit at Peten-Weem, and going with his friend to drink tea at a gentleman's house, was asked,
"If he had not once been at Lauder castle?"
He replied,
"I have been twice there."
The female who asked the question said,
"I had the honour of seeing you there, Sir; and I should esteem it an honour if you would drink tea with me during your stay here."
Mr. Berkeley instantly recollected that it was the
Lass of Lauder,
who did not then know that she had been
"celebrated in song."
Mr. Berkeley was to have left Peten-Weem the next day, but, with his wonted amiability, postponed it until the day following, that he might visit the
Lass,
who was then married to the Relief-minister
The Relief-minister is one chosen by the people of any place, where they do not happen to approve the established Kirk-minister. There are few towns, or even villages, without one. Mr. Berkeley and several other gentlemen now living, were present, when one of these good men asserted,
"That if Zaccheus the publican had been blessed with TREW FAAITHE, he had not fallen from the tree into which he had climbed to see our blessed Lord pass by."
All the company exclaimed, that the good little publican did not fall from the tree, but gladly came down to prepare to receive his heavenly guest. The producing the book of God, and turning to the chapter, very hardly convinced this RELIEF-MINISTER
that he did not fall
for want of TREW FAAITHE.
of that place. Several families were invited to meet him, and a very gay afternoon was spent; Mr. Berkeley telling Mrs.
, that she had made a better match for herself than the Gewd Weef at Lauder Castle wished to have made for her. Mr. Berkeley, who had neither vanity nor conceit, here exceeded the truth. Dr. L
, a friend of his father, and the worthy Sir C. B
, a very old friend of his Mother, both urged him seriously to visit them, to see after two young ladies of immense fortunes in their respective counties, assuring him that he must infallibly succeed. Mr. Berkeley's uniform reply to all such kind invitations was,
"I early resolved, not to be a fortune-hunter.
I
have no large rent-roll to produce. I will never alarm or distress the
anxious
Parents of any great Fortunes."
Mr. Berkeley, from his youth, from his Mother, was an
hereditary
admirer and strenuous advocate for the unfortunate INJURED Mary, and a detester of her cunning, cruel persecutor Elizabeth, requested his Father to go to St. Andrew's by the road of Kinross, that he might visit the castle of Loch-Leven; and he spent some time in wandering about the ruins; so much as occasioned his and his servant's being benighted on a heath, to the extreme distress of his Mother, who was then unacquainted with the exquisite, the amiable hospitality of the Scottish nation, high and low, rich and poor; for Mr. Berkeley could with difficulty force a shilling into the hand of a man who went a quarter of a mile over the heath to put him in the road to Cupar-in-Fife, where his family were to sleep that night, and it was very late before he and his servant arrived there.
The next morning they all set out for St. Andrew's, about eight miles distant; and enjoyed, the prospect from the top of the hill, of the
still
magnificent cathedral, and the tower of St. Regulus or St. Rule, of which there are four beautiful engravings with Cardinal Bethune's Castle by Oliphant, now exceedingly scarce, and very dear, the plates being lost
It is supposed, that when that ingenious young man died, the plates were sold, amongst other metal things, for their weight.
.
On entering the city at the Argyle Port, your eye is greeted with a noble wide street, one mile in length, and at the lower end of a noble breadth, with stone houses, most of them disfigured by what is termed a
fore stair,
that is, an open stair case, on the outside, in a zigzag manner across the front of the house, and an huge
smidie,
a not inelegant name for a filthy thing, a dunghill; no court, no palisade, no breast-wall or railing, before even the best houses, excepting only what was once the palace of James the First of England; but it is not meant here to give an imperfect description of this once beautiful magnificent city, which has been so well done by Boswell and Pennant, before John Knox
preached
it into ruins, by removing an archbishop, dean, and eight resident prebendaries, who fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and administered to the wants of the sick and needy, who are all now starving. On a full sight of this dreary deserted city, Mr. Berkeley wept to think that he was to remain, if God spared his life, three long years in it. The house taken for Dr. Berkeley's family, the best then to be had in the town, was without even a back door, the covetous wretch who owned it having sold a little spot behind it to a gentleman at the next house; so the door was stopped up. Dr. Berkeley, seeing Mr. Berkeley so deeply affected, and Principal Watson, whose learning had induced him to prefer St. Andrew's to a foreign university, having died a very few days before, made Mr. Berkeley the offer of returning to England the next day; for which he felt great gratitude, but, with his wonted strength of mind, declared, that, let him suffer what he might, he would remain his three years. It is but justice to say, that Mr. Berkeley shed more tears at leaving St. Andrew's, than he drew sighs at entering it.
So deeply was submission to
lawful
authority engraven on Mr. Berkeley's mind, that during the three years and a half he was a student at the university of St. Andrew, he never would go out for even two or three nights to his noble, truly amiable friend the Earl of Leven's, at Melvil House, without going to
ask leave out,
as it is termed, of the Principal Dr. M'Cormick, whom Mr. Berkeley always called,
"our polite, amiable Principal;"
or, in his absence, of the Professor, who used politely to say, that,
"he living in his Father's house, it was needless to trouble himself."
His constant reply was, that
"the statutes, which he had promised to observe,
enjoined
it."
It is hoped that the relation of a little adventure which Mr. Berkeley met with during his residence at St. Andrew's may be pardoned. A very few days before the term began in autumn, Mr. Berkeley, who was at that time a very keen sportsman, was told by the son of the Professor of Medicine, a very sensible young man, now settled in Canada, that, if he wished it, he could lead him to a place where Ptermagants abounded. The youths set out, marched several miles; night overtook them, and they wandered in a very dark evening, unable to find the road. At length the moon began to appear, and presented to their view a figure all in white. Mr. Berkeley soon learnt to speak Scotch so perfectly, as at any time throughout his life, to be mistaken, whenever he wished it, for a true Scot; which often amused his friends, or strangers, of that country, which his Mother ever termed
"
The Land of kind Hospitality;
"
a proof whereof will soon appear.
Mr. Berkeley accosted the young woman with,
"Lassey, whither gang ye?
Lassey.—
"To yonder house, Laddie.
Mr. B.—
"Can we get lodging there to night?
Lassey.—
"Hoo can ye ask that question with these weapons in your hands? They
must
lodge ye.
Mr. B.—
"God forbid that we should attempt to
force
any one to lodge
us;
and, to convince you how harmless we are, I will instantly discharge my piece."
Mr. Berkeley immediately fired off a fine double-barreled gun, and requested his friend to follow his example. They then escorted the nymph about a quarter of a mile to the house; where Mr. Berkeley refused to enter until permission was obtained by their kind guide, who went in alone. In a minute out rushed
"a bevey of fair nymphs,"
more than twenty, with a matron in the rear, who very wisely began examining them, how they came on that wild heath at that hour; who, and what they were. Mr. Berkeley, being spokesman, assured them that they were honest young men, students of St. Andrew's. Still they were distrusted.
At length, fortunately for them, a young woman espied a youth in the highland dress, and, going up to him, asked
"Who he was?"
Servant.—
"Who? why I am servant to that tall gentleman.
Young Woman.—
"And who is he?
Servant.—
"Who? why Mr. Berkeley, secondary at St. Andrew's.
Young Woman.—
"Where does he come from, to keep a servant at college?
Servant.—
"Why, from England."
Young Woman.—
"From what part of England?
Servant.—
"Why, from Canterbury. My Master's Father is one of the Prebendaries there, and is a gentleman of
great
family."
Mr. Berkeley used to laugh when relating this conversation, and say,
"All M'Nicoll's account of my Father's
dignity
in the
church
availed
me no more
than they will do in the world of spirits."
But luckily some one asked Mr. Berkeley's highlander,
"Who was his master's companion?"
to which he, being irritated, replied,
"What does that signify? He is son to Dr. Flint of St. Andrew's."
The magical name of Flint, as Mr. Berkeley used to say,
"acted like a charm."
Dr. Flint is a most incomparable physician. Mr. Flint was immediately examined and
cross examined;
and it was determined to admit them, they delivering up their guns to the nymphs. Mr. Berkeley, with his usual elegant gallantry, instantly delivered his into the hands of their kind guide. They then went into the house, being almost starved with cold, and sadly tired. Plenty of food, and a good fire, soon re-animated them. Still they saw nothing but females, all clothed in white. No male appeared. The men were attending the corn. At length, they all agreed, that it was time to set off—melancholy news, as Mr. Berkeley used to say, to a couple of young men. Whither were they to go?
"Could not the beaux escort them,"
they replied,
"to a neighbouring harvest-home, to a dance?"
Mr. Berkeley, who was a remarkably fine dancer, and loved it exceedingly, jumped up, forgot all the fatigues of the day, and said,
"that he and his friend would attend them."
Their hospitable and very sensible hostess replied,
"Oh, Sir! it is not such a ball as you have been used to in England; there will be only farmers' daughters. I will have the pleasure of endeavouring to entertain you and Mr. Flint here."
Mr. Berkeley, with his usual engaging politeness, said,
"There will be
your
daughters, Madam, and our kind conductress to your hospitable roof."
The young men went and danced in the barn till four in the morning; slept soundly, as may be guessed, until near noon; took an excellent
Scotch
breakfast, (even Dr. Johnson liked the
breakfasts
in Scotland;) and, after inviting his kind hostess and her son to dine at his Father's house in St. Andrew's, when either business or pleasure called them to that ancient city, took their leave. The young man went once or twice to Dr. Berkeley's. Mr. Berkeley, who was born with what is commonly, but often falsely, called a princely spirit, although not to a princely fortune, did not think a few grateful speeches an adequate return for being rescued from sleeping among the heather on the heath; but sent his worthy landlady some fine prints, elegantly framed and glazed, to adorn her parlour, with which he had great pleasure in finding she was much delighted. Some of Mr. Berkeley's intimates among the students laughed at him, saying,
"Now, Berkeley,
you
have lain out a night without leave."
The great Charles Leslie, the famous controversial writer, used to say of Mr. Berkeley's maternal great-grandfather, the celebrated Francis Cherry, Esquire, of Shottesbrooke House, in Berkshire, that he believed him to have the most accurate, the soundest judgement, that God had, in these latter days, bestowed on man. A multitude of instances might be adduced to prove, that although Mr. Berkeley inherited but little of Mr. Cherry's immense fortune, he certainly did of a better portion than money.
Mr. Berkeley, on his return from his highland tour, told his family, that he might, he believed, have lived seven years there, on the merits of the ring sent by the old Chevalier de St. George to Mr. Cherry, when he sent Mr. Leslie, at his own expence, to Rome, to try to convert him from Popery. Mr. Leslie wrote Mr. Cherry word from Rome, that an attempt to make the sun rise in the WEST would be equally successful.
Mr. Berkeley said,
"He felt a
little
ashamed, that the ring should be
so
well known in the Highlands, and that
he, the presumptive heir to it,
had never seen it more than once or twice in his life."
He requested his Mother and Aunt to gratify him with a sight of it, that he might be able in future to give a
better
account of the famous relic.
It has been already observed
See before, p. xix.
, that one of Mr. Berkeley's friends used to tell him,
"that he was as extraordinarily descended by his Mother's side
William Cherry, Esquire, known by the name of the Great Lawyer, son of Sir Francis Cherry, esteemed the acutest counsellor of his time, as the learned Earl of Clarendon bears testimony in his Papers and Letters published by Powney about thirty years ago. In one of the letters he says,
"I have had the opinion of the attorney and solicitor general on my cause; but I
cannot rest
satisfied till I hear what old Cherry says about it."
Mr. Cherry was at law with King James when he fled. A considerable part of Shottesbrooke estate lies in Windsor Forest. Mr. Cherry had planted some young trees, and was inclosing them. The King rode by, and asked the labourer,
"Who bid him do it."
He answered,
"My Master, please your Majesty."
"It does
not
please me,"
replied the King;
"and
I
order you to throw up the inclosure directly."
He did so. Mr. Cherry's old steward informed his Master immediately of it; who ordered that the same labourer should directly set about inclosing it again. The next hunting-morning his Majesty found him at work, and asked,
"How he dared to do what he had forbidden him to do?"
He replied,
"His Master had ordered it."
The King commanded him to undo his work at his peril; which the poor fellow did; and Mr. Cherry, who when in the country acted as a justice of the peace, committed him to Reading gaol, and commenced a suit against the King. Luckily for this poor man, he could not only read, but write; being clerk of the parish of White Waltham, where, and in many surrounding parishes, Mr. Cherry had large farms, and always found and made his tenants find work for the industrious labourers. When the poor innocent culprit reached the gaol, he wrote a long and interesting letter to the King, telling his Majesty, that as his good old Master had now turned him off from his work for obeying him, he hoped his Majesty would be pleased, in his
consideration,
to send him some money to keep him
comfortably
in gaol; and, after much more curious matter, subscribed himself
"his Majesty's poor, pitiful, patient, lamentable servant, JOHN HONE."
This letter reached the King about three weeks before he left the kingdom, when Mr. Cherry immediately liberated honest John, and took care that he had every comfort during his imprisonment; Mr. Cherry having sent the man to gaol only to teach the Monarch what he might
not
do. Mr. Berkeley had for some years been writing a treatise on "The Prerogatives of the Crown;" and one volume was ready for the press at the time of his death. How far he would have approved his ancestor's conduct in this matter is uncertain. This transaction is somewhat differently told in the old ballad of "The King and Mr. Cherry." This gentleman was killed by the overturning of his chariot as he was going down a hill in Kent, near the seat of the grandfather of the late worthy Sir Sidney Stafford Smythe, by whom, and his lady, every humane, amiable attention was paid him that his desperate situation would admit of. His death was the more to be lamented by his excellent son, as, on the coroner's inquest, it appeared to have happened through roguery, the verdict being,
"
Killed by the footboard having been mended with old rusty nails.
"
On going down the hill, the coachman of course pressing more on the footboard than on even ground, it gave way, and he fell down among the horses; who immediately ran away in half a dozen different directions, threw off the postillion, and broke the chariot entirely to pieces. When they stopped, it was a quarter of an hour before Mr. Cherry's valet de chambre, who was attending his Master on horseback, could discover life either in his Master, Mr. Partridge, of the Isle of Ely, to whom Mr. cherry was guardian, or any of the servants. The moment he found his Master was not dead, he rode off to town, to carry down the Queen's serjeant-surgeon, and sent off from London an express to Mr. Cherry at Shottesbrooke. On the arrival of the surgeon, he asked Mr. Cherry,
"Where he felt pain?"
He replied,
"Ah! Sir! where do I
not
feel pain?"
A piece of the plate glass of the chariot was taken out of his head as large as the palm of a man's hand. Mr. Cherry lived only four days after the accident, the surgeon saying,
"He is the noblest ruin I ever saw. I never beheld such a man of eighty-three: but for this accident, he would probably have attained to the age of old Parr."
Mr. Cherry's strength of body and mind were equal at eighty-three to what they were at thirty-three. This account of Mr. Cherry's death, and Mr. Partridge's almost miraculous escape, is very differently and very erroneously related in a work printed about seventy years ago, by a gentleman of fortune in Devonshire. Mr. Cherry's lady's father, John Whitefield, Esquire, of Ives Place, near Maidenhead, was thrown from his horse, and drowned in the Thames, when taking an airing one evening near his own house, at an advanced age. Mr. Berkeley's Mother's paternal grandfather was killed by a fall from his horse, as he was riding one morning near his own house, at the age of eighty-one. The lady of the celebrated Francis Cherry, Esquire, the patron of Thomas Hearne, one of his under-footmen, was the eldest of the five co-heiresses of John Finch, Esquire, of Fienes Court, Berks. In the cloaths of this gentleman was King Charles the Second dressed, when he escaped with Lady Jane Lane. Oh! shame to
royal
gratitude, that this lady was not made a Duchess, to descend to her heirs female as well as male. He used to say,
"that he had worn Mr. Finch's old cloaths;"
Mr. Finch, having gone down a few weeks before, to marry the beautiful rich heiress of Sir John Chapman, aged fifteen. An exquisitely fine very small miniature of this Lady, by Pettitote, is in the possession of Mr. Monck Berkeley's Aunt, Mrs. Frinsham; it having been presented to her, by Mr. Berkeley's Mother, at Mrs. Berkeley's marriage.
, as he was
nobly
by his Father's, most of his maternal grandsires having had something remarkable about them."
If Mr. Berkeley had
any
pride, when a man, which had not been eradicated in his childhood by the incessant pains raken to eradicate it, it was what is called, I think, very erroneously,
family pride;
for one certainly may feel grateful to God, that one's Father was not a Tinker, but a Gentleman, without despising those of very low extraction, if they are not
"
beggars set on horseback,
riding to the
."
Mr. Berkeley used to say,
"
Any
monarch may make
any
man noble, but he cannot bestow on him a long train of coronetted ancestors: that belongs only to the King of kings, who was, as I think, graciously pleased to cause me to be born the son of Dr. Berkeley, rather than the son of Tom Smith, my Father's butcher."
It is impossible for the Writer of this Preface not to pay a small tribute of gratitude to the memory of that uncommonly judicious, amiable, young gentleman, the late Meredith Price, Junior, Esquire; to whose wisdom, prudence, and humanity, before either had completed his twentieth year, Mr. Berkeley owed that he was not either a
murderer
or
murdered.
During their residence at the university of St. Andrew's, Mr. Berkeley was one day attacked by Mr. G
, a student, (he was
not
a Scotchman,) for an affront that he
supposed
Mr. Berkeley had offered to the fame of a Distiller's daughter, who resided near St. Andrew's, to whom, or to whose father's table, Mr. G
paid great attention. Mr. Berkeley defended himself by declaring, that,
"so far from
speaking
slightingly of the young woman, he had never even
thought
slightingly of her."
Mr. G
brutally said,
"You say so, because you are a coward, and are afraid to fight."
This Mr. Berkeley received very calmly, replying,
"G
, those who have known me through life will never say
that
of me."
(When a youth, it used to be said of Mr. Berkeley,
"He fears
nothing
but God and his own Mother.")
Mr. G
then proceeded,
"I may say whatever I please to
you;
for you dare not challenge me, through fear of your Mother's displeasure. She
never
would forgive you if you fought a duel."
This dastardly
vaut-rien
was mistaken; for, Mrs. Berkeley's horror of those
wretched
parents who can
cast off
a child for ANY crime that fallen man or
woman
can commit
The very idea of casting off, or deserting any creature that one has been the means of bringing into this world—leaving them entirely to the air, and the prince of the power of the air—is
replete with horror.
That it is not like our heavenly Father, ALL must see and feel.
was so strong, that, from Mr. Berkeley's age of fifteen, his Mother used frequently to say to him,
"May God give you grace to grow up an excellent honest worthy young man; but always remember, that there is
no
crime you can commit that shall ever make
me
desert you; and if you should become extravagant, whilst ever I have a guinea you shall have eighteen shillings of it; and I am sure, whilst ever you have one, you would give me twenty out of it."
Mr. G
might with equal justice have added,
"your Father;"
for, Dr. Berkeley's
On the matter becoming public, Dr. Berkeley said to his son,
"You ought to have cut the matter short, by saying, that let his father have gotten any sum by
, it was certainly beneath your dignity as a gentleman to fight with the son of
, and not have
degraded
yourself by sending a challenge to the
son
of G
."
Dr. Berkeley and his Father the Bishop, both felt pleasure, without pride, in their VERY antient noble descent.
horror
of that BARBAROUS custom of duelling was at least equal to Mrs. Berkeley's, although he might not perhaps so frequently descant upon the subject. This last outrage was too much for Mr. Berkeley. It roused
"all the noble blood of the Berkeleys in his veins."
He left the room, went home, immediately retired to his apartment, wrote, and sent the challenge. His next care was to pitch upon a second. He determined it should not be his dear friend Mr. L
, lest it should embroil him with his excellent noble Father Lord
. That young gentleman used to say to Dr. Berkeley,
"I do not know how to forgive Berkeley's
not
calling upon
me
on that occasion, I who have received so many amiable, kind attentions from him and his family."
Mr. Berkeley went to a gentleman, one of his companions at Eton, to whom he had been particularly attached from twelve years old, and who had manifold more obligations than Mr. L
; he was many months an inmate at Dr. Berkeley's. On Mr. Berkeley's requesting him to attend him the next morning, he hummed a little while, and at length stammered out,
"That he was afraid whether or no his
papa
might approve of it; so begged his
dear
Berkeley would
excuse him.
"
Why his Father should disapprove it, puzzled all who knew his character: it could not be on account of breaking God's holy law; for, Mr.
would become wretched if he supposed any body suspected him of believing in God: indeed the conduct of this
fine
Mr.
towards his lady and children has evidently proved it. The description of Mr.
, in
shire, where his great estate lies, is this,
"The
first
time you are in company with him, you are charmed; the
second,
you like him much less; and the
third,
you long to kick him out of the room—as he deserves."
Mr. Berkeley resolved not to call on any friend, English or Scottish, whose fortunes it might injure, the certain consequence being expulsion from the university; went to Mr. Price, who owed no obligation of any sort, except permission to attend the service of the Church of England at Dr. Berkeley's private chapel; and of course being sometimes invited to a dinner, supper, or dance, in common with other English and Scottish young gentlemen. Mr. Price instantly replied,
"He was entirely at Mr. Berkeley's service; but hoped the matter might be accommodated without fighting."
Mr. Berkeley assured him,
"
that was impossible.
"
They therefore proceeded to the place, where this wise young gentleman again urged the matter so sensibly, so eloquently, that Mr. G
offered to make any submission that Mr. Berkeley should require. Mr. Berkeley from his infancy, although a little fury, was surely the most ready to pardon of all the fallen children of Adam; insomuch that his Mother used to say,
"That if any one murdered him, and he lived only three minutes, he would
freely
forgive them;"
constantly adding,
"Alas! he does not inherit that from
me.
"
Mr. Berkeley, however, was so exasperated at the brutal rascality of,
"I may say whatever I please, for you DARE not fight,"
&c. that for once he appeared inexorable. The ground was measured, the pistols were delivered, and the swords laid ready, when Mr. Price, instead of giving the word to fire, stepped in between the combatants, and so wisely, so pathetically conjured Mr. Berkeley to accept Mr. G
's offers of making
every
submission, that, at length, Mr. Berkeley, with his wonted sweetness, threw away his pistol, and said,
"Well, G
, you shall beg my pardon in no other way than saying, in Mr. Price's presence, before the gentlemen in whose company you insulted me, that you are sorry you provoked me."
So this frightful affair ended. But not the gratitude of Mr. Berkeley and his parents. Providence had placed Mr. Price in a situation to render other return than polite and friendly attentions out of the question. When Mr. Price went to France, they felt unfeigned pleasure in giving him letters of introduction to several very worthy French families with whom they were intimate, which rendered his
séjour
in that once delightful country very pleasant. May that amiable young gentleman be now rejoicing in one still pleasanter!
It may, perhaps, be asked by some,
"With all these amiable qualities, and great virtues, had Mr. Berkeley no vices?"
Alas! yes. Mr. Berkeley fell, as David fell
There is no history through the whole Bible that affords more
diversion
to the pert, ignorant, young
sucking
Atheist, than the lamentable fall of David. But let such
poor
wits remember what God says to David by Nathan,
"Because by
this
deed thou hast given great occasion to the
enemies
of the
Lord
to
blaspheme,
"
&c. God foresaw the
wit
of these geniuses; but let them remember the
title
bestowed on them,
"The
enemies
of the
Lord;
"
for the
friends
of
must ever feel for the subsequent sufferings of David through the whole remainder of his life. His children, guilty of incest, murder, horrid deceit, and rebellion, punished him even to his extreme old age.
It is impossible here to avoid relating an anecdote of Mr. Berkeley's celebrated learned grandfather.
Bishop Berkeley, walking down Pall Mall, with his darling friend Bishop Benson (whom he used to call Titus,
"the delight of human kind,"
) there rushed out of the Star and Garter four or five
very witty bucks
of that day. One exclaimed,
"A brace of Bishops!" (the bishops then wore purple coats:) "let us put them up."
Bishop Benson, being a much lighter man than Bishop Berkeley, instantly ran off to the opposite side of the way. The Wits immediately made a circle, and inclosed poor Bishop Berkeley, whom they thus
wittily
accosted,
"Pray, my Lord, what does your Lordship think of King David? David loved a pretty girl, my Lord."
"Gentlemen, I think that King David was a
very great sinner,
as
you
and
I
are; but God gave him grace to repent of his sin, as,
I sincerely hope,
he will to YOU and ME."
They all slank off, like
pitiful fools,
excepting one, who said,
"I humbly, heartily be your Lordship's pardon."
The same very ready and pointed wit Mr. Berkeley shewed on a different occasion. When introduced to the late Lord Mansfield by his Lordship's desire, he eyed him about half a minute; when Mr. Berkeley expected him to say, what many lords and learned men had often said to him,
"that they were happy to see the grandson of their excellent old Friend,"
Lord Mansfield said,
"To Berkeley every virtue under heaven."
Mr. Berkeley instantly replied,
"How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost."
Lord Mansfield said,
"You are, Sir, a very polite young gentleman, indeed. Aye, Sir, Mr. Pope was very partial to me;"
took Berkeley under the arm, and walked off with him. All Tunbridge talked of Mr. Berkeley's ready wit. Some of Mr. Berkeley's friends, on hearing it, said to him,
"Berkeley, we are afraid the old Prelate was a Forestaller, and has left none of these VIRTUES to you."
—as Solomon fell;—but,
with them,
he received grace to repent, and mercy to console his throughly humbled, penitent, contrite spirit. Mr. Berkeley had not sufficiently attended to that admonition of the Wise King,
"Use not much the company of a woman that is a singer."
Mr. Berkeley's enthusiastic love of music drew him into the snares of the celebrated Mrs.
. His delight in real sterling wit caused him to fall into the
"deep ditch"
long
digging for him by Lady
. From both it pleased the great MERCY of God to rescue him. For more than four years before his death, his lovely spirit was supplicating for that pardon promised by our all-gracious Redeemer to ALL who turn to him in faith—
"Him that cometh unto ME I will in no wise cast out."
Mr. Berkeley, reflecting on his thoroughly pious education and many other advantages, considered himself as a much greater sinner than any of his young friends, who had not been so favoured by Providence, could possibly be. But it pleased the God of Mercy to speak peace to his wounded spirit;
"I have heard thy prayer; I have seen thy tears,"
Isaiah xxxviii. 5; and, for some weeks before his death, to pour the balm of perfect peace into his dear wounded spirit, and most graciously to
"lift up the light of his reconciled countenance upon him."
Mr. Berkeley had too strong an understanding not to believe with his
whole
heart and mind the truths, the
blessed
truths, revealed in the Gospel of Peace. He was blessed with an
honest
mind, as has been said of a very great man still living, as much Mr. Berkeley's superior in years as in rank.
"His Lordship is
too
honest to endeavour to warp the Gospel to
his
life, and he
feels
every day that they are at war; which makes him so ill-tempered, with a wonderfully amiable nature; ever
acting
the kindest things, ever
speaking
the roughest."
There Mr. Berkeley resembled
not
the noble Peer; for he was never known from a child to say a disobliging thing to any one. So attached to him was every servant he ever had from the age of seventeen, as that, to use a common phrase,
"they would have gone through fire and water for him:"
even the poor creature whom he took from his Grace of Bedford, after his beloved Scotch servant married—who now lives most happily with a much beloved, honoured, and respected relation of Mr. Berkeley's, the polite, the accomplished, the learned Sir Francis Lumm, Baronet; for whose kind, unwearied, watchful, attentions to Mr. Berkeley, from his first return to England, Mr. Berkeley, his Father, and Mother, ever felt, the survivor still feels, the deepest gratitude—this poor creature one night robbed Mr. Berkeley in the Temple. On his being pressed to appear against him, he
absolutely
refused. When strongly urged that it was
right,
he replied,
"It
must
be so, to be sure, to hang a poor devil, who might have murdered me; for we were in the chambers alone, and he only took my watch and a few guineas. No, I hope he may live to repent. Poor creature! I am sure
I
will never appear
against
him: I wish I could appear
for
him."
The present Earl of E
, when a
very
young man, was robbed on Salisbury Plain by the famous Dumas, afterwards executed at Oxford. His Lordship, with the usual spirit of
nineteen,
was resolved not to be robbed. Dumas demanded his watch and money. Out sprang his Lordship: down jumped Dumas: Lord P
, as he then was, attempted to fire; his pistol would not go off. He threw it down, and had recourse to the second, which likewise flashed in the pan. Dumas then said,
"Sir, you are in my power: you will be pleased to give me your watch and money."
The request was complied with. In a short time Dumas was taken, committed to Fisherton gaol, and tried. Lord P
was subpoenaed to appear. His Lordship's purse was produced. He said,
"He could not say that was his purse."
Then the watch: his Lordship could not say the watch was his. The seals, arms, crest, &c. were produced; but his Lordship said,
"It was impossible for him to
swear
to them."
On being asked by his friends, when he came out of court,
"if he had
lost his wits,
not to know his own arms, crest,"
&c. he nobly replied,
"Know them? to be sure I do. But do you think I would take away the life of a poor distressed creature, who had
my
life in his power, and would not hurt a hair of my head?"
It was immediately said that Lord P
was become a Methodist—an high compliment surely to the Methodists. It is not likely that a follower of that archhypocrite, John Wesley, should have acted thus, unless some pelf or plunder was to be obtained thereby; at least if they resembled their wretched leader, whose practice was to fleece the rich, to feather,
finely
feather, harlots and rogues. Witness poor Mr. and Mrs. G
ths, of C
, who, were induced to turn their house into a kind of Lock Hospital, until they had no house left in which to shelter their aged heads, only a two pair of stairs lodging in London. On their first acquaintance with the ZEALOUS apostle of
they kept a carriage, and a pair of good horses to draw it, a coachman, footman, and several female servants. A few years reduced them to the situation above described. A letter written by Mrs. G
ths, from the London garret, to a lady at C
, describing their sufferings, was sufficient to have distressed any hearer of it. But it was of a piece with his setting Miss B
t, with fifty thousand pounds, to wash her own linen, that young harlots might be healed of their bodily diseases, and dressed out to draw in poor deluded young men to marry them. One of the nymphs thus restored to health at Mrs. G
ths's was actually married to a person in London, who settled on her a jointure of three hundred pounds
per annum.
Such were the good works of John Wesley! May his followers cease to practise them! One does not find them recommended in Scripture. St. Paul says,
"Charge them that are rich, that they be ready to distribute, willing to communicate,"
&c.; not turn themselves into washer-women, and retire to garrets, with their poor, blind, lame, deluded husbands, as did Mrs. G
.
But to return. To say that Mr. Berkeley's servants loved him, is too feeble an expression. His own, and the servants of his Father's family, in general old in his service, almost idolized him. His generosity, his condescending goodness to the meanest servant in the house, was so engaging, that joy enlivened every countenance whenever he visited at his Father's. He had been very early taught, that, although it had pleased Providence to place him in a different station of life from his Father's servants, yet that he must ever treat them with kind civility. He and his brother were always made, whilst children, to take off their hat to the lowest peasant and washer-woman who passed them in the village: and so habitual was it to Mr. Berkeley to be
"
courteous to all men,
"
that when he gave orders to his servant, a stranger to him would not have supposed he had been speaking to his own domestic; yet, wonderful to relate, he had one servant, who actually had a desire to lie in wait to murder him: but he was an Italian
See above, p. xxxvii.
. This may be a warning to English and Irish gentlemen to be less fond of foreign servants. Mr. Berkeley, wanting a servant at a time when few were in London; a person who owed Mr. Berkeley much gratitude earnestly recommended this villain. Mr. Berkeley objected, wishing either an English or Scotchman; always thinking it wrong to employ foreigners to the detriment of our own countrymen, he however yielded. Dr. Berkeley, at his return from visiting his son in town, said to Mrs. Berkeley,
"I think your son seems to have got a Devil in the form of a fine tall fellow."
"What does he do?"
"Nothing, I believe. But such a pair of diabolical eyes I never saw before in my life."
Mrs. Berkeley, ever anxious for her idol, wrote to her son, who, with his usual benignity, replied,
"The poor fellow, to be sure, is not handsome; nor has he a very benign countenance; which made my Father think him diabolical: but he does every thing that I want, although he is not like Ritchie, or M'Nicol."
When Mr. Berkeley was once ordered to the sea, a day or or two before he set out, accompanied by his excellent unwearied friend H. Grimston, Esquire, he told this servant, that,
"as he wished to lounge and change his posture frequently, and as he could not accommodate three in the chaise, it being summer time, he should go down on the top of the coach."
This
Signor
resented, as
such
an indignity, that, on his arrival, he utterly refused to act at all; so that, but for Mr. Grimston's servant, Mr. Berkeley must have been exceedingly distressed. His ill humour increasing daily, Mr. Berkeley at length discharged him without the least anger or reproach. The sweetness of his nature never suffered his anger to rise against an inferior. My superiors, he used ever to say, shall
feel
it if
they
treat me improperly. This wretch, instead of returning to London the next morning, stayed the whole of the next day, and when he did set off, said,
"He had waited all that day to murder his master, but he found it was in vain, for that he kept close."
It providentially happened, that Mr. Berkeley's horse had picked up a nail, and he could not ride into the country, as was his constant custom, to drink milk from the cow, morning and evening; neither did he go to the library or rooms that day; which Mr. Berkeley, when mentioning it, looked upon as the mercy of an all-gracious, over-ruling, particular Providence, in which he ever believed, ever trusted, and was never disappointed. Mr. Berkeley, not having any Italian blood in his veins, could form no idea of this villain's spirit of revenge. He was immediately replaced by a very worthy honest Englishman, Mr. William Morfey, for whose attentive, incessant care Mr. Berkeley felt himself so much indebted, that some little time before his lamented death, he requested of his Father and Mother,
"that he might remain in their family as long as service should be agreeable to him,"
although he had a competency without it.
It is almost impossible to avoid relating here a little circumstance, that will shew the contrast between the Englishman and the Italian. For some time before Mr. Berkeley's dissolution, finding himself unable to fit up through the day, he rose not until after the family had dined, that he might enjoy the society of his friends in the afternoon. He constantly dismissed his servant to eat his dinner in comfort, ordering him not to hurry himself, and not to return until he rang his bell. One day his bell rang, and Mr. Berkeley's Mother, conceiving that the servant had not dined, went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and told the servant, she would go up and see what his Master wanted, and if she could not get it, ring for him. He replied,
"No, Madam, I must go myself."
The housekeeper and the other servants urged him to stay, saying,
"You have but
one single
mouthful to finish; do pray eat it; Mr. Berkeley is never impatient, he will wait."
He replied,
"
No; I will not stay to eat it.
"
His Mother once recommending to his care a most affectionate, tender-hearted servant, her old housekeeper, who came into the family when Mr. Berkeley was a lad, to keep in his family, if it pleased God to spare him to settle; he lifted up his fine eyes, and replied, in the tenderest tone of voice,
"My dearest Mother, there is no occasion for
you
to recommend Mrs. Marsh to
me.
"
When Mr. Berkeley's exquisitely fine picture, presented to his Mother by his beloved friend Mr. Peters, arrived at Dr. Berkeley's, this amiable-hearted woman hastened to assist at the unpacking it, and, on seeing it, sunk motionless upon it. Heartfelt gratitude forces the Writer of this Preface to celebrate the incessant unwearied attention of the two above named servants, as also of the very worthy Mrs. Jane Godwin, who has for many years been the happy domestic of Mr. Berkeley's incomparably kind, generous, excellent Aunt, Mrs. Frinsham, for the delightful alacrity, and unwearied assiduity, with which they endeavoured incessantly to alleviate Mr. Berkeley's intolerable,
all but insupportable,
bodily sufferings, as indeed did every other servant in the family: for all which sufferings Mr. Berkeley repeatedly returned hearty thanks to God, frequently saying to his Mother,
"I would not have been without them for all this world has to give, as, I am persuaded, nothing short of what I have suffered could have brought
me,
as I
ought,
to come to Christ"
Such universal benevolence may tempt the possessor to feel less need of the atonement.
It is impossible to omit here my most grateful acknowledgements to many amiable-hearted persons in the inferior stations in life, to whom Mr. Berkeley was only known by his almost divine philanthropy, and by his severe sufferings—at Hastings, at Dover, and at Cheltenham—who seemed to vie with each other, who should be most active in
endeavouring
to lighten the distress of a poor miserable stomach, that for many months regurgitated every delicacy of every kind
Mr. Berkeley frequently, for days together, did not retain any thing taken into his stomach for one minute; which occasioned one of the most eminent Physicians to pronounce positively, that the passage into the stomach was stopped, and must be opened by a method known to medical gentlemen. This was not the case; as sometimes, for two or three days successively, plainly appeared. Mr. Berkeley was one of the most temperate of men, never, from the age of fifteen, tasting a morsel of any food between his meals; no sandwich; no soup; nor any thing else, even if he did not dine until six o'clock; and very rarely ate any supper when he dined at the old-fashioned hour of three at his Father's house.
. Persons are often punished in kind.—
"By what things a man sinneth, by the same also shall he be tormented,"
speaks the Scripture.
Mr. Berkeley never was an epicure a moment of his life; frequently, when the family dined out, and he did not choose to accompany them, Mrs. Berkeley would ask him,
"What she should order for his dinner?"
His constant reply was,
"Oh! my dear Madam, whatever they have in the servants' hall will do for me."
"But, my dear, they have not any thing yet ordered."
"Well, then, if it is quite convenient, a neck of mutton and broth, and suet dumplings, and turnips;"
of which he constantly ate the absolute scrag; which often occasioned his mother's telling him,
"However you may torment your wife, if ever you marry, it will not be as an epicure."
Mr. Berkeley wished exceedingly to have gone to Dover immediately, on his being ordered the third time to the sea, that, together with sea bathing, he might have enjoyed the delightful society of his old, his beloved, his sincerely respected friends, the excellent Sir Robert and Lady Laurie, and their throughly amiable son and daughter; but his father wished him to make choice of Hastings; and Mr. Berkeley was the
most
obedient of sons. As the autumn advanced, the want of a warm sea-bath obliged him to quit Hastings, and he repaired to Dover, accompanied by his excellent relation above named, Mrs. Frinsham; where he received such amiable, such incessant attentions, from the lovely family of Laurie, the angelic Mrs. Firebrace, and the very worthy Mrs. and Miss Payne—although it were impossible, even if possessed of the mines of Peru and Mexico, to repay their kindness, yet must it ever be, whilst possessed of life, registered in the retentive grateful memory of the Editor; and may HE who rewardeth
every one according to, although not for,
their good works, reward these amiable friends an hundred, a thousand fold, in TIME, and through the countless ages of ETERNITY, is a prayer offered
daily
at the throne of that God who
hears
and
answers
prayer, as is often happily experienced by those who
believe
and
trust
HIS gracious promises, revealed in the Holy Scriptures. The mention of these particular kind, old, intimate friends of Mr. Berkeley and his family, does not prevent the Writer from feeling the sincerest gratitude to numberless other of the wonderfully amiable inhabitants of Dover, who, high and low, seemed to study who should be most forward in shewing every
possible
attention to Mr. Berkeley, so much as frequently at this time to occasion the above named worthy domestics to say,
"they never saw such delightful people as the inhabitants of Dover."
It has been repeatedly asserted many years ago by the Writer, who has often bathed in the sea at Dover, that the inhabitants, even the very lowest ranks, were certainly the most courteous people in Europe, and attributed it to their vicinity to their once amiable, delightfully courteous neighbours on the other side of the water. The streets of Dover are narrow, of course the pavement cannot be wide; and so
very
attentive are they, that you never see an inferior take the wall of a superior, or a charity-school child of an elder person. If, looking on the other side, a bricklayer's labourer in a leathern apron stumble on any lady or gentleman, he instantly steps off the narrow pavement with,
"I ask your pardon, Sir, or Madam, for not seeing you were coming."
Mr. Berkeley's father used to say,
"They remind me of the days of my youth, spent in Ireland, where the inferior people are most remarkably respectful to their superiors."
It would be a vain effort to attempt doing justice to Mr. Berkeley's gratitude to the excellent Mr. Brydges, of Wootton Court, and his accomplished lady; at Dover, at the time Mr. Berkeley was there. He used to exclaim,
"How often have they driven over to Wootton Court, to fetch me some fine fruit, as if I had been only brother to both."
Fruit fit to eat, indeed any fruit, cannot be procured for any sum at Dover: and on fruit, sweetmeats, and old hock, did Mr. Berkeley long subsist. After his arrival at Cheltenham, how many fervent prayers did he pour forth to the Almighty, to reward the throughly amiable relations of his Mother, Sir John and Lady Guise; when a servant arrived loaded with the fine fruits of Highnam Court, as also the amiable highly respected old friend of his Mother, Mr. De la Bere, of Cheltenham, in whose pleasing conversation Mr. Berkeley much delighted, during the few weeks of his life after his arrival at Cheltenham; whither he went, in compliance with the wishes of his Mother, to enjoy the advice of the celebrated Dr. Chestern, of Gloucester. But, alas! Mr. Berkeley fell a victim to duty! He had for near two years before been under the hands of an hypocritical IGNORAMUS
The Editor wishes for the pen of a Johnson, or a Burke, to endeavour to do justice to her gratitude to that most amiable of men, her respected friend, William Sharp, Esquire, of Fulham, who having, as it appeared,
wrenched
himself from his patients, from his extensive practice, has the goodness to attend to the maladies of his friends. Dr. Berkeley being from home for a few nights, Mrs. Berkeley instantly dispatched a letter to Mr. Sharp, conjuring him to permit her Son to wait on him, she being convinced that he was in a very dangerous situation. The permission was, in the politest manner, more than granted. Mr. Sharp, most amiably writing to Mrs. Berkeley, said,
"I will not give Mr. Berkeley the trouble of coming to Fulham; but, if he will be pleased to appoint any place, day, and hour, in town, I will punctually attend."
Mr. Berkeley was too well bred, and felt this amiable goodness too strongly, to accept it: he set out for Fulham; and, on his arrival there, sent his servant to beg to know at what hour it would be agreeable to Mr. Sharp to admit him. On presenting to Mr. Sharp a short letter of introduction from his Mother (Mr. Berkeley having never before seen him) good Mr. Sharp politely exclaimed, from Mrs. Berkeley's letter,
"Do all I can to rescue you from the grave, Sir! If I had
no
friendship for Mrs. Berkeley, I would certainly exert all the skill I am master of to rescue from death the finest young gentleman I ever saw."
Alas, it was too late! That healing art, as divine Hervey says of Dr. Stonhouse, to which myself and so many others have been indebted, failed
here.
See Meditations among the Tombs.
On examining Mr. Berkeley, Mr. Sharp exclaimed,
"Into the hands of what ignorant Brute can you have fallen, Sir? Dr. Berkeley resides within thirty miles of town. I did not conceive that, in these days, in the remotest village in England there they had not better medical aid. One fortnight more, and all the men in the world could not have rescued you, and a most direful calamity must have inevitably come upon you."
For ever blessed be the mercy of God on the great skill of good Mr. Sharp, and the eminent Surgeon, an
elève
of his own for fourteen years, under whose care he advised Mr. Berkeley to put himself; that tragical
maiming
of his fine person was averted, although his dear life could only be lengthened, not preserved.
Some years ago, the late amiable, pious Mrs. Wadham Knatchbull, having a disorder that baffled the skill of several very good Canterbury surgeons, her excellent son, Wyndham Knatchbull, Esquire, prevailed on Mr. Sharp to visit her, after he had retired from practice. During his stay at the house of his excellent relation, Dr. Dering, Prebendary of Canterbury, he very obligingly wrote a prescription for a snuff for Mrs. George Berkeley's eyes. To that gentleman's great skill, when in practice fifteen years before, she, under God, owes it, that, after having nursed a child too long, she has still, through mercy, one eye left, to scribble her grateful acknowledgement to her kind benefactors, her sympathizing friends. Mrs. Berkeley, one morning, carried the prescription herself to Dr. Berkeley's respected surgeon, Mr. Loftie, desiring him to make it up himself, mentioning from whom she had it, acknowledging, as above, that she owed to that gentleman's skill that she had still
one
eye. Mr. Loftie exclaimed,
"Then, Madam,
you
know Mr. Sharp."
I never in my life beheld such another man. Good God! with what tenderness, ease, and skill, did he did perform the operation on Mrs. Knatchbull! I never, never saw his equal.
"Besides, Madam, he is as well-bred a gentleman, as he is an excellent surgeon."
, in whom his Father placed great confidence. His Mother saw through the wretch; and what added to her anguish was, that two, perhaps, as skilful medical men as any in England resided at the same town; one of whom always attended Mr. Berkeley's Mother when ill, as she frequently declared to Dr. Berkeley that to
the third
she would not trust the life of her Angola cat.
God's ways are unsearchable; but they are all well ordered for his children, who are enabled to
feel,
as well as
say,
"All thy ways are Mercy and Truth,"
&c. Perhaps few situations have been more distressing than that of Mr. Berkeley's Mother for many weeks. Just at the time when she should have set out to attend her Son at Dover, her tenderly beloved Partner was seized at Cheltenham with a most tremendous disorder, that threatened almost immediate dissolution. Every post brought more alarming accounts from Dover—
—"Dreadful post of observation,
"Darker every hour,"
says Dr. Young, when relating his own sufferings during Lady Betty's last illness. Her agonies every time the postboy's horn notified his arrival may, by those who have feeling hearts, be more easily imagined than described, and especially as they were obliged to be suppressed. It, however, pleased the mercy of God to grant a reprieve—a short one, alas! to these two,
too
dear objects. Mr. Berkeley languished to see once more his Mother; Perhaps no Mother ever did love a Son quite so sincerely; and it was supposed by those who knew him well, that no man ever did love even a Mother so exceedingly as Mr. Berkeley
The Holy Spirit certainly holds out the love between Mother and Son as the highest love without passion. Solomon, speaking of Wisdom, saith,
"She shall love thee more than thy Mother doth;"
and David says,
"I went heavily, as one that mourneth for his Mother."
And again, the Holy Spirit, describing the
bitterest
mournings, says,
"It shall be as the mourning for an only Son."
. That love commenced, as Mrs. Berkeley used to tell her Son,
"the instant she saw his dear
homely face;
"
and continued unabated—alas! daily increased—until his fine face was for ever hid from her bodily eyes by the arrival of the Plumber late on Saturday evening preceding his interment on the Sunday evening. God, in love, in mercy,
must
remove the
"idols
See the Prophet Ezekiel:
"Son of Man, they have set up their idols in their
heart.
"
out of the hearts"
of his children.
Mr. Berkeley's Mother always flattered herself with the hope, that as she never spoiled, or improperly gratified her children, and constantly corrected them, according to the advice of the Wise King, the Book of Proverbs being her constant directory, that she did not idolize them: but, alas! the wisest are too apt to deceive themselves—how much more then a poor weak Female!
Mrs. Berkeley's first care for her children was the salvation of their souls; secondly, the cultivation of their minds and manners; next, the forming their persons; and, lastly, the advancing her
Son
in his profession, for the youngest died before he attained to nine years.
When it is mentioned that attention was paid to the immortal part of Mr. Berkeley even before he was born, it will be easily imagined, that, as soon as reason began to dawn, every
judicious
attention was paid to the direction of the Holy Spirit, delivered by St. Paul,
"
Bring up your children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.
"
From the time that his Mother perceived that the all-gracious Giver of every good gift was about to entrust her with the care of an immortal soul, that
must
pass the countless ages of eternity, either in bliss unspeakable, or woe unutterable; she never failed to pray daily, that nothing descended from her might ever be separated from that adorable God, who lived and died, that man might live for ever; and she trusts, through free sovereign Grace, and Redeeming Love, to be enabled to say at the great day,
"Lo! here am, I and the children whom thou hast graciously given me
In a letter of Mrs. Berkeley's, many months ago in the St. James's Chronicle, combating Dr. Beattie's idea of not permitting children to know that there is a Supreme Being, until they attain to the age of six years; the Editor of the St. James's Chronicle, in general
very
sensible, has rejected this text, as TOO serious for a newspaper, and has adopted a sentence of nonsense. In another part, he has sadly turned one period, and mutilated it, for fear of being TOO serious. He apologizes for it in a succeeding paper.
."
Almost as soon as Mr. Berkeley could articulate, there was discovered in him, what attended him through life, wonderful powers of reasoning, and an incessant enquiry
"
How can these things be,
"
and a sagacity that it was next to impossible to deceive; which once occasioned a sensible Lady
Lady P
, the beloved, the bosom-friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley's Mother from
very
early youth to her latest hour, without any intermission, any coolness, over whose heavy sufferings she cannot avoid dropping a tear. Friends from children; both married just at the same time, within a few weeks; both called upon to
offer up
two beloved children, Mrs. Berkeley two fine sons, Lady P
two lovely daughters. On the death of the eldest of the two, Miss Catharine P
whom Mrs. Berkeley had prevailed on Lady P
to put, for a couple of years, under the tuition of the accomplished Mrs. Beaver, in Dover Street, being, as both these
very
old fashioned ladies thought,
too young
at between sixteen and seventeen to be
introduced into life,
as it is termed, died very suddenly. Mrs. Berkeley wrote as follows to her beloved friend, after her usual preface,
"It is the Lord; let him do what seemeth him good:"
was added,
"I am at a loss what to say to my dearest friend. The subject is difficult: for, I do
really
believe you have lost
such
a daughter as no other mother in Europe has to lose."
The astonishing strength and solidity of this young lady's understanding, and the exceeding beauty of her face, and elegance of her form, could only be exceeded by the loveliness of her temper, (corrected at about fourteen by herself,) and the exquisite obligingness, and refined unaffected sweetness of her manners. Some years after Lady P
lost another lovely daughter; but
she
had still a lovely one remaining, together with a most excellent son and a worthy husband, to soothe
her
sufferings under the total loss of the use of her limbs; all which she bore with true Christian resignation. It was somewhat remarkable that from her age of eighteen she had always told the Editor, that she was very certain that God would, some time or other, in mercy, punish her, by taking away the use of her limbs; adding,
"I know he
must
do it in
love
to my soul:"
then assigning the reason. Thou art now in bliss, thou beloved friend.
, mother of many fine children, to say,
"Of what can that little creature's brain be formed? for I never heard any child ask such very extraordinary questions, not even at double his age."
Mr. Berkeley was early a great sceptic, which alarmed his Mother the less, as she felt it was hereditary; and she pursued the same plan which her eminently pious and wise Mother had so happily used towards herself; and her endeavours to direct and settle that dangerous tendency of mind were so happily blessed, that, from the early age of fifteen, Mr. Berkeley was a most zealous, ardent stickler for the co-equal co-eternal Godhead of his adored Redeemer, and of the Holy Spirit, with the Father. A most respectable and worthy friend of his early youth, in a letter to his Mother on the death of his beloved friend, says,
"How often have I heard him in company
battling
for the
honour
of his Saviour, and silencing his Deistical acquaintance and friends!"
He had many friends, whom he earnestly wished to lead out of their infidel
darkness
into the glorious sunshine of the Gospel of Christ—several of the great Geniuses of this day
Mr. Berkeley at one time very
earnestly
solicited his Father's permission to recommend a
cottage ornée
in the neighbourhood of Cookham to a friend of his, a man of large fortune, and deserved fame in the literary world, for a summer residence, saying,
"I have no doubt but he would be convinced by your arguments."
To which Dr. Berkeley replied,
"I am sure, if he has not been convinced by
yours,
who are his friend, he will not be convinced by mine."
On Mrs. Berkeley's joining in her Son's supplications, Dr. Berkeley, rather angrily, replied,
"
No, no; he shall not
bring down any of his Deistical friends to
stink
in my nose: he shall
not
come. It is not that they
do
not, but that they
will
not believe the record that God has given of his Son."
So it was of course given up.
, who may perhaps affect to laugh or scoff at this, although they know it to be true, and that Mr. Berkeley did not wait to believe in the Saviour of the world, until driven to him by sickness or the terrors of death.
Mrs. Berkeley, when her children were young, and during their being under their Father's roof, whilst at the King's School at Canterbury, devoted her mornings primarily to them, never admitting any morning visitor; which occasioned the sensible, the witty Lady
, an old intimate school friend of hers, frequently to say,
"I wish those two nasty little brats were dead out of the way; then your friends might enjoy a little of your company."
The jocular wish, alas, is realized. That amiable friend was very partial to them, perpetually fetching them to children's card-parties at her hospitable mansion. Mr. Berkeley, when a man, used frequently to say,
"I love Lady
, for her goodness to me when I was a boy."
Her benevolence was so well known, that all who did not wish to drown puppies and kittens
As dogs and cats produce their young so frequently and so plentifully, is it not reasonable to suppose, that the bounteous Giver of every good gift, meant these cheaply fed, domestic animals, for food for man, and not to be soused at nine days old into a horse-pond, to corrupt the water for the poor horses and cows? We learn, from high authority,
"
That God made nothing in vain.
"
These poor animals, as we treat them, seem made
worse
than in vain. We read in Mr. Forster's account of Captain Cook's first voyage, that the life of that very worthy amiable man was supposed to be saved by Mr. Forster's sacrificing his favourite dog, for his food, when very ill; and it is well known that half London, who choose to eat
tame
rabbits, certainly eat cats. It is a prejudice which, perhaps, like
most
other prejudices, it would be wisdom to give up. The county of Fife, in some parts, abounds with the finest rabbits, yet the poorest labourer will not eat one, although starving; calling them
carrion:
they kill them, sell their skins, and throw the body to the
smiddie,
(their elegant word for our gross one of
dunghill;
)
we
are rather a coarse people; the French call that necessary heap
un fumée.
Many of the lower people of Scotland will not touch a silver eel, terming water-snakes. When the late Bishop Berkeley went, in the year 1735, to reside in the palace at Cloyne, none of the poor Irish would eat of some very fine fish, in great plenty there, I think, the Jean d'orée; but, after some time, they said,
"that if my Lord ate it, it could not
harm
them."
used in the evening to convey them into her garden. Mrs. Berkeley used to tell her, that
"she would advise some poor Clergyman to pack up a child or two in a basket, and lay it at her hall door."
Lady
used to reply,
"I declare, if ever there is a child found in the garden, I will send it to you to keep."
The generosity of this Lady needs no eulogium from the pen of an old friend.
Mr. Berkeley, determined to attempt complying with the earnest request of his Mother, took an affectionate, a grateful,
last
farewell of all his amiable friends and obliging neighbours at Dover, including the throughly respectable and pious Rev. Mr. Lyon, and his tender-hearted amiable apothecary, Mr. Hanham, who did not conceive that Mr. Berkeley had sufficient strength remaining to reach Canterbury alive; but the divine tenderness of nature, which shewed itself at the age of three years
When about that age, one Wednesday, the family all coming out of church, a beggar applied to her Father for relief, saying,
"that a scaffold breaking at Colonel Tyrrel's, at Shottover House, two men had been killed,—his arm was so shattered that it had been cut off just at the elbow,—that it was then mortified, and he was going to the hospital to have it taken off above the elbow."
Mr. Frinsham, an excellent surgeon to his poor neighbours, insisted on looking at it; and, turning to his footman, bid him assist the man to take off his coat. After much apparatus removed, there appeared a lily white hand. Hereupon Mr. Frinsham exclaimed,
"Thou villain! I will commit you to Bridewell directly. William, (to his servant,) go, call the constable;"
who lived at the parsonage close by;—out came the constable;—down fell the
restored
cripple on his knees on the pitched walk. This lovely little creature flew to her Father, and, clinging round him, said,
"Oh! my dear Papa, forgive the poor man; he will cut his knees;
he will indeed.
"
Then falling upon her knees, and embracing her Father's, she wept, and shrieked so violently, that, fearing she would be deprived of her reason, the vile impostor was dismissed unpunished. The same sweet spirit has attended her through life; a blessing to the poor and needy, a constant source of suffering to herself. The wretch confessed that his hand had been thus muffled up for the last fourteen years: he appeared to common spectators to have really but half an arm. The coat sleeve was smeared all over with medicine, and the hand confined in the leathern case of a duodecimo Bible.
in his angelic relation Mrs. Frinsham, and has actuated her through life, determined that excellent friend, who alone could attempt it, not to dissuade him from his purpose. Accompanied by that Lady and the three above named worthy affectionate attendants, Mr. Berkeley set out, and with difficulty reached Canterbury, where he saw some of his old friends. the very learned Mr. Todd, and some others; and in the evening sent for Mr. Wrightson, now master of the workhouse of the sixteen parishes of that city—happy indeed do both high and low express themselves in so worthy, so mild, so able a governor.
The learned and accomplished Mr. M
of Cookham used, when obligingly advising Mr. Berkeley, at the age of seventeen, to say,
"Well, if you will not attend to me, I will speak to Mr. John, and he will make you do it immediately."
Mr. Berkeley used to redden, and say,
"HE make me do it! How so?"
"Why, my dear Berkeley, I had not been intimate with your family six weeks before I saw that he governed the
whole
family."
"The
whole
family! How so?"
"Why, when Dr. or Mrs. Berkeley say, 'Berkeley, I would advise you to do so or so,' you instantly reply, 'Yes, Sir, or Madam; but I must first hear what John says.' Then on some other subject Dr. Berkeley turns to Mrs. Berkeley, and says, 'My dear, you will speak to John
Highly as Mr. Berkeley thought of John, he is one instance thought more highly of his own eloquence. Sometimes Mr. Berkeley's fine hunter was not thought sufficiently recovered from the fatigues of the preceding hunt; and only one horse in the place was capable of flying over hedge and ditch,
"
burn and brake,
"
the property of a most worthy old blacksmith, of the name of Peirce. Mr. Berkeley used to send his own young man (now, through the mercy of God, with Christ);
"give my service to Peirce, and desire he will hire me his horse to hunt to-morrow."
—
"Master Peirce's duty to you, Sir, and he is very sorry, but he thinks he shall want him himself."
—Off sets Mr. Berkeley to the gardener, who lives at Maidenhead, a man of very uncommonly strong understanding, much better improved in youth, by a kind relation, than is usual in that rank of life, and who would have educated him a scholar, but for the avarice of his Mother, who said,
"John, has had
larning
enough, and "he must now set about
arning,
"
i.e.
earning—always a most respectful domestic. Down goes the spade or water-pot—off goes the gardener, with the message a little strengthened.—
"His Humble duty to you, and he is very sorry; but I cannot spare his horse to-morrow."
—
"John, pray now do you go to old Peirce, and tell him what distress I am in, and I am sure he will lend me his horse. I will give whatever he desires for him."
Off goes John—returns with as little success as the others. Off sets Mr. Berkeley, and soon returns in triumph, with,
"Aye, there is nothing like doing one's own business. Here have I sent Robert, Gardener, John; all in vain; and I prevailed upon the old man in two minutes. He said, 'Lord bless you, Sir, why you
must
have him I think, and I must go to Reading on Thursday."
The fact was, Mr. Berkeley's manners were so uncommonly sweet and winning, particularly to his inferiors, where, as his mother used to tell him, the
"noble blood of the Berkeleys"
could not be put in motion, that he could, like his Grandfather, the Bishop (as Mr. Dalton used always to say) of his beloved respected friend he could persuade every body to any thing that he pleased. Some time after, this honest man opened a grocer's shop; Mr. Berkeley conjured his Mother to lay out some money with him, adding,
"I really feel myself under great obligations to the honest old man."
On Mr. Berkeley's return to Cookham several years after, finding his old friend Peirce dead, he put his little orphan boy to school.
, and hear what he says;' when Mrs. Berkeley replies, 'Yes, I have talked to him already about it.' Now is it not evident that what I say is fact?"
This gentleman did not mean that Dr. Berkeley consulted his excellent old servant on his Sermons, or Mrs. Berkeley on her Letters, although she had taught him the alphabet; he coming very early into Dr. Berkeley's family, and living in it very near thirty years, during which long period he never returned a saucy answer, nor uttered a pert sentence, or grumble, when shutting the door. Notwithstanding he was, when Mrs. Berkeley was not present, the
only
governor of Mr. Monck Berkeley, yet he never forgot that he was the son of his Master; but always treated him with the respect due from one in an humbler station.
"Sir, you
must not,
you
shall not
do that. What would my Mistress say, if she should come into the stable-yard now?"
Mr. Wrightson was many years coachman to Dr. Berkeley before he became his butler. A stronger proof that persons is an humble station may be thoroughly respectable and respected cannot be adduced than in Mr. Berkeley's little brother, when about seven years old, sitting very disconsolately: the cause being enquired, he replied,
"Why, I have been naughty, and John will not be friends with me."
Mrs. Berkeley, his grandmother, being in the room, replied,
"Oh! never mind that, if he won't; but go away to play."
"Never mind it, indeed Why, if
all
the world were friends with, and
John was not,
I could never be happy."
Mr. Wrightson's powers for governing well, it may be presumed, are not impaired; as the little
boys
in Canterbury workhouse, of which he is now master, are made so industrious, at
eight
years old, as to earn money sufficient to receive a poundage of threepence every week for themselves, to spend as they please, in little innocent trifles. A wise encouragement this; and it must be wished by every humane person, that it was practised in
every
workhouse and poor-house throughout the three kingdoms. At Cookham in Berkshire, where they are remarkably kind to the poor in the workhouse, and most shamefully hard and cruel to those who
strive
to keep themselves out of it, the lace-making women and girls, and others, have two pence out of every shilling they earn, and permission to work for their own profit after a certain hour in the evening. This is comforting the hearts of the poor, enabling them to procure a little tea, tobacco, and snuff, which cannot be provided otherwise. Dr. Berkeley has often had his wonderfully fine, tender, feelings soothed, when visiting sick persons in the workhouse, saying, on his return home,
"Well, it is a delight to one's spirit to see those poor people in sheets as white, though not as fine, as one's own, and every comfort that human aid can render."
Tea, wine, &c. were always allowed to the sick, if the apothecary said it was necessary. The very worthy Mrs. Lane was then mistress, with a handsome salary. She lived many years in the family of the late Lord Aylesford. Servants, who have lived in genteel families, are the
only proper
conductors of workhouses. A butler of the late worthy General Onslow of Cookham was her predecessor. A
broken
tradesman, who perhaps knows little, but how to give
short measure,
and light weight, and eat the best of every thing, till he breaks, is tyrannical and cruel,
"
laying his weight heavily on the aged; and not pitying children;
"
as speaks the Holy Scripture.
The aid of the very learned, very skilful Dr. Packe had been procured by Mrs. Berkeley, who, in a letter sent to him by her, had desired him to visit Mr. Berkeley at Dover, which he did, and saw him again at Canterbury on his journey. It was supposed by all who did see him, that Mr. Berkeley would hardly reach Sittingbourn alive; and he was supposed once to be dead; yet it pleased that allgracious God, whose mercies are no fewer than infinite, to his faithful, however unworthy, servants, to conduct Mr. Berkeley to Cheltenham, where his family had been for some months, unable to get to him, on account of his Father's lamentable state of health, as above mentioned. Mr. Berkeley, after reposing part of a day and a night at the palace of those prodigies of KENTISH innkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, at the Rose at Sittingbourn—indeed they might, with truth, be compared with the Marches at Maidenhead Bridge; the Red Lion, Henley; and most of the great innkeepers on the Northern Road; whose accommodations, obliging assiduities, and reasonable charges, deserve to be celebrated.
Mr. Berkeley, by slow journeys, reached the metropolis, where he rested two or three days, and collected all those few friends who happened to be in town at that season when London is usually most empty, the beginning of December. He exhibited himself as a man dying in the very prime of life, and besought them to
"
remember their Creator before the evil days come on,
"
and to fly from temptation. He afterwards proceeded to his Father's house at Cookham; in the garden of which he ever delighted so much, particularly in the Southcote Walk leading to the Thames, as often to say to his Mother, who admired it at least as much as her Son,
"Well, if I was Lord Chancellor, and could not get the vicar's garden at Cookham, I should be perpetually breaking the tenth commandment."
Mrs. Berkeley had written to
her
apothecary, the very sensible and skilful Mr. Falwasser of Maidenhead, to desire him to meet Mr. Berkeley at Cookham, and endeavour to administer something to alleviate his sufferings, during his journey at least. After a short rest at Cookham, he left his beloved relation, Mrs. Frinsham, so exhausted with tender anxiety, as to be unable then to prosecute her journey to Cheltenham. He proceeded with his attentive servant to Oxford, whither he had written to his bedmaker, and kind attentive nurse in a severe stage of his near five years' illness, Mrs. Leycester
Some time after Mr. Monck Berkeley's death, the family passing through Oxford, this very worthy, grateful woman came to Mrs. Berkeley with a small box under her arm, saying,
"that she knew not what it contained; but that whenever Mr. Berkeley quitted Oxford for any length of time, he constantly gave it her, with a strict charge to lock it up carefully, and never whilst he was living to deliver it into any hand but his own; in case of his death, to his Mother."
It contained some very curious letters from some of his intimate friends; one very curious one from R
M
, Esquire, the contents of which still remain known only to the Editor; two or three rings and coins;
souvenirs
of departed friends; a curious purse containing several strips cut out of newspapers: on examination they were found to be accounts of the deaths of various friends, thus preserved, as mementos, from the time that he was a school-boy; and a card, quite yellowed by time, containing the lines, not at last rightly quoted by Mr. S
in his Anecdotes from Aaron Hill's fine tragedy, which, Dr. Johnson said,
"merited to be written in letters of gold,"
and which Mrs. Berkeley had caused her son to get by heart as soon as they were commented upon in Davies's Life of David Garrick, Esquire.
"Oh! Leoline, as obstinately just," &c.
While Mr. Berkeley was at Eton, his Mother said to him,
"I hope you have not forgotten the delightful lines of Aaron Hill."
He instantly repeated them, adding,
"I wish you would be so good as to write them out for me on a card."
"Why so? you remember them perfectly."
"Yes; so I do; and hope never to forget them. But, I think, if I saw them now and then, in (what he politely termed) your beautiful hand, they would make a
deeper
impression on my mind."
The request was of course complied with, and on the reverse of the card two important texts of Scripture written. The card, written about fourteen years before, was found deposited in this box.
, to procure him a lodging as near the Hall as she could; as Mr. Berkeley, the Hall being full, was obliged, when more than four years standing in the University, to relinquish his rooms to admit younger members.
It is impossible to omit relating here a most pleasing grateful attention of a much younger gentleman than Mr. Berkeley, over whom Mr. Berkeley had most kindly and wisely watched, in order to prevent his forming, as youths of sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, are too apt to do, improper intimacies and connections; the worthy very amiable-hearted William Browne, Esquire, Gentleman-commoner of Magdalen Hall, now the very worthy rector of Horton, near Windsor. That parish was once so happy as to have the excellent Mr. Romaine for curate. This amiable-hearted young gentleman
Mr. Browne was one of several gentlemen who, although in distant parts of the kingdom, as if by consent, put themselves into brother's mourning for their beloved lamented friend.
, hearing from his bedmaker, Mrs. Leycester, that Mr. Berkeley was coming to Oxford, bid her take no thought about a lodging; for that, in Mr. Berkeley's infirm state of health, it must be more agreeable to him to be in his own old rooms, which Mr. Browne had desired the Principal to let him exchange for his, when Mr. Berkeley was obliged to quit them; immediately took a lodging for himself, and directed Mrs. Leycester and the worthy Mr. William Wells
This young man was an orphan, and attended the hall with fruit, &c. Mr. Berkeley's piercing eye soon descried that shirts would add to his comfort. He soon appeared in the hall thus equipped. One of the gentlemen of the hall said to him,
"Why Will! you have got a nice new shirt. But, Will, it is not complete; those who gave you the shirt should have treated you with ruffles to it."
"No, Sir, replied Will; they had too much good sense to do that. It would ill become any one to wear
ruffles
on a shirt that was given to them in
charity.
"
The wisdom of Will was, at least, as much admired as the wit of the gentleman. Some time after Mr. Berkeley's death, his Mother, on seeing this honest, worthy, young man, observed to him,
"Mr. William, you have lost a kind friend."
He burst into tears, and could scarcely articulate,
"That I have, indeed, Madam. Can I do any thing to serve you?"
The gratitude of the worthy Mrs. Leycester is great, for some essential services rendered her by Mr. Berkeley during his residence at the hall.
, one of the scouts, as the college servants are termed at Oxford, an early
protegé
of Mr. Berkeley, to prepare the rooms for his reception, and collected a number of Mr. Berkeley's old friends, to spend the evening with him, and, of course, their beloved and respected tutor, the Reverned Mr. Green, the vice-principal, on account of whose great learning, and strict attention to his pupils, Dr. Berkeley had recommended it to his son to enter at Magdalene Hall, rather than at his own beloved Christ Church, or under his old excellent friend, the angelic-hearted Bishop of Norwich, under whose roof, and in whose chearful gay society and that of his worthy Lady and beautiful daughters, Mr. Berkeley passed many happy hours of his Oxford life; the delightfully amiable Bishop always considering the Son of his oldest friend as, to use the French term,
enfant de famille.
That throughly angelic Prelate would frequently relate little anecdotes of Mr. Berkeley's gay, lively wit, with greater pleasure than a parent might venture to do, without being suspected of too great partiality. The writer of this Preface cannot dismiss this beloved, respected character of her incomparable old friend, without saying what the same pen wrote, when the Church of England lost this bright mild star, and the church of Scotland his counterpart: That Bishop Horne, and the Reverend Dr. Gillespie, late Principal of the Divinity College in the University of St. Andrew.
"could be very little more angelical now, with worshiping at the throne of GLORY, than when on earth, supplicating at the throne of GRACE."
Two more lovely mild, benign, sweet, spirits have not, perhaps, since the days of Moses, the meekest of meer men, been permitted to shine in this dark world for more than threescore years before they took their flight to join their kindred spirits; and may the Writer of these pages, through Redeeming Love, be admitted, in God's appointed time, to rejoin those sweet spirits, whose society was so exhilarating here. Both were remarkably cheerful agreeable companions; both had, perhaps, attended to that line of Dr. Young,
"'Tis impious in a good man to be sad;"
and to a still higher than Dr. Young, St. Paul,
"
Rejoice alway—and again I say rejoice.
"
Could gloomy, pious persons possibly conceive the injury that they do to the Religion of our divine
Redeemer,
who repeatedly asserts,
"
My
yoke is
easy,
and
my
burden
light,
"
they would not always, as if, like Manasseh, they were dragging about fetters of brass, or rather lead, for brass would shine too much for such ill-judging gloomy spirits:—
"As if religion (the religion of the blessed Jesus) ever was intended
"To make our joys less."
Alas! no. It is a
slight
knowledge of Christ that sheds the gloom.
"ACQUAINT thyself with God,"
says holy Job,
"and be at peace."
It is one thing to get a slight view of any eminently wise person in a croud, and another to ACQUAINT ourselves thoroughly with them, if permitted so to do; and all are invited:
"Come unto
me
all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and
I
will refresh you."
After passing a couple of days at Oxford, to rest, and bid a
last
adieu to his friends in that beloved place, he proceeded, by easy journeys, toward Cheltenham. He was met on the road by his Father, Mother, and his Father's cousin-german, the generous, amiable, and compassionate Mrs. D. Monck, too well known in the polite circles of London and Bath, for her polite attentions, elegant hospitality, and unbounded generosity to her relations, her friends, and the poor, to need an enumeration here. To attempt to do justice to her exquisitely kind, amiable, unwearied attentions to Mr. Berkeley during the last six weeks of his life spent at Cheltenham, or his and his Parents gratitude to that extraordinary Lady, is a task not to be executed perhaps by
any
pen, much less by one so very imbecile. Suffice it therefore to say, May God reward in TIME and through ETERNITY; what Mr. Berkeley termed Mrs. Monck's
"divine attentions"
to him. Amen.
Mr. Berkeley's strength daily decreasing, as it had done for many months, he never walked out but twice at Cheltenham, once to look at the beautiful church
With a handsome painting of
that
church the eyes of the Editor are daily delighted; for which she is indebted to the elegant pencil of her very highly accomplished, sensible, amiable, young friend, Miss Hamilton, one of the daughters of Lord Archibald Hamilton, who, although so very distant in point of years, honoured the Editor by seeking her acquaintance—an
honour
but very rarely
granted
by the Editor to
young
ladies of any rank. When young herself, she had only two young friends, Lady P
and Mrs. D. W
; all her other intimate friends and correspondents were ten, some fifteen years older than herself.—
Little,
she
used
to think, was to be learned from girls of her own age
forty
years ago; much less, alas! now; unless it be, to go without cloathing in these hard times, and so save a little money. Mr. Monck Berkeley used to say,
"it was
a mercy
that God did not spare the life of his little sister; that, if he had, both his Mother and self should certainly have
ended their days
at
Tyburn;
for, had she as many lives as a cat is said to have, we should both have killed her
nine
times, if she had behaved as the generality of girls of fashion do now."
He always named
some
as exceptions. He had not the honour, the pleasure, to be acquainted with Miss Hamiltons.
, where he felt his mortal remains would soon be deposited, in hope of a joyful resurrection to immortal life, which he humbly hoped through CHRIST JESUS HIS SAVIOUR.
Curiosity perhaps may have led many to run their eye, for want of something else to do, over this short indigested sketch of the short life of a young Man, of whom it cannot be said, there is nothing remarkable in it; for, were the account of Mr. Berkeley's life methodically written by a learned, accurate pen, perhaps few lives of double the length of his could furnish more curious matter. The number of astonishing hair-breadth escapes of life, in his very early childhood, used to occasion his Mother to express her fears, that he would resemble Pope Sixtus Quintus, or the celebrated unfortunate Wortley Montague, Esquire; both of whom, it is well known, were incessantly in perils, and escaped most wonderfully. A very worthy woman, that waited on Lady Mary Wortley Montague when he was born, and many years afterwards, in her advanced age lived with an intimate friend of Mrs. Berkeley's Mother, when Mrs. Berkeley was a girl, and was by her frequently entertained with the wonderful exploits of
Master
Montague; and those of
Master
Berkeley were in many instances so similar as to cause the supremest vigilance in Mrs. Berkeley. Her younger son, although a wonderfully lively alert child, never had any danger to encounter, never had any
known
escape from danger, which occasioned Mr. Berkeley's frequent dangers and escapes to be the more noticed by the whole family. The spirit of one
"
returned early to God who gave it:
"
the other was appointed to travel longer through the thorny wilderness of this world.
A certain description of readers are now about to be addressed, in the words of that noblest of poets, Dr. Young, in his second Night:
"Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe;
"Receive the blessing, and adore the chance
"That threw in this
Bethesda
your disease:
"If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure.
"For,
here,
resistless demonstration dwells;
"A death-bed 's a detector of the heart.
"Here tir'd
dissimulation
drops her mask
The late very sensible, learned, accomplished, grateful Dr. Beauvoir, head master of Canterbury school, used always to say,
"I do deny that position of Dr. Young's; it only makes them fit it on the closer."
Dreadful idea! If it does so, what must be their lot through the countless ages of ETERNITY!!! Had he lived until
this time,
he might have seen SOME who drop it before they lie stretched on their death bed. A mask is a very troublesome thing to fit on
nicely
in youth, when one may be allowed to attend a little to dress. The Editor was, perhaps, too proud ever to wear one for a moment; which frequently occasioned her beloved partner's often saying to Mr. Monck Berkeley,
"
Your
Mother is
too
honest for
this world.
"
Her constant reply:
"Well, she cannot be too honest for the
next.
"
,
"Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene
Mr. Berkeley, from very early youth, resembled his Mother, in always exhibiting his faults rather than his virtues, frequently saying,
"God make me better than I am; but I hope he will always give me grace
never
to
appear
better than I really am."
The Editor's Mother (whom God in mercy spared until she was turned of twenty) used to say,
"My dear child, you will never get a husband; you hold yourself up as a dragon; men like quiet wives."
The Editor always cautioned her son, and all his young friends, against a
fine soft gentle
MEEKLING—the usual mask to conceal the most violent temper. There are, to be sure, A FEW female Moses's; but these are very rare. A beloved friend of the Editor's, Mrs. C
, one day, when two sisters were spoken of, said to her,
"The
men
like F
better than K
, because she is too lazy to put herself in a passion; but she is never, with all that
apparent
meekness, half an hour in a week."
Mr. Berkeley used to say,
"I hope, if ever I should persuade any lady to marry me, that she will not apply to my MOTHER for my character; for, she will certainly tell her
every
fault I have, as she told my Father beforehand all her own faults, as she has often told us."
All declared it
little
likely Mrs. Berkeley should be
so
applied to by any lady.
!
"
Here
real and apparent are the same.
"You see the man, you see his hold on heaven.
"Heaven waits not the last moment, own her friends
"On this side death; and points them out to men:
"A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign power."
When it is mentioned that Mr. Berkeley's Mother, ever anxious for the salvation of her children, had never failed from the moment they had life,
"to pray that God would vouchsafe to make her the MOTHER of their souls;"
it will be easily believed, that this anxiety did not
decrease
on the letters she perpetually received from her excellent friends, Lady Laurie and Mrs. Frinsham from Dover, of the declining state of Mr. Berkeley's health; and, dreading lest she might never have an opportunity of conversing with him on earth, she repeatedly wrote to conjure them to procure for Mr. Berkeley's perusal a small volume, that she persuaded herself would pour balm into his humble contrite spirit. These excellent Ladies, incessantly procuring comforts for his agonized stomach, and well knowing how constantly and how frequently Mr. Berkeley redde and studied the Book of Books, as good Bishop Ridley, at the stake, termed the Book of God, omitted to comply with Mrs. Berkeley's request; they
then
never having perused that exquisite little volume, which Mr. Berkeley's Mother, on finishing and closing it, almost involuntarily exclaimed,
"My God, I desire to praise thy mercy, that thou hast permitted me to live to read this incomparable little book."
It expounds some parts of Scripture differently from what many modern Divines of the Church of England understand them, although perfectly consonant to the Articles of the Church of England, and written by one of her brightest ornaments, who may be termed, as the evangelical Bishop Hall used to style his seraphic friend, the Honourable Robert Boyle,
"
a Lay Bishop.
"
Mrs. Berkeley, knowing that her Son dreaded any thing that
he
conceived might open a door to licentiousness, and she equally dreading any thing that might lead him to despair of God's mercy through Christ to all true penitents, for some days forbore to produce this invaluable little volume. One morning, after breakfast, sitting in Mr. Berkeley's room, he said,
"My dear Madam, I wish you would be so good as to read to me.
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"What shall I read, my dear?
Mr. B.—
"Something good.
Mrs. B.—
"Shall I read in the Bible?
Mr. B.—
"No; Morsey has just been reading that to me.
Mrs. B.—
"What then, my dear, do you choose?
Mr. B.—
"Why, pray read to me some of
your own
books."
By
your own
books, Mr. Berkeley meant either Romaine or Hervey, &c. Mrs. Berkeley then drew the little volume out of her pocket, and began; she had not redde far, before Mr. Berkeley put back his curtain, and said,
"Pray, my dear Madam, whose book is that?
Mrs. B.—
"It is mine, my dear.
Mr. B.—
"Yes, yes, I know that:
you know
what I mean; who is the writer?
Mrs. B.—
"Why do you ask, my dear? Do you like it?
Mr. B.—
"Yes, most exceedingly! Pray tell me
who
is the author?
Mrs. B.—
"Why, my dear, it is written by my excellent old friend, Sir Richard Hill."
He then exclaimed,
"Oh! best of Mothers, do not make an Antinomian of your
poor
Son;
for, if you do, he is lost for ever.
Mrs. B.—
"My dear child, Sir Richard Hill is no more an Antinomian than
your
Mother; and
you
have long known
her
horror of that dreadful doctrine of DEVILS. As I have always told you, till a certain text can be expunged from Scripture, no
real
Christian can become an Antinomian: 'Without HOLINESS no man shall see the Lord.'
Mr. B.—
"Pray proceed."
On the Monday he requested Mrs. Berkeley to read out of it again; and one day asking her to read to him, she replied,
"My dear, I have just laid it out of my pocket, on the table in my own room."
He replied,
"
But,
best of Mothers, you
can
have the goodness to go and fetch it:"
which request was of course instantly complied with. He frequently exclaimed,
"It is a wonderful book, surely."
The title—"The Deep Things of GOD, or Milk and Strong Meat
Mrs. Berkeley every day, immediately on quitting her Son's room, wrote under many of the numbers Mr. Berkeley's comments upon them. She has had that incomparable identical book most elegantly bound, gilt, &c. and, poor as she is, would not take five hundred pounds for it. If it may be permitted us to compare small things with great, that excellent, kind, unwearied friend, one of the trustees to Mrs. Berkeley's marriage settlement, is now perpetually labouring to assist his old friend in her worldly concerns, her multiplicity of
ugly
businesses, as he was to assist her angelic son with his spiritual aid.
."
About ten days before his lamented death, his Mother, sitting in her usual place, close to his pillow, he thus addressed her:
"My dear Madam, I have a favour to beg of you. Pray, promise me that you will grant it."
"My dear child, you
know,
that if it is any thing in
my
power, you may command it."
"It is, that you will promise me faithfully to send a copy of this book over to Ireland, for it is a book of a
very
extraordinary nature
indeed
—the most wonderfull book
surely
that ever was written by man, uninspired; and God knows, they lamentably want it in that poor country, as well as in this."
Mrs. Berkeley enquired to whom he wished her to send it. He mentioned a particular old friend of his Father, for whom Mr. Berkeley had a very great and unfeigned regard. Mrs. Berkeley promised him, that, if it pleased God to spare her life, she certainly would send it without fail.
The evening immediately preceding Mr. Berkeley's happy departure, as Mrs. Berkeley was sitting by his bed side, he fell into a sweet sleep. A servant came to announce to her, that tea was made. She went silently out of the room. In a few minutes he awoke, and enquired of his servant,
"Where is my Mother?"
"Just gone down to tea, Sir."
"Go down, and give my duty to her, and say, that when she has
quite
done drinking her tea, I beg to speak with her."
Mrs. Berkeley instantly obeyed the summons; he kindly reproached her for having come so quickly, saying,
"He feared she had not taken her tea (which he knew was her favourite refreshment) in comfort."
On being assured that she had done, he began,
"My dearest Mother, I beg that you will have the goodness to promise me
solemnly,
that you will send that excellent book over to Ireland."
"My dear, I did promise you, about a fortnight ago, that I would certainly send it if I lived. Did I ever in my life, from your infancy, break any promise, good or bad, that I made to you, or to your dear brother?"
"No, never, I believe, in your whole life."
But I thought, perhaps, that you might
"promise me, as a dy
"
He was going to say, it is supposed,
"as a dying man."
He stopped short, thinking it would too tenderly affect his almost broken-hearted Mother, and proceeded to say, to pacify me, and make me easy, again repeating,
"It is a most
extraordinary
WONDERFUL book surely."
Mr. Berkeley might most
happily
term it such; for it was that
alone,
by the mercy of God, that
could,
that
did,
enable him to triumph over the KING of TERRORS.
Mrs. Frinsham used frequently, when visiting at Dr. Berkeley's, to say to her sister,
"I am surprized your children are ever terrified: you promise them a whipping, or a
starving,
(so she termed a dinner of potatoes and water; for it injures children's stomachs to fast entirely, or go to bed supperless;) in so very good humoured a voice, that I wonder they ever believe you."
Mrs. Berkeley used to assure her, that there was no need of uttering the promise in the tone of a fish-woman, as they
well
knew, whatever the
voice
was, the
threat
would
infallibly
be executed.
A curious little anecdote of Mr. Berkeley's early entering into characters occurred when he was just turned six years old. One day Mrs. Frinsham and Dr. Berkeley, going down the Southcote Walk, he gallopped by them, whipping his horse (a fine long stick), saying,
"Miss Frinsham, I am to dine upon bread and water to-day."
His two relatives, both made up of tenderness, lamentably exclaimed,
"Oh! I hope not: go, and beg pardon."
"Oh! that won't do."
To which his Father replied,
"Oh! my dear, go, and try to coax your Mamma."
With a look of ineffable scorn, he replied,
"Oh! my dear Sir,
you
don't know MY Mamma. When
once
she has said (imitating the exact tone
Always as slow as a sentence could be uttered, and with all the solemnity of an excellent judge on the bench.
in which the threat was denounced)
Berkeley! you shall dine to day upon bread and water,
if the KING was to come, and go down upon
both
his knees
Doctor and Mrs. Berkeley being very old-fashioned persons in some things; their children constantly asking their parents blessing every morning and night, were never suffered to kneel on both knees, Mrs. Berkeley's father never suffering her to do it, always saying,
"Never fall on both your knees, but to your Father in Heaven. He is King of kings,—Lord of lords. You cannot humble yourselves enough to him."
Asking a parent's blessing is now quite obsolete. The Editor has very frequently seen her old hereditary friend, the agreeable learned Author of "CHRISTIANITY NOT FOUNDED ON ARGUMENT," (alas! for him, poor man!) on his arrival from his own seat in Surrey, at his pious mother's house in Berks, constantly drop on his knee, previously to his taking notice of any one, before his mother's chair, (she was lame,) saying,
"Madam, I beg your blessing."
—This, it must be known, was out of respect to her,—Mr. Berkeley that he might obtain a Parent's intercession with GOD.
to her, she would not pardon me. My Mamma is not like you—when I am naughty, take and give me a good hearty shake or two, and scold me for a minute or two, and then forget it directly."
The idea of his Majesty's intercession being vain, was a lucky one; or perhaps as his Majesty, in hunting, frequently passed through Dr. Berkeley's grounds, this extraordinary little genius might have thrown himself in his way. He had been told that nobody must ever turn their backs on the King. When about five years old, walking one evening with his Mother and Miss Leigh, a relation of hers, in Kensington gardens, he on a sudden began walking backwards, presently saying,
"Dear ladies, why do you not walk backwards?"
Some gentleman passed, whom
he
supposed to be his Majesty, whom he had then never seen. But to return.
Mr. Berkeley felt that he had broken God's Law, had fallen into temptation, and considering that he had received a thoroughly pious education, as he used to tell his consoling Mother, when she repeatedly applied to his broken contrite spirit, that glorious promise,
"Though your
sins
be as
scarlet,
"
&c. and that infinitely gracious one of our eternal co-equal Saviour God,
"Him that cometh unto me I will in
no wise
cast out.—Come unto me, ALL ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will refresh you."
"Alas! my dear Mother, I have been a more grievous sinner than others, because I have had a more pious education than most persons."
But, blessed, for ever blessed, be the astonishing Love of God the COMFORTER, this blessed little book poured the balm of perfect peace, of joy, into his lovely wounded spirit; and he wished others to be consoled by it.
One morning, after all fear of vengeance on account of the broken Law of God was quite done away, by HIS mercy,
"who is MIGHTY to save,"
and
"who trod the wine-press ALONE,"
Mrs. Berkeley, going into the room, as was her custom, enquired if he had passed a tolerable night. His reply was,
"I have had great pain, and have not closed my eyes one minute since I saw you; but I have been in heaven, blessed be the MERCY of GOD."
A few mornings afterwards the same anxious enquiry was answered in the very same words, with this addition,
"Surely, my dearest Mother, it is not an illusion of my GRAND ENEMY, to lull me into security."
So watchful was he against deceiving himself, especially in the concerns of his soul; to which his Mother earnestly replied,
"No, my dear child, NO. That God whom you have laboured so zealously, so faithfully, to serve, although he has permitted you to
fall,
to shew you your own frailty, yet he will never suffer the Enemy of Souls to delude you. Besides, my dearest creature what
can
the Devil hope to gain by you, in your present helpless, languishing state, unless he could tempt you to blaspheme, or despair, as you lie stretched on a bed of languishing? And, blessed be the free grace of God, he has never yet been able to do either the one or the other. No, my dear Son, God has vouchsafed, in infinite mercy, to lift up the light of his reconciled countenance upon you, to answer the constant fervent prayers of your poor unworthy Mother, and your own, on
this
side the grave."
At two, three, or four nights distance, Mr. Berkeley had two or three more such blessed nights; for which wonderfully gracious vouchsafement all glory be to FREE SOVEREIGN GRACE and REDEEMING LOVE.
The day before Mr. Berkeley's death, he discovered, by what Dr. Berkeley happened to drop, that Mrs. Berkeley had sat up the whole of the preceding night in the next room. His eyes flashed with indignation, and he instantly spoke to her concerning it. As Mrs. Berkeley never, in the polite intercourse of life, suffers herself to falsify
A lady one day requested Mrs. Berkeley to make a very fine
made-up
speech of excuse for her to some other lady; to which Mrs. Berkeley said,
"Would it not, Madam, be better to tell the truth, and say, that really a multiplicity of engagements have rendered it inconvenient for you to go so far?"
Mr. Monck Berkeley, happening to be present, remarked,
"How little that good lady knows MY Mother! why She will not tell a
civil
lye for my Father, or myself. Her idea is, that many
obliging, polite, kind, friendly
things may be said, without sacrificing TRUTH."
The worthy amiable Mrs. Waller, sister of the Archdeacon of Essex, the friend of Mrs. Berkeley from eight years old, always says,
"There is a real pleasure in hearing a polite thing from Mrs Berkeley, "for you may
swear
it comes from her heart."
, she was obliged at last to confess, that she had reposed on the sopha in the drawing-room. He earnestly exclaimed,
"Good God!
so my dear Mother is to kill herself for me:
that is at last to be the end of
her.
"
And, turning to his Father, he said,
"Ah! my dear Sir,
why
would you
suffer
it?"
Dr. Berkeley replied,
"My dear child, your Mother would have been wretched if I had interposed."
He then extorted a solemn promise from his Mother, that she would go to rest that night, amiably adding,
"and promise that you will undress, and go into bed, or I will not attempt to close my eyes all night."
Mrs. Berkeley retired, with a strict injunction to Dr. Berkeley's and Mr. Berkeley's own servant, both of whom attended him with wonderful assiduity, alternately lying in a tent-bed in Mr. Berkeley's room, and sitting up with him, that she would never forgive them, if they perceived the least change in Mr. Berkeley, and did not instantly call her up.
On the morning of January 26, Mr. Berkeley's servant knocked at the chamber-door, saying,
"that he came with his Master's duty, and desired Dr. Berkeley would go down, and pray with him."
Dr. Berkeley instantly arose, and went down. Just as Mrs. Berkeley had put on some of her cloaths, Dr. Berkeley, returned, announcing
"the heavy tidings,"
that they had lost their
earthly
treasure. Mrs. Berkeley, although having ever earnestly wished and prayed to witness the last moments of all those beloved relations she is doomed to survive, submitted, in she humbly trusts, profound silence to the will of the ALL-WISE Disposer of ALL events; acting, as well as daily praying,
"Thy will be done
in
me,
on
me, and
by
me."
Mr. Berkeley, in a letter to his Mother, during his illness, says,
"I trust I have learned my dearest Mother's prayer, 'Thy will,' &c.
Mrs. Berkeley sunk again into her bed. Just as the clock struck nine, she exclaimed to Dr. Berkeley,
"If ever I heard Berkeley cough in my life, he has coughed this minute."
"Alas! my dear, no: you will never hear him any more on earth."
Mrs. Berkeley's maid entered at that instant, saying,
"that Mr. Berkeley was come to life again, and wished to see Mrs. Berkeley."
It may be easily supposed that she was not long in getting down stairs, where she saw her dear Son looking like an angel, his fine eyes as lively as when in perfect health; and for about a fortnight before his death, his nose became so exactly like the beautiful one of his two grandfathers, Bishop Berkeley and Mr. Frinsham, both having the same fine-shaped nose, that he looked remarkably beautiful. The same change after death took place, in the same feature of Dr. Berkeley's wonderfully beautiful face. Such changes are said, by the learned men of the faculty, often to happen a few hours before the separation of the spirit from the earthly mould.
Dr. and Mr. Monck Berkeley both wanted what Mrs. Berkeley always termed the genuine Berkeley nose, and which her own father, without being a Berkeley, had. The present Countess Dowager of Granard has it. When the beautiful lady Georgiana Berkeley, she was a fac simile of a wonderfully fine ivory medallion taken of Bishop Berkeley, at Rome, when a young man. Dr. Berkeley used to say, to Mr. Berkeley,
"Aye, your nose is a
judgement
upon your Mother, for despising mine, because it is not like my father's."
Mr. Monck Berkeley had, from pictures in Berkeley Castle, and from monuments, drawings of all his noble ancestors, and used to show his Mother some few with a short nose; to which she used to reply,
"Aye, some ugly mother has introduced it."
When Doctor Berkeley, in the case of the late brave Admiral B
, as plain as he was valiant, his lady one of the most beautiful women in Europe,—the sons all resembling the mother, the very clever worthy daughters the good Admiral:—observed,
"What a pity it is that those poor girls have all got such an horrid
dash
of their father in their faces!"
The young ladies are all well married, and make as excellent wives as their beautiful mother. The worthy veteran used to say,
"I never thought my wife handsome, until Dr. Berkeley talked so much of her beauty.
I
know she was a
very
good wife."
Mr. Berkeley, who always greatly delighted in the Psalms, desired those of the day, both morning and evening, might be redde to him; in which he joined. The evening Psalms of the 26th day of the month conclude the exixth Psalm. Mr. Berkeley felt the whole well suited to his state, particularly the
last
verse. His Father prayed with him, the family attending, and pronounced, at the request of his Mother, that delightful absolution of the excellent Church of England, in her office for the Visitation of the Sick. He appeared so much revived, that his friends all quitted the room a little before noon, except his Mother, the medical gentlemen who attended having given it as their opinion that he would remain until about ten at night. In about half an hour, his Mother, perceiving that speaking seemed rather painful to him, and that he breathed rather quicker, said,
"We will pray:"
and, taking out of her pocket Bishop Hall's excellent little book of Devotions for
all
occasions, and
all
relations in life, from which she petitioned at the Throne of Grace for her Son, as soon as his soul, the breath of
, entered his body; she now, when she conceived it was returning to God, prostrated herself by the bed-side, and his servant at the foot of the bed, when (oh! the wonderful goodness of Christ,) she was enabled to offer that fine prayer for one just departing out of this world, with a distinct voice, and without one falling tear, which she well knew would have thrown her Son into extreme agony
Mr. Berkeley, from a child of three years old, could never support the sight of his Mother in tears. Had she chosen to condescend to practise art, and have wept, she might have managed her Son as she pleased, from three to almost thirty years old. After his arrival at Cheltenham, observing the tears standing in her eyes, he exclaimed to his Father,
"Oh! my dear Sir, this is too much for me to support. I have all my life, since I knew how to pray, besought God to inflict any suffering upon me, but that of seeing my dear Mother in tears."
Dr. Berkeley replied,
"My dear, can you suppose that your Mother, much command as she has over herself, must not sometimes be overcome?"
Mrs. Berkeley wiped her eyes, and chearfully said,
"My dear, shall I get a mask?"
—
"
Any thing, best
of Mothers, to prevent
my
seeing your tears. I never could bear it in my health and strength."
Mr. Berkeley, when a youth, once said,
"
My
Mother never laughs."
—To which his Father replied,
"Well if your Mother never laughs herself, she makes us laugh very often, and that is more to our purpose than if she did. We have this comfort, that she never weeps without REAL cause."
. Mr. Berkeley joined in that fine prayer, the Lord's Prayer, and
"The Lord lift up the light of his reconciled countenance,"
&c. Mrs. Berkeley then seated herself by her Son's pillow; he fixed his still fine eyes most tenderly upon her for about two minutes, then closed them, she conceiving that he was resolved his poor unworthy Mother should be the last earthly object they should behold. He then, without calling for the assistance of his servant, turned himself quite round to the other side of his bed, laid his arms down by his side, and made himself quite ready for his coffin; then uttered three distinct aspirations, as was conceived, to that co-equal Triune God, in whom he had ever so firmly believed from the age of fifteen. After a little time, one single deep breath to
as was supposed, his lovely spirit winged its happy flight to the realms of bliss. There may all who loved him, in God's appointed time, join him in casting their crowns before the Throne, and singing, "Worthy is the Lamb," &c. Thus ended the short—long—life of George Monck Berkeley, Esquire; leaving his parents to—what shall I say?—deplore their irreparable loss. They could hardly be so selfish; and as Lord
, a near relation of his Father, and Sir
, an old intimate friend, both with one consent, although in very distant parts, said, in their letters to Mrs. Berkeley,
"It is hardly possible to condole: one must rather exult with you on so happy, so delightful an exit."
And his Mother has often asserted, that if a wish would restore to her the
sweet
society of her beloved Son and Husband, she would not be selfish enough—wicked enough—to form that wish.
Mr. Berkeley prayed fervently to God for three things; and He that heareth the prayers of the contrite, heard and answered him:
First, That the agonies of his stomach might cease one week before he quitted this mortal life.
"Oh! spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence, and be no more seen."
—The mercy of God graciously ordered, that they ceased just ten days before his death; and, instead of that craving for fruits and acids, he rather wished to avoid taking any thing, not even orange and lemon jelly; so as to occasion his Mother's one day saying,
"My dear Man, if you do not take a little nourishment, you will be a suicide;"
to which he hastily replied,
"Oh! God, for Jesus' sake, avert."
He then took the glass of jelly from her hand, and said,
"I will take any thing you wish."
Going into his room one morning, he, as usual, enquired kindly of Mrs. Berkeley concerning her health, to which she replied,
"As well, my dear, as I can expect to be, with this horrid weather."
Frost has ever been exceedingly inimical to Mrs. Berkeley's health. He, with the mildest, sweetest voice, said,
"My dear Mother, is it
quite
right in us to find fault with any weather, or any thing that God pleases to send us?"
A few years ago, an Irish gentleman of fortune, of Cork, published a long letter in the St. James's Chronicle, on the same idea. It may, perhaps, be wrong; but one has, from childhood, been accustomed to say, unreproved,
"What horrid, or what vile weather this is!"
Secondly, That he might not die in the night, or in his sleep.—He expired exactly at noon, the sun shining more remarkably bright and clear than is at all usual at that season of the year.
Thirdly, That he might retain his senses perfectly to the very last breath he drew. How graciously that petition was answered has been above related.
Monsieur Le Moyne, in a beautiful little work, which, I believe, is not translated into English, says,
"
La mer nous représent la bonté du bon Dieu au pénitents.—La mer toujours sort pour rencontre les rivieres,
"
&c.
Mr. Berkeley was too well known in the metropolises of these three kingdoms to make a particular description of his person necessary. Suffice it therefore to say, that the beauty of his face by no means equalled that of his exquisitely beautiful Father, and his still handsomer Grandfather, Bishop Berkeley. He more resembled, in face and stature, his Mother's Father, the thoroughly excellent Reverend Henry Frinsham, A.M. esteemed when at Oxford, and till debilitated by illness, the strongest,
"best-built"
man in England. Mr. Frinsham and his grandson were both six feet high without their shoes: each took care not be indebted to them for additional height; both their strength was muscular, both having remarkably small bones. Mr. Berkeley was much handsomer than Mr. Frinsham, excepting his nose
Mr. Frinsham going once to dine with a friend at a gentleman's house, one servant was observed not to move when any thing was called for. On being asked sharply,
"why he did not exchange plates,"
&c. he exclaimed,
"I cannot do any thing for looking at that gentleman's (Mr. Frinsham's) beautiful nose."
Mr. Berkeley strongly resembled both his grandfathers, and bore none, or very slight, resemblance to either of his parents. Mr. Berkeley could not look into a glass without perceiving that he did not resemble his Father. His agreeable wit used to divert his friends, by saying,
"Some poor simple person, now and then, meaning to flatter
my
Mother, says, 'Dear Madam, how much Mr. Berkeley resembles the Doctor;' I, who know
le desous des cartes,
see my Mother redden, and answer, 'Oh! dear Sir, or Madam,
not
the
least in the world
'—Sometimes a simpler soul says, Madam, I think Mr. Berkeley is very like you.—The first was bad enough, but now I can fancy I see my Mother getting her knuckles ready to knock them down."
—Mrs. Berkeley used often to laugh, and say,
"Berkeley, how is it that, with very fine eyes, &c. an exquisitely fine complexion, the finest teeth ever set in a head, and very fine hair, and a well-shaped face,
you are not
handsome."
A most highly accomplished, sensible, intimate friend of Mr. Berkeley's Mother, the lady of D
M
, Esquire, used often to say to Mrs. Berkeley,
"If you tell him before me that he is not handsome,
I will knock you down.
—All the ladies and men say he is handsome.—Don't mind, Berkeley, what your Mother says, because you don't happen to be just like your Father."
, the great beauty of his face; his eyes much larger, which were decorated with his Father's beautiful dark eye-brows and eye-lashes
Mr. Monck Berkeley's eyelashes were so remarkably long, as often, when he was a lad, to entangle and distress him when reading; a decoration of face to which he was indebted, as well as his Brother, to their Mother, who constantly cut them with a fine pair of scissors twice every moon: It is an infallible method of rendering them long and thick. With Mr. Berkeley it was attended with some little difficulty, from the extreme volatility of his motions. Dr. Berkeley and all her intimate friends thought her the most daring of spirits to venture to do it before Mr. Berkeley could listen to reason. It was then done when he was in a sound sleep. Afterwards with the following exhortation:—
"Now, child, stand as still as a statue; for, if you move your finger, or your eye, the least in the world, in go the scissors, and out goes your eye."
"Well; but then I shall have
one
left."
—
"No, you will not; for, when one is gone, the other generally goes soon after it; and you will never get eyes again until your body rises out of the grave at the day of judgement, and you will be always, all your life, in the dark."
—Much as Mr. Berkeley loved in childhood to be in motion, this
eloquent
oration had as much weight as if it had been uttered by a Burke.
.
Dr. Berkeley's family once attending some friends of theirs of too high rank to be left entirely to the verger of the week to view the curiosities of the magnificent cathedral of Canterbury; on reaching the tomb of the Black Prince, the sword was taken out as usual, and delivered to the company to admire. When going to be again deposited within the iron railing, Mr. Berkeley took it into his hands, and drew it with as much ease as he would have drawn his own sword. Mrs. Preston, the verger's wife, exclaimed,
"Good Lord! Sir, what have you done?"
Mr. Berkeley's Mother instantly said,
"I hope no harm. My dear Berkeley, why would you draw it without asking if it was permitted to be drawn?"
—
"Harm, Madam,"
replied the worthy woman;
"Mr. Berkeley has done no harm, if he has not hurt himself;"
adding,
"Well, Sir; I suppose I have seen more than an hundred gentlemen attempt to draw that sword, but no one ever accomplished it with one hand but yourself."
Mrs. Berkeley's alarm then subsided, and she replied,
"He has his Mother's and Grand-father's wonderful strength of wrist."
So entirely muscular was his strength, that, a short time before his death, that wrist that could lift a man nearly as tall as himself by the collar of the coat, did not measure half an inch more than his Mother's, who is a very little woman.
Mr. Monck Berkeley's person altogether made what persons usually term a very fine looking young man. He was so exactly proportioned, that he never appeared a tall man, except when standing in a groupe. He had a most graceful figure, and was esteemed the finest dancer of his stature in England. At the famous masquerade given by the late Lord Barrymore at Wargrove, where Mr. Berkeley appeared as an Highland Chief, most completely elegantly equipped; purse, claymore, dirk, &c. every thing but the kelt, insted of which he wore the trowse; two masks accosted him with,
"Laird, are you for a Highland reel?"
Mr. Berkeley instantly gave his claymore to a gentleman to hold, stepped forward, and they began a
threesome reel,
in which the superiority of Mr. Berkeley's dancing was so marked, as to cause a very great personage, who honoured that most elegant masquerade with his presence, to stand the whole time, and to say, at the expiration of that beautiful dance, when well danced by
Scots,
"that Mr. Berkeley was the finest figure, and the finest dancer he had ever seen;"
and praise from those who excel in any art, is
praise.
Mr. Berkeley, although not regularly handsome, had perhaps one of the most pleasing countenances any where to be seen—a look of the deepest thought, enlightened by the sweetest, mildest benevolence, and, when called forth, brightened by the liveliest chastized gaiety; which has caused some of the first characters for learning and sense to assert, that Mr. Monck Berkeley was the most agreeable companion they had ever known. That look of deep thought, and exquisite benevolence, seldom united in the same soul, seldomer blended in the same countenance, are so astonishingly preserved in the beautiful portrait painted by his beloved friend, Mr. Peters, and by that throughly amiable gentleman presented to Mrs. Berkeley after her Son's death, as to delight all who have a soul capable of enjoying the beauties of an exquisite painting. The print prefixed to the Poems is taken from that exquisite painting; but Engraving cannot give the soul like Painting. Mrs. Berkeley esteems herself rich in a most beautiful miniature of her unspeakably dear Son, so small as constantly to be carried in the pocket, taken from Mr. Peters's portrait, by the wonderful, the magic pencil of her excellent accomplished friend, Miss Johnson, of the Paddock-House near Canterbury. Whoever has an eye for fine painting, and has been treated with a fight of that Lady's performances, must be sensible of the happiness of possessing one of a dear departed friend. It can hardly be said departed. He is present, and does every thing but articulate. Such obligations are not to be repaid. The mines of Brazil, if possessed, are not adequate. Mrs. Berkeley was some years ago indebted to the same exquisite pencil for a bracelet of her youngest Son, done entirely from memory; for two indifferent pictures of that beautiful child rather confused than assisted.
At the King's School at Canterbury a common amusement of the lower school was playing at
judge and jury.
Counsel were regularly retained to plead on each side. By accident Dr. Berkeley discovered the value that was set on his Son's oratorical powers in that mimic court, on first hearing of it from the amiable beloved friend of his Son, the late Mr. Thurlow, son of Lord Thurlow, whose play hours were constantly spent under the hospitable roof of Dr. Berkeley, who enquiring how the counsel were feed, he replied,
"Oh! we have all the same fee, a halfpenny apiece, excepting Berkeley, and he has always a penny."
"A penny! (replied Dr. Berkeley,) why should he have a penny? I am sure, he is not covetous."
—
"No, no; but they
will
give it him, because
they
are sure to
win
their cause who have Berkeley on their side."
Perhaps it may gratify some young gentlemen, his schoolfelows, in distant parts of the world, and bring the happy innocent days of very early youth to their remembrance, if they should glance their eye over this, to see their names. At the head of this list stands dear angelic-hearted Mr. Thurlow; the gentle, elegant Captain Colombine, of the Navy; the lively, sprightly Samuel Chambers, of Wood-stock-House, Kent; the Reverend Stephen Tucker; Mr. Charles Hasted; Osborne Tylden, Esquire, of
Court in Kent; Mr. Gregory
Now in the Wiltshire Militia.
, son of the Reverend Mr. Gregory of Canterbury; the Reverend Cooper Willyams of Itning; Mr. Mark Thomas, son of the famous Alderman Thomas; the throughly respectable worthy Reverend Sir Henry-Pix Heyman, Baronet, shame to tell, with only a living, or rather a
starving,
of about sixty pounds
per annum,
bestowed on him by the bounty of his present Grace of Canterbury, for until lately that very respectable antient young Baronet had only a curacy—happily for him he inherits some fortune from his mother;—the vast family estate, except what was left to charity, all went in the reigns of the Stuarts. Sir Henry Heyman may read emphatically,
"put not your trust in princes."
The greatgrandfather of his friend, Mr. Monck Berkeley, is said to have left his curse on his latest descendant who should ever expend a shilling in the service of any King. Mr. Berkeley's father hazarded it. It is almost incredible what it cost him to advertize his famous sermon, preached on the 31st of January, to endeavour to prevent a reform in parliament,—twenty guineas for advertizing it in one particular Newspaper, besides frequently in some others, and in all country papers!—presenting a copy to every member of both Houses, whom, to use his own expression,
"he thought had
sense
enough to understand it."
It went through five editions within four weeks, as the Doctor mentioned to a friend a little time before his lamented death. A sixth edition was very lately printed, consisting of one thousand copies, which were all dispersed
gratis
amongst traders, &c.
"to try to teach poor fools to know
when
they are well."
It had been always said that Dr. Berkeley's grandfather
The Right Honourable John Forster, of Forrest near Dublin. During the reign of Queen Anne, his exertions for the House of Hanover were so well known, that the Speaker of the
Irish
House of Commons was every day, for some years, the first toast at the palace of Herenhausen; and so grateful was King George the First, for his essential services, that, on arriving in London, he said,
"The first man I will prefer is the Speaker of the Irish House of Commons."
This grateful Prince offered any, and every thing, together with a Peerage. Little was accepted, as his fortune was very large, and the Peerage gratefully declined. His Majesty said,
"I will promote all your brothers, Sir."
The Speaker had an only brother, younger than himself, a senior Fellow of Dublin College, with a
maternal
estate of fifteen hundred pounds
per annum,
who begged to decline the burden of a bishopric, being a very sickly man; but his Majesty insisted on
inflicting
it on him; for which the poor of Raphoe ought to bless his memory; for they, even to this day, eat bread, meat, and potatoes, at a very reduced price; Bishop Forster, at his death, bequeathing a very large sum annually out of his estates for ever. His conduct through life, and at death, was such as to make his witty successor, the only wit of his family for generations, say,
"It is not polite to name my predecessor in
my
presence, we are
such
a contrast."
set the present Family on the Throne, and that his Father
In the rebellion in 1745, Bishop Berkeley's letter to the Roman Catholics of the Diocese of Cloyne, for which he received the thanks of all the Roman Catholic clergy in Ireland in the public papers, was at that time universally supposed to have prevented the people of that persuasion from rising and joining the Chevalier de St. George, and, by their vast superiority in point of numbers, placing him on the throne of Ireland; and the Stuart family had then a great many concealed friends in England, who lay perdue till they saw which side was likely to prove victorious. A very worthy gentleman, one of the younger brothers of Bishop Berkeley, a most excellent officer, used often to say,
"I will never incur my grandfather's curse. My brother may do what he pleases."
This gentleman, father to four very worthy ladies, all still living, was commander in chief in the year 1745 in the County Kingdom (as it is often called) of Fife. It will easily be supposed that it afforded no small pleasure to Dr. and Mr. Monck Berkeley, to have it frequently asked if they were at all related to that delightfully humane kind officer, who commanded in Fife in the rebellion. Numerous instances of his humanity were related to them. Dr. Berkeley said,
"he had often heard that brave veteran relate, with tears in his eyes, one adventure."
Going to the castle of the father of the present worthy Earl of
, no men appeared; but the Countess came out with an infant at her breast, fell down on her knees at his feet, and conjured him for Christ's sake not to deprive her of two small cows, all that was left to keep her seven children and three female servants from perishing by famine. He conjured her to rise, and told her ladyship,
"That, so far from driving her cows, he would station a few of his soldiers, not in, but near her castle, to protect her from all injury."
The present Earl's gratitude was shewn by the most marked attention to Dr. Berkeley and his family during their
séjour
in Fife.
fixed them there; and that generous, disinterested, noble-minded man used to say,
"By the blessing of God, I will try to keep them there."
Dr. Berkeley, as well as his father and grandfather, was a very great politician. The sermon was preached in Canterbury Cathedral, on
Monday,
January 31, and by the orders and contrivance of the preacher, and active acuteness of the well-known Alderman Simmons of Canterbury, sold in Todd's shop at York, on the next Thursday, in order to defeat Wyville's meeting at that place, which, to the great delight of Dr. Berkeley, it accomplished.
Dr. Berkeley never asked, during his life, but two favours of ministry—equal to the exchanging two half-crowns for five shillings, or two six-pences for a shilling: both, however, were
too great
to be granted to the grandson of the Speaker of the Irish House of Commons—to the son of Bishop Berkeley. When his son left Canterbury School, he wished to exchange his stall at Canterbury for either Windsor or Westminster, to superintend the education of his Son at one of those schools. He preferred Windsor. Some years after, on his Son's leaving Eton, he again requested an exchange for a stall at Christ Church, but met with similar success.
The exquisite amiability of Mr. Berkeley's
nature, not his temper,
that being naturally wilful, in some sort rugged, was
re-formed
by EDUCATION,
re-generated
by GRACE. His nature, as has been shewn, was throughly NOBLE, uncommonly generous. He had by both his Parents, from infancy, been bred up, with an horror of being what is called a TUFT HUNTER at Oxford, or a sneaking LORD COURTER at Eton. His
real
nobility of blood little needed such cautions.
Soon after his going to the King's School at Canterbury, there came to board, at Dr. Beauvoir's, Mr. Thurlow, only son of the late Lord Chancellor Thurlow, by Miss Lynch, daughter of the charitable, hospitable Dean Lynch
Dean Lynch preserved the poor of Canterbury from starving, as they have since done, by ordering five hundred pounds worth of silk damask to be wove, and entirely new furnished the Deanery. It raised that excellent trade, which the muslin Misses have since totally annihilated. Those who have witnessed the distress of the poor silk weavers, their wives, and children, are not to be pitied when burnt to death by flimsey muslin gowns and draggled linen petticoats.
, and sister to the late accomplished Sir William, and to the happiness of the poor and distressed, or
oppressed,
the
present
Reverend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury. Each of these gentlemen inherited a very large share of both their parents' extraordinarily charitable disposition, as did the late lovely Mrs. Hey and Mrs. Tatton, their sisters. Mr. Thurlow then about eight years old, just half a year younger than Mr. Berkeley, was sent from under the protection of his sensible, wonderfully kind
adopting
father, the Reverend Mr. Hey of Wickham, whose lady, above-named, was his Mother's eldest sister. The Writer cannot proceed without heaving a sigh, and dropping a tear of friendship over the urn of that most sensible, interesting of youths, the only son of dear Thurlow's
earthly guardian angel,
Mr. Hey. She still feels pleasure in recollecting how often he used to say,
"Is it not very odd, that, although I have uncles, aunts, and many kind relations, who are very good to me; yet I always feel myself more at home at Dr. Berkeley's?"
He was about fifteen; a youth of a very singular turn of mind, endowed with all his father's great understanding, and all the real, mild, not affected, gentleness of his lovely mother. A strong tincture of melancholy was visible to even a common observer. As a child at home, it was said he never loved to play; at school he never played at cricket, &c. longer than ten minutes, then retired to read. Mrs. Berkeley's wish to delight the mother of an only child occasioned her telling her servants,
"that whenever Mrs. Hey's carriage came to Dr. Berkeley's, some servant man, or woman, must go immediately to Dr. Beauvoir's, where he boarded, to fetch Master Hey."
Both mother and son felt more than this little
motherly
attention merited. Mrs. Berkeley told Master Hey, when he felt himself lowspirited, and had no more agreeable place to take his tea, he would find it in her dressing-room at six, where he would, sometimes, enjoy the very improving conversation of that accomplished, that wise director of young men, Dr. Berkeley; if not, he might dissipate his gloom a little, by hearing her
raileries
on his gravity, &c. at fifteen, Mrs. Berkeley, having been in the same predicament herself, at twelve, with a youth of thirteen. Dear Johnny, as he was always called by Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley, had contrived very early in life, before he was thirteen, to form an attachment, that did not contribute to dissipate the natural gloom of his mind, although it often exhilarated him.
The youngest daughter of the celebrated Mr. Airson, although very far from handsome, was blessed with so very fine an understanding, that all the uncommonly sensible youths, and even lads, were her devoted admirers, as others were of the great beauty of Dr. Beauvoir's eldest daughter, now married to William Hammond, Esquire, of the Friers, Canterbury. Miss Airson died at the age of nineteen. Mrs. Berkeley used to say of her,
"that she had understanding enough to set up a large country town."
Her gratitude was great indeed, (that VERY scarce virtue, growing only in an
humble
heart, and cherished by a strong head;) for what
she
deemed the condescending attentions of Mrs. Berkeley to her, her father being a
Minor
where Mrs. Berkeley's husband was a
Major.
Although very kindly treated at Canterbury to what they are in most other Cathedrals and Choirs, Norwich excepted; the Minorcanons and Schoolmasters, their wives and daughters, are in a very different line of company. In general, their original fortunes, and always their church incomes, are undoubtedly so much inferior, as not to make them
wish
to mix. Mrs. Berkeley, on being once reproached by a Prebendary's lady, for introducing Miss Airsons at her routs, and being intimate with their elegant, sweet mother, made this laconic reply:
"Why, my dear Madam, Mrs. Airson's father had almost as many thousands a year as
my
father had hundreds; and if Mrs. Airson chose to marry the first singer in the world, a clergyman and a
gentleman,
rather than a foolish ignoramus in a red coat, does that make her conversation the less pleasing to me? Should Mrs. Airson's elegant accomplished
Burton, Esquire, of Shropshire.
nephew, with his noble estate, offer to ANY Prebendary's daughter, I dare say, she would not refuse him.
I
have
no
daughter, thank God, so am not courting Mrs. Airson for her nephew."
Mr. Airson and his family were so highly, so universally respected, that their small house was the resort of all persons of fashion and good sense. The late amiable Bishop of Norwich, when Dean of Canterbury, would often, when walking out, say,
"Come, my dear Madam, suppose we go to Johnny's coffee-house."
Mr. Airson, a great invalid, never dined, or even drank tea from home. He never confined his lady or daughters; they well knew
he
would not pass his afternoons alone. His piety almost equalled his musical powers; which he never would use, (except in a private room to his friends,) but in the house of that God who bestowed them
It used sometimes to be said that Mr. Airson was indolent, and did not sing a fine anthem. When asked if he
thought
himself ill, he used to say,
"Ask Mrs. Berkley, if I ever in my life, when able to go to church, refused singing any anthem when she desired it of me."
Mrs. Berkeley herself had an idea of not riding a free horse to death.
. Handel offered him eight hundred pounds
per annum,
if he would only sing in the Oratorios in Lent, but he refused it. It is somewhat remarkable that the Sunday after his very sudden death, the late Bishop of Norwich, then Dean of Canterbury, lamented his loss, and celebrated his virtues, in similar words to those used by the Writer of this Preface in the Canterbury Paper the preceding day, when lamenting the loss of that cheerful, gay, heavenly-minded friend, whom she had so far,
en gaieté de coeur,
prevailed on, to accompany her as far as his hall, in her way to a rout at his next door neighbour's, saying,
"She should attract
all
eyes, and receive the thanks of
all
the company."
His gentle, amiable, eldest daughter, then his
all,
since married to Mr. Allen of Hereford, her mother and sister being gone, objected to his having on his
old
coat, and begging him to put on his
smart
new one. To this Mrs. Berkeley strongly objected, saying,
"It might, tender as he was, occasion his taking cold."
Had he gone, she would ever have reproached herself, as the cause of his universally lamented death.
It is now more than high time to return from this too long digression; but the reciting the virtues of beloved, respected friends, NOW beyond the reach of any other attentions, is apt, in a heart susceptible of
sincere
regard for real worth, to give the pen a disorder, which the French apply to the tongue of one who talks too much,
il a une fluxe de langue.
The Writer often feels
la fluxe de plume.
She is sometimes tempted to form the wish of an old friend of hers, whose husband made her, she being a ready penwoman, write much for him,
"
Well; I do wish I had never been taught to write at all.
"
Perhaps the readers of this may form it for her; but it is not necessary to read the whole of every book; and, to use the language of Holy Writ, they may
"
separate the precious from the vile.
"
They may read the fine Poetry of the Author, and pass over the indifferent Prose of the Editor.
Whenever Mr. Monck Berkeley observed any boy, who boarded at either of the Masters, never invited out to dinner on holidays, he would say to his Mother,
"Pray, my dear Madam, next holiday invite poor such an one, and such an one. Poor things, they have no relations or acquaintance here to invite them; and it is very dull for them. Pray be so good as to let them come here."
This whether they were his intimates or not. Indeed his intimates seldom did come, having, most of them, parents in the church or city, excepting sometimes the Reverend Cooper Willyams, of Ixning, son of the very worthy Captain and Mrs. Willyams, and Captain Gregory, of the Wiltshire Militia, son of the very learned Reverend Francis Gregory of Canterbury.
Mr. Thurlow happened to come to school in the beginning of summer, when all his uncles and aunts, usually resident in Canterbury during the winter, had retired to their country residences. Mr. Berkeley soon presented his humble petition to his Mother, that he might bring Thurlow home sometimes. The request was granted; and the good disposition, the propriety, the docility, the worthiness of Mr. Thurlow, soon endeared him so much to Mrs. Berkeley, that she told her Son
"he might bring Thurlow, but no other boy, without asking her permission, whenever he pleased."
The dear child generally drank tea every evening in
winter
at Dr. Berkeley's, for in
summer
they are all
"over the hills and far away."
When he was a little more than nine years old, he, like his friend Mr. Berkeley, was sent to France, for several months, to acquire the French language in perfection. At his return he gave a proof of the exquisite sensibility of his heart
A short character and sincere lamentation of this early (not untimely—for GOD's time is ever the best time) death of this beloved young gentleman was inserted by his friend Mrs. Berkeley. in Bristow's Canterbury Journal. It fell short in describing his amiability: but the Editor cannot let a beloved friend, whether young or old, quit this mortal scene, without paying that little tribute to their memory—when she sees it neglected by abler pens.
. On his arrival in England, he went from Dover, for a short time, to the house of his kind patron Mr. Hey, who soon brought him to Canterbury for a day. The instant he got out of the carriage he flew to the Oaks, knocked at the door, and begged he might be shown up to Mrs. Berkeley. Being told she was in bed with a bad headach, he expressed much concern, and enquired what time she would rise; the servant replied,
"most likely to dinner;"
as she never continued in bed, when not exceedingly ill. At a little before the dinner hour he came; Mrs. Berkeley not risen. About five in the afternoon he called again, and, hearing Mrs. Berkeley was not up, begged to see her own maid, whom he thus addressed:
"Pray, be so good as to go up to Mrs. Berkeley, and give my tenderest love to her; tell her, I long so much to see her, that I beg she will permit me to go up, and stand a few minutes at her bed side, as I shall not be in Canterbury again these four days."
The servant came up; Mrs. Berkeley said,
"She was very sorry, but hoped she should be able to see him the next time he came."
The servant replied,
"Dear Madam, he is but a child, and he longs so to see you, it will half break his heart if he does not."
—
"Well, poor dear child, let him come up then."
The moment he reached the bed side he caught Mrs. Berkeley's hand, kissed it, and bursting into tears, kneeled down, and, after sobbing some time, said,
"I hope, my dear Madam, that you are not dangerously ill."
Mrs. Berkeley, with her usual good spirits in illness, replied,
"No, my dear Charles I hope in God I am not. I have the old proverb on my side,
that nought is never in danger.
"
What would not some persons give for a son with
such an heart,
and a most excellent head? During his last lingering illness, at the house of his excellent uncle, the amiable, generous, kindhearted Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury, where every thing that kindness could suggest, and cleverness could execute, was prepared for him, he would perpetually say,
"Go to next door, with my best regards to Mrs. Berkeley, and beg her to send me something, whatever she pleases, out of her store-room; I know I can eat that."
Mr. Berkeley's earnest request to his Mother, who was to reach Canterbury after their arrival from Scotland many weeks before
he
could, being obliged to keep term at the Temple, was,
"Pray learn, and write me word immediately, whether Thurlow is returned to England; and, if he is, where I may find him."
Mrs. Berkeley, who used laughingly to say, she was as obedient a Mother, after Mr. Berkeley grew up, as she had
made
him a Son in his childhood and youth, obeyed, and soon executed her commission, and Mr. Berkeley and Mr. Thurlow came down in the same chaise, one to the Oaks, the other to Wickham, on Christmas eve, the most dreadful, cold, snowing day one can remember. Both were almost literally frozen when they arrived at Dr. Berkeley's; and it was an alarming time before they seemed to feel any effect from what was given them.
Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley reproached Mr. Berkeley for not stopping all night at the PALACE of Mr. Simpson, the Rose at Sittingbourne, where every comfort, convenience, and elegance, is to be found from the excellent Master, Mistress, and the wonderfully worthy Chamber-maid, Mrs. Mary Humphreys
As a proof of her worthiness, one night when Dr. Berkeley's family slept there, Mrs. Berkeley's maid said,
"Madam, the maid you admire so much for her care and honesty has just now gone up into a gentleman's room, and made him rise, saying, that the under-chamber-maid had mistaken her, and put him into a wrong bed, not sufficiently aired, but that the other was quite ready; begged his pardon for her deputy's carelessness, that she was attending to
your
beds, and thought the other could not have mistaken; but that she could never have forgiven herself had she ever put any one into an half-aired bed."
Oh! that all inn-servants were as careful! The Writer of this Note has twice, once in France, and once in England, suffered from want of such care. This worthy woman's education was singular. She is by birth a native of Wales. Being her father's tenth child, the worthy minister of the parish, having no child of his own, said, he would take her as a
tithe-child.
Under the roof of this humane worthy minister of Christ she grew up, and remained till his death. She certainly does not disgrace her education received under the roof, in the kitchen, for he was too wise to bring up a labourer's daughter as a gentlewoman—to starve, or become a street-walker.
. It, however, pleased the mercy of God that the two friends received not the least injury from this frightful journey. To adopt the language of the excellent Monsieur De Pontis in his delightfully entertaining,
although
pious, Mémoires (which that execrable monster, Voltaire, has tried to persuade fools and atheists is a fable, notwithstanding Madame De Sevigné mentions his death, &c. at the time), God waited for them elsewhere; for dear Thurlow was doomed to fall an early victim to ENGLISH INHOSPITALITY, as himself related to Dr. Berkeley, whom he had so frequently heard celebrated the lovely hospitality of Scotland:
"I owe, said he, my present illness to the want of it in England. I had been out hunting, was caught in a violent storm, was quite wet through, called at a gentleman's, where
I hoped
to have been taken in. I was offered wine and brandy, the butler called, but no offer of a bed for a few hours, or of going in to dry my cloaths; so, after having sat on my horse, the storm over, at the gate, in cold, wet cloaths, I proceeded to Cambridge, and went to my rooms; but the cold fixed on my lungs, and no skill has been able to remove it."
Alas! it not long after removed him, and robbed his friends and the world of one of the most amiable-hearted, grateful of human beings. Adieu, dear youth.
Requiescat in pace.
When Mr. Thurlow was about eleven years old, his uncle, the Bishop of Durham, then Dean of Rochester, when passing through Canterbury to the sea, and conceiving his old friend Dr. Berkeley's house to be the best, as he knew it was the
Mrs. Berkeley, who seldom leaves home for more than three hours at a time,
i.e.
from six to nine in the evening, nor wishes to see any friend, unless travelling near her, at any other time, used to occasion Mr. Monck Berkeley's often saying,
"if my Aunt, Father, and self, were all dead, my Mother would never miss us until the servant announced to her that the urn was carried into the drawing-room."
The
Trio
all agreed to this charge.
"On entering it, she would ask, 'Where are they all?' and begin lamenting the loss of us."
Mrs. Berkeley used often to be laughed at by Dr. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinsham, for declaring that she ate her dinner quite as well alone as in the best company. When Dr. Berkeley, at the age of twenty-four, took from Christ Church the little living of Asgarton, near the Vale of White Horse, he found the house a hovel; and, having been bred in a palace, he loved a good house. However, after laying out near four hundred pounds on the house, and building a fine South wall in the garden, finding it too small to lodge his
few
friends—the Reverend James Hamilton, grandson of Lord Abercorne, a constant delightful visitor, through the whole summer, at Dr. Berkeley's, at Bray, or Acton, until his removal by the late Lord Abercorne to a great living in Ireland, and some others, together with a multitude of
locusts
—finding the vicarage too small, he rented Ley Farm, the country house of Sir Nathaniel Nash. Until his removal to Bray, the Bishop of Durham, then Curate of Wantage, was a very constant frequent visitor there.
cheapest inn in Canterbury, drove to the Oaks. No sooner was his arrival notified to Mrs. Berkeley, than she ordered Mr. Wrightson to go and tell his Master a person wanted to speak to him. Mrs. Berkeley conjured him to permit her to send to Dr. Beauvoir's for dear Charles. Dr. Berkeley, with his usual good-will to man and child, complied. John (now Mr. Wrightson), as the best messenger, was dispatched, to beg that Miss Beauvoir would order Master Thurlow to be arrayed in his Sunday garb, and posted off to Dr. Berkeley's, notifying the cause. Mrs. Berkeley ordered Mr. Wrightson to call out his Master when the little man arrived. Accordingly, in a few minutes, Dr. Berkeley, looking like a beautiful guardianangel of those
"
little ones
"
mentioned by our blessed Lord, entered the drawing-room, leading in his little
protegé,
whom he presented to the Dean.
"Here, my old friend, is a very good little man, who is very nearly related to you."
The Dean looked about as
éveillé
as usual, stroked his head, and asked him how he liked school, and some other questions generally put to children. In the afternoon he told him to stand by him at the card-table; and when the time arrived for Charles to make his bow and return to Dr. Beauvoir's, the Dean, who had won about a guinea,
generously
presented poor dear Charles with
two and sixpence;
for which he made one of his graceful French bows, and retired. They never met again, until they met in the regions of departed spirits.
Some
persons have even doubted whether poor Thurlow could be found
worthy
of a place to behold the glory of the
"ANGEL of the Church of Durham."
The resemblance in face and person of Mr. Thurlow to the Bishop was remarkably striking to all the company, allowing only that the tempers and dispositions of his mind were entirely Lynch and Wake, which threw a look of benevolence into his features and countenance, which did
not appear
in the Bishop's.
About the year 1786 there died at Canterbury a very excellent young man, an old school-fellow of Mr. Berkeley's, Mr. George Hasted, son of the Author of the History of Kent. On Mr. Berkeley's arrival, in vacation-time, Mrs. Berkeley asked her Son
"if he was not afflicted at the death of his old intimate, George Hasted?"
He replied,
"I was very sorry for the death of so very worthy a young man; but, my dear Mother,
he
was
never
an intimate of mine. HE was much too studious and diligent for
us;
was in quite another set: he pitied us for our idleness and folly. George Hasted would never go to cricket, or to Bingley (where the King's scholars swim in summer) till he had done every tittle of his exercise. We all set off, and left it to chance to get our exercise done, or, if not done, get a sound flogging."
Had Mr. Berkeley, when a boy, been told that nobody could learn Latin or Greek, he would have studied night and day
Every night, just before the family went to supper, Mrs. Berkeley used to go into both her little boys rooms, to see whether they lay straight, and in a wholesome posture, which is of more consequence to children than people in general are aware of. One night, when Mr. Berkeley was about five years old, on entering the room, she found his fine eyes wide open. She asked him
"how he came to be awake, and how he
dared
to have his eyes open?"
—being always ordered to shut them when in bed, or in a dark room. He replied,
"I have not been asleep at all: I have been
racking
my brain to try to make a syllable without a vowel, because you have always told me it was impossible to do it—and if I could have done it, it would have made me very happy to have come and told you of it."
. Tell him, from five years old, of any thing that it was impossible to accomplish, and he was indefatigable in labouring at it: his brother just the reverse. Perhaps never were two children, born of the same Father and Mother, more different: Mr. Berkeley would add,
"Always excepting
my Mother
and
her only sister.
"
Mr. Berkeley, gay, lively, volatile, yet wonderfully solid; his brother, sedate, grave, yet wonderfully witty; both Poets from the time they could articulate at all; both enthusiastic admirers of music. Neither Mr. Berkeley nor his brother were ever suffered to go to Bingley to swim, without their Mother's leave. Mr. Berkeley used to come regularly, when the masters had given permission to the boys, with his request.
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"I am afraid you will be drowned.
Mr. B.—
"No, I shall not.
Mrs. B.—
"Do any of the upper school go?
Mr. B.—
"Yes.
Mrs. B.—
"Who? Does Mr. J. Tucker or Mr. Tilden go?
Mr. B.—
"Yes.
Mrs. B.—
"Well, then, go if you will; but I am afraid. You know Herbert Packe would have been drowned, if young Loftie had not saved him.—(Down he sat, and took up a book.)—Well, child, why do not you go?
Mr. B.—
"No, I shall not go.
Mrs. B.—
"Why not, now that I have given you leave?
Mr. B.—
"No, I shall not indeed.
Mrs. B.—
"Why, what can I do more? Would you have me conduct you thither?
Mr. B.—
"No; but I shall not take
such
a leave.
Mrs. B.—
"Why, what leave would you have?
Mr. B.—
"Why, say, in
your good humoured sweet
voice, Yes,
my dear Berkeley,
you may go to Bingley this afternoon, and I had
rather
you went than stayed at home; or else I shall not go on any account."
His brother coming with the same request, and obtaining the forced permission, would reply,
"Thank you, my dear Mamma,"
fly out of the room, scamper down stairs, and set off, lest the permission should be recalled, leaving the door wide open, and dart away under St. John's Arch. When passed
that,
he thought himself quite safe from being remanded. Yet, he was governed by a silk thread, whilst his dear brother required
"
a threefold cord.
"
Mr. Berkeley, when a lad too old for correction, would, when his Mother desired him not to go to such a place, or do such a thing, immediately reply,
"Well, then, my dear Madam,
command
me."
—
"Command you, my dear; I do not love commanding. I never wish to exert my authority: I
desire
that you will
not
do it."
—
"Yes, I must; all the desiring in the world
will not do.
"
—
"That is very strange."
—
"I cannot help it. Why won't you say, Berkeley,
I command
you not to do it?"
—The magic words, by his earnest desire, being uttered, he would say,
"Well, now I am happy; now I have not the least wish in the world to do it; would not do it for any sum of money."
When he was about thirteen years old, the news of the day was, a run-a-way match of a young man of rank. A gentleman visiting at Dr. Berkeley's, turned to Mr. Monck Berkeley, and said,
"Aye, in three or four years, young 'squire,
you
will be playing the same prank."
It is impossible for any one then present to forget the dignified solemnity of Mr. Berkeley's countenance, whilst he uttered the following reply:
"No, Sir,
I hope
not. GOD FORBID that I should ever do so
important
a thing as MARRY without the
full
consent of my Parents."
Mr. Berkeley was certainly a very extraordinary proof of the blessed effects of education. A witty friend of the Editor's used to say,
"If God will but send Mrs. Berkeley's children a tolerable pair of eyes, and all their limbs, she asks no more
This lady might have added, good understandings; for the Editor, when a young woman, probably after the death of a young gentleman who had been tenderly attached to her from his age of twelve, and hers of eleven, he at Eton, she at Mrs. Sheeles, until he, at near nineteen, died a Gentleman Commoner of Trinity College, Oxford, used frequently to tell her mother,
"She feared to marry, lest, if she should have children, they should have weak understandings, which would break her heart."
To which Mrs. Frinsham used to reply:
"Surely it is the oddest idea that ever entered into the mind of woman. I never thought of any such thing. Thank God, none of my family have ever been fools; nor, I hope, knaves; and why, if you have children, they should be such, I cannot conceive. I am sure
you
will
never
marry a fool."
God heard the Editor's prayers; for certainly her dear children were
not
FOOLS.
: she will trim them and twist them into handsome faces, and fine figures; but she is not up to
making eyes.
"
Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, used often to divert his Father and friends, by drawing his Mother's character—she present. He used to say,
"My Mother has
no
mercy on her own sex; but little for the other. Every fault, every defect, related of any young man, she instantly replies, 'Poor creature, that was his
mother's
fault.' In short, she lays every fault, of every kind, except not writing a good Greek epigram, or Latin oration, on a man's Mother: but she was an early studier of Lord Halifax's Advice to a Daughter."
He used to say,
"My Mother, I believe, keeps a folio sheet of paper, with all the virtues of her friends emblazoned on one side, and their faults on the other. Whilst they act worthily and honourably, you never suppose they have any fault or foible; let them but act unworthily to any one, and the paper is reversed, and you hear all their faults. My Mother always carries a
little
cat-o-nine-tails in her pocket; and if any fool blasphemes or ridicules Scripture, out it comes, and he is very speedily made the laugh of all the company. If my Mother was not my Mother, I would bribe her with five hundred pounds to become my friend."
To which Mrs. Berkeley used to reply,
"You varlet, you know it would be all in vain; for
your Mother
would not be bribed to flatter Royalty any more than your Worship, who, thank God, will not condescend to flatter any one, although you often, by your benevolence and great personal sincerity, are led to cultivate intimacies with
vaut-riens,
male and female, some of rank among your own relations."
Of Mr. Monck Berkeley's genius many of those who have redde what he has written may be competent judges. To attempt to do justice to the exquisite amiability, generosity, and nobleness of his heart, and the wonderful strength and soundness of his judgement, even in early youth, requires the knowledge of the Editor, and the pen of his favourite Dr. Johnson.
His attentions to the poor, from his childhood, were unremitting. The arguments of his Mother to dissuade him from wasting his alms on common beggars, those horrid robbers of the honest labouring poor, were all in vain. His answer always was,
"My dear Madam, I am fully convinced of the truth of your reasoning; and, I do believe, I never did relieve a common beggar in my life that was not a
vaut-rein;
yet, should I ever hear that any poor creature had perished, who had asked charity of me, and I had not relieved him, I know I never could forgive myself through life."
So well was his character known to these wretches, that they frequently asked in the village near which his Father resided,
"If the 'Squire was at home, for if he is not, it is not worth while to turn out of the way to the house, as the Doctor and the Lady never
give any thing to
POOR TRAVELLERS."
The fact is certain, that they never came but when Mr. Berkeley was in the country, which occasioned Mrs. Berkeley's telling her Son,
that they were his visitors.
Mr. Berkeley, as has been observed above, was remarkably generous, and had what is commonly called a
princely
spirit. His beautiful brother was very saving, and even covetous; he never parted with his money, but to the poor, to whom he was very liberal indeed. So careful was he of his money, that it used to be a diversion to his Father and Aunt to borrow sixpence of him, and then tell him that they were poor, and could not pay him: he would go to his Mother, and desire her to
talk
to them, and tell them,
"that it was not
honest
to borrow of people, and not pay them again, and that
absolutely
he could not afford to lose his money."
Mr. Monck Berkeley, when a child, once went and sold his buckles, to relieve a person in distress. When at Eton, being unable to relieve a very large poor family near Braywood Side, to whom his Father had been exceedingly bountiful, and the family being at Canterbury, he wrote to his Mother,
"I beg of you to send five or three guineas to these poor creatures. My cousin," (the very worthy Reverend J. Hayes,
then
second son of James Hayes, Esquire, Berkeley's amiable protector and director when he went to Eton,) "and myself have given them all the money that we have; but they are very poor still."
Not getting an answer as soon as he wished, he risqued a flogging, and contrived, in company with an equally daring friend, to scamper over to Cookham; there he sold his little poney, and sent them the money. A youth going from Canterbury School to Oxford, when Mr. Berkeley was about twelve years old, he presented him with his watch, chain, and seal; for which being sharply reproved by his Mother, he sweetly replied,
"Why, I am but a boy, and he is going to be a man; and it must be unpleasant to him not to have a watch, and I know he cannot afford to buy one, and I can contrive to shift without one."
Such was ever the nature of this lovely young man.
Mr. Berkeley was, from his early youth, destined for the Bar; where, had it pleased God to have spared his life, and blessed him with health, he would, no doubt, have reached the
acme
of his profession
Mr. Monck Berkeley, going one evening to visit his amiable, kind friend Mrs. Horne, then on a visit at her father's, the very worthy, sensible Philip Burton, Esquire; that gentleman desired the Bishop and Mrs. Horne to tell Dr. Berkeley, from him,
"that he never saw a young man quite so likely to shine eminently at the bar, as his son;"
and obligingly added,
"I have been near fifty years in Westminster Hall, and I have very rarely failed in my sentence of those who would succeed, and who fail."
It is well known that Mr. Burton was a man of very superior understanding, and a wonderfully agreeable pleasant companion.
; for all who heard him speak pronounced him
eminently
qualified to make a distinguished figure, unless his very strict ideas of honesty had prevented it. In early youth he had been earnestly requested by his Mother, when arguing, never, for the sake of argument, to improve in logic, to undertake the
wrong
side of the question, lest it might warp his mind. He had ever most religiously adhered to this advice; and, in more advanced years, always declared, if he lived to speak at the bar, which he early determined he would not do until he had completed his twentyeighth year
Mr. Berkeley had been often pressed by his learned friends to break this resolution; but his constant reply was,
"So determined am I to adhere to it, that I will not keep my last term at the Temple until the term before;"
adding,
"if
ever
a man ceases to be a coxcomb, or a fool, it is, surely, after having served
four
apprenticeships to folly and nonsense."
, he would tell every client that applied to him, that, if he found his cause to be an unjust one, he would desert it,
even
in Westminster Hall. Mr. Berkeley had also firmly resolved never to plead
against
the fatherless, the widow, or the clergy; and always to plead
gratis
for them, if their circumstances required it.
It has been observed, that although Mr. Berkeley was
highly
indebted to
what
we commonly call Nature, with strict propriety to the God of Nature, for a very uncommonly fine understanding, quick ready wit, and, what does not always accompany it, a very extraordinary strength and soundness of judgement, so as often to occasion persons to remark, that he had all the brilliancy of Bishop Berkeley's imagination, and all the sound, strong judgement of Mr. Cherry, of whom the great Charles Leslie, the celebrated controversial writer, used to say, he thought God had not bestowed better judgement on man since the days of Solomon. When Mr. Berkeley, with all his great vivacity in early youth, often acted with the supremest caution, Mrs. Berkeley used, to the great diversion of Dr. Berkeley, to say,
"It was a happy thing for her children, that she introduced a little LEAD into the family; for, although peacocks feathers were exquisitely beautiful, yet, unless tipped with a
little
weight, they naturally flew away to the Moon."
Mr. Berkeley owed much also to education, to principles very early instilled into him; to which he professed, long before, and during his last illness, he owed his greatest happiness in
life,
his
only
hope in the prospect of
death,
until he, through the free sovereign grace of God, and the rich mercy of Christ, arrived, by the instrumentality of a most excellent book, to assurance of faith, feeling the
full force
of that glorious promise of EMANUEL,
"
Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.
"
He was enabled to
trust,
to
go;
and HAPPILY found, as
all true penitents will,
a most gracious reception. May all true penitents be enabled to make the trial, and they will most certainly rejoice through the countless ages of a
blissful
ETERNITY. But, alas! our adored Redeemer himself says,
"YE WILL NOT COME UNTO ME, THAT YE MAY HAVE LIFE."
The Writer is well aware of the
ridicule, contempt, &c. &c.
that will be
liberally
bestowed on her, on account of
many
things in this preface; yet, ever bearing in mind the admonition of an eminently pious Mother, never to be ashamed of that God, who lived, who died, to redeem her; ever remembering his own
emphatic
admonition,
"Whosoever shall be ashamed of ME, and of My words, in this ADULTEROUS and sinful generation, of him (or
her
) shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he cometh in his own glory,"
&c. At the age of seventeen, going to spend a few weeks with a near relation, her Mother said,
"The first thing for which you will be laughed at, is going to church on Sunday in the afternoon; yet
never
omit it. Your Mother has been laughed to scorn for it years ago."
Then the above cited text was repeatedly
enforced:
and although the Writer, naturally the most shy of human beings amongst strangers, always, when young, on entering the room, crowding her little insignificant figure behind the door, that nobody might look at her
So as generally to occasion her witty younger sister, of course following her into the room when visiting with their Mother, to say
"For pity's sake, my dear Miss Frinsham, do not go into the room looking as if you had stolen your cloaths."
Mrs. Berkeley used sadly to lament, after her mother's death, that
she
was the
eldest
sister.
; yet the first Sunday of her visit she encountered the loud laugh of ten or eleven gentlemen and ladies, for setting off to afternoon prayers. The lady at whose house she was on a visit, said,
"Oh! the young lady's Mother has brought her up with
wonderfully
strict notions of God and Religion; so I dare say she
will
go."
Go
the young lady certainly did; but she never remembers to have suffered more in her
whole
life, than in that
first
struggle in the service of her blessed Master, of her own
never dying
soul. Living many years in the first company cured that painful timidity. Conversing much with learned and good men soon enabled her to become more than a
silent
advocate for the honour of her blessed Master, when ridiculed by foolish scoffers; insomuch as often to occasion Mr. Monck Berkeley to say to his Father and friends,
"Few things delight me more than hearing my Mother trim an Infidel. Some Deistical fellow begins spouting out his nonsensical blasphemy to
amuse
the company.—On he goes, without interruption; for I make it a point never to say a word,
well
knowing what he is going to meet with.—At length, down goes my Mother's needle-work; she begins, and in a few words turns the laugh of all the company upon him, and the poor wretch never opens his mouth any more the remainder of the evening."
This is a proof of the fulfilment of this promise of Christ to his faithful servants
The Editor, at the age of twenty-two, was asked, by a very near relation of her own, a single man, of vast fortune, universally esteemed one of the first scholars in England,
"Why she was not a Papist, for the Papists required not the belief of any thing so contrary to reason as the doctrine of the Trinity, which he was persuaded she did believe."
It pleased God to enable her to make him, a first-rate scholar, she an unlettered young woman, such an answer as immediately silenced him, and astonished the whole of the company that sat at table. To God be all the glory. This
worthy wight
lived many years, never spending near as many hundreds
per annum
as he possessed thousands. A few years ago the Editor was called upon to put on an old black lustring—he being gone where his gold cannot follow him; and, alas! he had not sent any of it before him. His nephew, however, has made it fly in all directions, in all countries. The last time the Editor was abroad—at Lisle (commonly called Petit Paris) all her acquaintance were lamenting she had not arrived a little sooner, as her relation had been giving such
êtes,
&c. &c.
,
"
I will give you a mouth, and wisdom,
that all your adversaries shall not be able to gainsay or resist.
"
As Mrs. Berkeley is not an Eliza Carter or a Mrs. Montagu, two of her respected old friends, but an unlettered female, who lost a learned and wise Father when she was eleven years old, who had set his heart on cultivating the minds of his daughters, had God spared his life until their leaving the school of that throughly amiable, accomplished woman, the excellent Mrs. Sheeles; but, alas! they had been in Queen's Square but one year, before he went to hear those blessed words,
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant,"
&c. as perhaps one of the best, the most vigilant parish priests any where to be found, even half a century ago, for so long has he been removed. HE had redde St. Paul's Epistles to Timothy and Titus with good effect
In the year 1755, the Reverend Dr. Dodwell was blessed with a curate, who followed the example of Mr. Frinsham, Mr. Ratcliffe, fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. Few days passed without his visiting some house in the parish, chiefly the cottages where he examined and instructed the poor children, and generally ignorant mother; admonishing them if they neglected going to church, exhorting them to attend at the altar. He was a chearful, pleasant, unassuming, young man. He died about two years ago, on a college living; the county wherein it was situated is not at present recollected, but
he
is not forgotten by his Master.
; for he never suffered sin on any of his parishioners, however high their rank or station,
"
unrebuked.
"
—
"He was instant in season and out of season,"
&c.
It is hoped the introduction of a little anecdote concerning the zeal of this worthy gentleman, for the salvation of his flock, may be excused. The wife of Mr.
, a man of good fortune, in every sense of the word
a fine lady,
was a little talked of as having a partiality for one of her men-servants. The excellent vicar took an early opportunity, when he knew her husband was absent, to call upon her; finding her alone, he soon began the subject. She heard him with seeming attention for some time; at length she replied,
"Mr. Frinsham, you may save yourself any farther trouble about
me;
for I do
assure
you, Sir, that I mind what you say no more than the COALS on that fire."
Mr. Frinsham mildly replied,
"Mrs.
, I dare say, that often, during the course of my ministry,
I may
have met with many as inattentive hearers as yourself; but I must tell you, that
you
are the
first,
the
only
person, who ever told me so."
Then taking up his hat, he made a bow, and told her, he hoped God would, in time, bring her to a better state of mind. He had the mortification to see her some years after
die,
as she had
lived;
but he had the consolation offered to
watchful
pastors in Ezekiel, chapter xxxiii.
When the late Earl of Bute took Waltham Place, soon after his arrival, Mr. Frinsham, with some other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, made him a visit. At taking leave, Lord Bute said to Mr. Frinsham,
"Sir, I hope that we shall be good neighbours, as I have taken this house
solely
on account of your excellent amiable character."
Perhaps one of the most beautiful letters
It is possible that some of Lord Bute's letters to Mr. Frinsham may some time or other be presented to the publick; they will serve to shew what Lord Bute
then
was.
ever penned was by Lord Bute, on the death of, as he termed him,
"
that dear delightful excellent friend.
"
The Peer and the Pastor generally met on the hill, or at the vale below, every day. Mr. Frinsham was as witty as he was good; in his youth the idol of all his acquaintance, as what is termed the fiddle of the company, and to his latest day the most cheerful person of a large circle. He expired with a smile on his benign countenance, without even drawing a single sigh, at the age of fifty-four.
It is hoped, that the following little tribute of a grateful child to the best of Fathers will be pardoned. A few lines shall suffice. Not long after his obtaining priest's orders he became curate of Beaconsfield in Bucks, to a
poor
man of large fortune, but so weak in his understanding, that, when Mr. Frinsham was one Sunday confined with a rash, Mr. N
attempted
to do the duty, which he
could not get through,
and therefore came down and went home
May God have pardoned the wickedness of the Prelate who admitted
such
a
being
into the Church of Christ, to get the emoluments of a family living. It is
seldom
seen, I believe, that an almost idiot at
twenty-four
becomes a man of sense at thirty-four. A buck, a blood, a Newmarket jockey, made a priest of the Most High God at twenty-four, does often, by thirty-four, or forty-four, begin to feel the value of his own and the souls committed to his charge. But the Wise King assures us, the
"braying in a mortar"
will not make a fool wise. Surely, in that instance, the Presbyterians are wiser than our excellent Church. They, I believe, seldom ordain any man, such as their ordination is, until thirty. Our blessed Master, God incarnate, began not his own ministry until the age of thirty; his precursor, John the Baptist, not until twenty-seven; yet our Church, wise in every thing else, permits poor shatter-brained boys, of twenty-two and an half, to go, and solemnly
lie to the Holy Ghost,
(see Ordination Office,) that they may get forty pounds
per annum,
and scamper after a pack of hounds.
. The living being then on sale, Mr. Frinsham much wished his father to purchase it for him; the old gentleman stood for about a hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds. The Principal and Fellows of Magdalene College, Oxford, hearing of it, instantly paid down the sum demanded; and, of course, for ever precluded Mr. Frinsham from becoming rector, where he was only, not adored as curate; so powerfully had his persuasions wrought on the people of that place, that the wheeler, the blacksmith, the millener, yea, every trader, quitted their occupation, to attend Wednesday, Friday, and Saints'-day prayers, so much as frequently to occasion passengers enquiring if there was any great wedding, that so many persons were coming out of the church.
Mr. Frinsham being what was called a Tory, and all his own and his lady's considerable relations, who could prefer him, being Whigs; he never obtained any more important preferment than the vicarage of White Waltham, a parish of sixteen miles round, in Windsor Forest, of which his very learned and worthy successor, the Reverend Dr. Dodwell, Canon of Salisbury, and Archdeacon of Berks, said he never made fifty pounds a year. Thus are many excellent ministers of Christ provided for in
this
world, enough to make them take up the language of the great apostle St. Paul, and say,
"If in
this life only
we have hope in Christ, we are of ALL men most miserable
Mr. Frinsham used frequently to say,
"I hope I am humbly thankful to God for a very comfortable fortune; but I thank him still more for that temper, that, had I been an alms-man with five pounds a year, I am sure I should have been an
happy
man."
His unworthy Daughter feels herself much more favoured by Providence in inheriting her Father's disposition than the comfortable fortune he bequeathed to her; humbly thankful, she trusts, for both blessings, unmerited by her. Her Mother used frequently to say,
"Surely,
thou art
the happiest little creature under the sun—as like your dear Father in temper as in face. Thou must meet with a wonderful lot in life, if thou doest not go contented and joyous to thy grave."
The Editor trusts, by becoming daily more resigned to the BLESSED WILL of the ALL-WISE disposer of ALL events, to feel that her Mother judged aright. She has ever delighted in being able to apply to herself that pleasant line of Mr. Addison's, in one of his beautiful hymns, set to music by her old master Mr. Sheeles:
"Nor is the
least
a cheerful heart,
"Which tastes those gifts with joy."
."
Mr. Frinsham, perhaps naturally the most contented-tempered of the fallen children of Adam, and the most hospitable, although he wished not for a larger income, wished for a larger, better house, in which to entertain his numerous friends and acquaintance. Rich and poor, high and low, all ate and drank at his house. The vicarage house at White Waltham was literally a very large old barn, with small rooms on each side. The kitchen, however, was not very small, and was payed with curious Roman bricks, which might have consoled his grandson, Mr. Monck Berkeley, an enthusiastical antiquary.
An answer of Mr. Frinsham to a letter written by his relation Sir
to Mr. Frinsham, offering him a living of
one hundred pounds per annum,
with a good house, if he would
promise
faithfully, and MIGHT BE DEPENDED UPON
Mr. Frinsham, in his answer to that letter, says,
"It is
as
impossible that Ministry should
always
act disinterestedly for the good of the nation, as that they should not
sometimes
do so. No earthly power, therefore, should ever make me yield such a promise to
any
Minister, of
any
Monarch; were my own Father Minister. I shall therefore contentedly remain in my old clayed barn, until Providence removes me to the realms of bliss."
Lord Bute used personally, as the Editor well remembers, when playing cards, spending the evening under that very humble roof—the top of Mr. Frinsham's wig just touched the middle beam—to say,
"My dear friend, if ever I have power, the first man on earth for whom I will exert it, shall be yourself."
And breakfasting with his lady at Mr. Frinsham's, the morning he quitted Waltham Place, he looked out of one of the sashes at his late dwelling, saying,
"I grieve to leave it; Mr.
might, if he pleased, have enabled me to continue; but, I hope, we shall soon meet again."
They never did on earth; Mr. Frinsham dying before Lord Bute returned from Scotland. May they have met in a future state!
, to vote always as Lord H
should direct him, is still carefully preserved. His son-in-law, the late, as independent and spirited, Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, used to say, it merited to be written in letters of gold. Such were the WHIG ministers of George the Second.
It is somewhat remarkable, that Mr. Frinsham never met with any serious affliction through life. The loss of his beautiful mother, when he was five years old, was so supplied by an excellent housekeeper of his father's, that he scarcely felt it; and the death of his worthy father, at the age of eighty-one, not long before his own death, was an event to be expected at that age, although he died, as before mentioned, by casualty. Mr. Frinsham was interred close to his honoured father-in-law, Francis Cherry, Esquire, within the railed burial place in Shottesbrooke church-yard. He used to say,
"I am God's creature; he sent me into the world
when
he pleased, and he will take me out
how
he pleases: and I am sure it will be at the
best
time, in the
best
way."
He dreaded nothing in life so much as losing the best of wives, and the being left with two little girls, whom he humoured in
every thing
not in itself wrong.
Some proofs how much Mr. Berkeley was indebted to education may be gathered from his amiable humility as a lad, a youth, and a man, when it is considered that he was astonishingly proud whilst a child.
When Mr. Monck Berkeley was aged three years and two months, his father went to reside at Acton near London, a large living, presented to him by his ONLY patron through life, the excellent Archbishop Secker, and which he so nobly resigned, to a man, who, after making him repair the tithe barn, and letting him have about five hundred pounds' worth of new furniture and fixtures for an hundred and eighty pounds—(amongst which was a harpsichord, that cost Bishop Berkeley seventy guineas, for
four pounds
—Mrs. Berkeley objected; but the Doctor, with his wonted generosity, said,
"he hated disputes among clergy;"
and therefore permitted him to have it at his own price)—after suffering the house to stand empty from Michaelmas to the end of April—came upon him with a long bill for dilapidations, and protested a draught drawn on him by Dr. Berkeley for the money for the furniture. This naturally exasperated the too generous mind that had been the actual presenter of the living; for no power on earth, no honour, could have compelled any one to resign it. But Dr. Berkeley one day asking the Archbishop if his Grace meant he should resign Action on becoming Prebendary of Canterbury, his reply was,
"Don't be in haste. You must talk one day or other with Lord Hardwicke about it."
Before any conference with Lord Hardwicke, the good Archbishop died; and the nice honour of Dr. Berkeley, without ever even seeing Lord Hardwick, made him resign it to a cousingerman of his Lordship—a very different man from his noble relation. A very intimate friend of Dr. Berkeley's, the excellent
throughly
Honourable and Reverend Mr. Hamilton of Taplow, felt such resentment, that he conjured Dr. Berkeley to post the
man
every where. Mr. Hamilton had one excellent rule; he never would call any man a gentleman, if in any instance he had acted unlike a gentleman.
In a very few days after the arrival of the family at Acton, Mrs. Berkeley heard a most violent stamping and screaming of her then only child. On enquiry into the cause, it was found to be, that Master Berkeley would not go to bed up the back stairs.
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"What ails him?
Servant.—
"Why, you know, Madam, there is only one stair-case at Bray. But Master Berkeley says there are two here; and he observes, that my Master, and you, and all visitors, go up the great stair-case, and
only
the servants up the back stairs; and that he is as good a gentleman as his Papa, although he is not so old; and that he will not go up the back stairs."
An order was immediately made, and strictly adhered to, that he was not, for a
whole
week, (a long time for a creature of three feet high,) to presume, in the day time, to go up or down the great stair-case to the dressing-room, to his Mamma, to read or play.
When about four years old, Mr. Berkeley received a smart trimming, for a speech to a once famous apothecary in London, who had retired to Acton, Mr. Sawtell, whose appearance was rather against him. He attended Dr. Berkeley when unwell, and Charles Stanley Monck, of Grange Gormonde, Esquire, ill about four months at Dr. Berkeley's with the whooping cough, which he brought from Eton School, and communicated to
The word
poor
is introduced on account of his very severe sufferings for more than seven months. Dr. Berkeley, having never been at any school, had, unluckily, escaped all those disorders which children, together with many other benefits, generally get at good schools. The whooping-cough is a tremendous disorder, indeed, to adults—Dr. Berkeley could not exist without going into fresh air every three or four days. It cost him more than an hundred guineas. The agonies suffered by the Editor during some parts of that time were exceedingly great. Laughing constantly brought on a violent fit of coughing. Innumerable were the times that the Editor has sat trembling with anguish, expecting that her beloved partner would expire hanging on the window; his only hope of relief being to throw up the sash, and hang out at it, gasping for breath. Mr. James Hamilton, and the as
witty Samuel Horne,
spent the summer with him. Mrs. Berkeley used to protest, she would
turn them both out of doors,
if they would not bottle up their wit, saying,
"she would send for two mutes."
She used seriously to conjure them not to make Dr. Berkeley laugh. None can laugh at this account, who has ever had the distress of seeing an adult under the paroxysms of the whooping cough. An old friend of Mrs. Berkeley's, more advanced in life than Dr. Berkeley, often fell senseless on the floor, the late Rev. Mr. Chapman, the beloved friend of the late Dr. Booth, Dean of Windsor.
poor Dr. Berkeley and his little boy. This proud descendant of fallen Adam thus accosted him,
"Sir, if you were ever to stay here to dinner, you must dine in the servants' hall, for you cannot be fit company for my Papa."
Dr. Berkeley, ready to sink with shame, flew to Mrs. Berkeley, saying,
"Surely, that chit is the proudest little being on earth. I must now really ask the poor man one day to dinner, to shew that he has not heard any thing of the kind from you or me."
Mr. Berkeley was always told, that a gentleman must never do mean or shabby actions. He
reasoned
on the matter, and, in early infancy, drew such
wonderful
conclusions as those just mentioned.
That both Mr. Berkeley and his Brother were, in
very very
early youth exceedingly proud is absolutely certain, in their different ways; and that both became remarkably humble, by their Mother's adhering closely to the directions given to parents in that wonderful book the Proverbs of Solomon, is equally certain.
The exquisite loveliness of Mr. Monck Berkeley's nature led him, from an infant, to look with pity on all below him; but his dear Brother naturally looked with contempt. One day, when very young, going in the coach with their Mother to Marlow, as they passed a remarkably small, meanlooking cottage at the foot of the hill, he exclaimed,
"My dear Mamma, look there: did you ever see so miserable a looking hut? What kind of
creatures
must they be that live in it?"
Mrs. Berkeley threw terror into her countenance, and said,
"ROBERT! what have I just heard you say? Do you dare to despise any of your fellow creatures, or any mean-looking habitation? Have not you often redde in the Bible what our blessed Saviour said, 'The foxes—(Now go on; he did so)—have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has not where to lay his head."
—
"Why did he come upon earth?"
—
"To save sinners."
—
"Yes, such a poor, proud, little wretch as you. And are you not very naughty to say what you have just said?"
—
"Yes, indeed, Mamma; and if God will forgive me
this once,
I will never do so again whilst I live."
Once passing a little chimney-sweeper, about his own size, with the soot-bag at his back, he coiled up his nose, and said,
"What a poor dirty little creature it is!"
His Mother acted terror as before, and asked him,
"How he came to be so wicked? and if he knew how it came to pass, that HE was not that poor little sweep, and little sweep Master Robert Berkeley."
He replied,
"No."
—
"Should you have liked it?"
—
"No."
—
"Do you think if God Almighty had asked that little boy, whether he would be Dr. Berkeley's son, or the sweep's, that he would not have chosen to have been born a gentleman? that Christ died to redeem from hell that little boy as well as himself, or one of the King's little sons? that, as he had not even the merit of choosing to come to Dr. Berkeley's instead of to old La-Looe, (the nick name of a chimney sweeper, who ought now to enjoy a very good fortune in Bucks, if he had money to contend for it,) he ought to to be humble as a little dove, instead of being proud as Lucifer, and despising those whom Providence, without
any
goodness of his, had placed below him."
He wept, and said,
"It was very wicked indeed; but, if God would pardon it, he would never despise dirty children again."
The worthy woman who brought him up, was remarkably cleanly, and had made him so. He was exceedingly careful to keep his word; for if he were told of any thing that would offend God, no persuasion of the most eloquent could cause him to do it. Such admonotions, until he grew towards manhood, were heard by his lovely brother, as they are by most other children, to use a cant phrase,
"go in at one ear, and out at the other."
The early ripe for glory are generally soon removed from this vale of tears. To use the beautiful language of Dean Hickes's Reformed Devotions:
"No matter how late the fruit be gathered,
"If it still go on growing better.
"No matter how soon it fall from the tree,
"If not blown down before it be ripe."
Mr. Berkeley and his brother were, whilst children, always made, not to touch, but take off their hats to the poorest labourer in the village who saluted them; if ever they saw an old man or woman with a burden of wood, or leazed corn, to run to open the gate to let them through. They were made to treat the servants with the utmost civility, never daring to
order
them to do any thing, being always told, that they were not their servants, but their Father's: therefore they must always say,
"Pray, John (or Thomas), get me so or so."
By incessant attention, and the utmost vigilance, their pride was kept under, and, in due time, by God's grace, eradicated.
It was no small delight to his Mother, on his arrival in England, at the age of near twenty-two, that she could scarcely go into any small shop in Canterbury without hearing, from the master or mistress,
"Oh! Madam, what a fine young gentleman Mr. Berkeley is; so condescending! he met my poor son, stopped, and asked him, how he did? and hoped he went on well in the world. Who would have thought he would have done him the honour to remember him so many years?"
Let it be remarked here, that Ecclesiastical Bodies do
some
good. At Canterbury, the Dean and Prebendaries pay for the education of fifty tradesmen's sons, find them books, &c. until they are eighteen or nineteen; and then, if they wish it, raise a subscription to send them to one of the Universities. Many other cathedrals have similar charitable institutions. This produces a sort of honourable equality, as it enables the sons of chairmen, footmen, &c. when ordained, to associate with their superiors in birth, perhaps not in learning.
Mr. Berkeley's amiability was the more remarked, as he quitted the King's School at the age of twelve, and his Father removed his family to his living in West Kent the year following, and returned not to settle in Canterbury until the end of the year 1784; when it became his turn to take the offices. A good old shopman one day said to Mrs. Berkeley,
"Ah! Madam, what a charming man Mr. Berkeley is. He was
galloping
towards Margate, looking like a
young Lord,
when one of our poor old neighbours was creeping along. He suddenly stopped his horse, drew up to the causeway, and asked him who he was, and if he was comfortable? He took out his purse, and, not finding much silver, bade his servant lend him half a crown; which he gave to the poor man, and told him to call upon him if ever he wanted any thing:"
adding, his eyes filling with tears,
"Lord bless him! where will you find another young gentleman, going galloping on his pleasure, that will think so of the poor?"
It proved to be the famous old News-carrier, of whom the fine print was sold some years ago in Canterbury.
The poor and distressed were ever the grand objects of his tender care. When at St. Andrew's, one night, at the play, the poor man who acted the king in the tragedy fainted away; and it had nearly been a
real
tragedy, as he had several small children. On enquiry, it was found to be from inanition
The next day the Editor sent her faithful, affectionate, trusty, aged, Scotch servant, the excellent Betty Russel, to enquire particularly into the state of these heroes and heroines of the stage. The worthy woman soon returned, saying,
"Well-a-day, Madam, I never saw such an
unka
sight in all my life; there was the poor
crator,
who is to be queen to night, the king's wife that fainted last night, with her head dressed all in flowers and ribbons, and a fine crown, and a child sucking at her breast quite empty, it had not a drop of milk in it—she had had nothing but water all day—oh! it was an
unka
sight to see her head so fine, her breast hanging like a wet leather glove."
That uncommonly honest, worthy woman, Elizabeth Russel, met with most kind, charitable friends, on Dr. Berkeley's family leaving St. Andrew's, in the amiable, excellent, and by them highly respected, Dr. Adamson, senior Kirk Minister of St. Andrew's, and his worthy very charitable lady. The Editor used to delight to send her a guinea, in a letter to Dr. Adamson, until twice
some
post-master stopped it.
. Mr. Berkeley, on finding that to be the case, posted off to his tutor, the very amiable (now Reverend) Mr. James Bruce, beseeching him to go and relieve him on his account. On Mrs. Berkeley's saying,
"Why did not you go yourself, instead of routing out Mr. Bruce?"
He wisely replied,
"My dear Mother, the woman was exceedingly beautiful; and my going might have injured her fame, which, I hear, although an actress, is unsullied. So now you know why I got Bruce to go."
Mr. Berkeley had certainly no offensive pride discoverable to those who knew him most intimately; for, what is usually termed Family Pride is surely improperly so called. A man, that is descended from a King rather than from a cobler, from a Hero rather than from a Huckster, may feel grateful to his Maker. Mr. Berkeley's Father felt it, his Grandfather felt it, and perhaps he felt it on becoming a Bishop. Some friend said,
"Your Lordship must now give purple liveries."
To which the good Bishop replied,
"No, Sir. My becoming a Bishop will not make me give up what the domestics of my ancestors have worn for centuries."
Accordingly his episcopal livery was the yellow green coat worne by the servants of his honourable relations, the Earl of Berkeley, Lord Berkeley of Stratton, his Brothers, &c. with royal,
i.e.
red purple waistcoats, &c. and the servants of his Sons he always made wear the crimson waistcoat, &c. that he might not give up his family livery. Dr. Berkeley's coach being to be new painted, the coach-maker said,
"To be sure, Sir, you will have a cypher instead of your coat of arms. It is all the fashion."
"That may be, Sir; but, if you please, put on my coat. It is an
old one,
to be sure. The cypher is very well for Nabobs and Planters, to save them trouble."
It was a great diversion, when Mr. Berkeley was seventeen or eighteen, to a lovely young lady, whose death Mr. Berkeley lamented in a most beautiful elegy, printed, but never sold, to wink on Mrs. Berkeley, and say,
"Aye, one day or other Berkeley will marry a girl with an hundred thousand pounds, and change his name to Hickenbottom."
(Vide Kit Smart.) He used to storm, and say,
"Harriet, hold your tongue: I will not change my name for a million."
Mr. Addison says,
"Ancient family is a feather, but it is a
feather
that no man possessed of ever disdained to stick in his cap."
When the vile treatise on Education, written by that learned Atheist, the late Lord Kaimes, made its appearance, it was immediately in every hand. When Mr. Berkeley came to the part where Lord Kaimes speaks of the Eton
Montem,
he stormed violently indeed; he felt
l'esprit du corps
so violently as to amuse all his friends. He assured his Father and the gentlemen of the agreeable society of Cookham above described, that, had they been educated at Eton, they would feel equal indignation. His mother assured him, that men of forty-seven were rarely as irritable as youths of seventeen; to which Mr. Berkeley replied,
"Well, Madam, I can tell you at what page of the book you will throw it by, and not read one line more."
She, laughing, asked,
"If Lord Kaimes had abused dear Mrs. Sheeles's school?"
He replied,
"Much worse than that: I assure you, my dear Madam, with
all your calmness,
you will be ready to throw it into the fire."
Mrs. Berkeley requested to be informed; but her Son politely declined it, saying,
"No; read on, my dear Madam."
It is certain, that when she came to the page where Lord Kaimes says,
"I would advise you to be of the Christian religion, because it is (or it happens to be) the religion of the country where you were born,"
Mrs. Berkeley verified her Son's prediction, for she never thought it worth while to go on with such a wretch on Education. His Lordship's Treatise on Husbandry is an excellent work.
The following anecdote of that dreadful Atheist may be depended on as a fact. It was related to the Editor by a lady incapable of forging it, to whom it was related by an eye and ear witness of the scene. When a divorce has actually taken place, it is no scandal to speak of the divorced female as having lost her character. Lord Kaimes's daughter was married to Mr. Heron, a gentleman of very large fortune in Scotland, of most excellent character, and uncommonly amiable gentle manners, say all who have the happiness of his acquaintance. The Editor was well acquainted with the elegant worthy Major Heron, his younger brother, when that favourite regiment, of Canterbury families of fashion, the Scotch Greys, were quartered at Canterbury. This lady was at length detected, and gently and quietly sent home to her WORTHY father, with a letter from her excellent injured husband, stating her conduct. She reached her father's house in the afternoon. In the evening, after tea, Lord Kaimes walked up and down the room in silence, but appeared greatly agitated. At length he exclaimed,
"Good God, child! how could you act thus? How could you bring me to such shameful disgrace?"
—
"Why, my Lord, you have always told me, that there was no other world; that the idea of an hereafter was all a JUGGLE of knaves and priests to keep fools in order; and, as I am not to be called to any account, but by the world—I preferred Mr.
to my husband."
This silenced his Lordship: he said not a single word more, and soon quitted the room. Mr. Heron, her much injured husband, has, for many years, enjoyed great felicity with a lady very differently educated from the daughter of Lord Kaimes. May he long enjoy it!
In a few days after reading the book above mentioned, when the social meeting happened to be at Dr. Berkeley's, just before tea, the very learned Mr. M
either took off the slab behind him, or out of his pocket a newspaper (neither that amiable gentleman nor the Editor can recollect which; if it was Dr. Berkeley's paper, it was the St. James's Chronicle, as he was always partial to that paper, on account of his old fellow collegian, Mr. Colman), and began reading a letter to Lord Kaimes, concerning his very severe attack on Eton School, proving to the learned Lord, that he was totally ignorant of what he had been so grosly abusing. Every one admired it exceedingly. Mr. M
said,
"Why, Berkeley, this letter must delight you prodigiously, surely. Eton is nobly vindicated indeed. The Writer is quite of your spirit."
Mr. Berkeley replied,
"To be sure, every man educated there must be indignant to find himself and his friends styled
Highwaymen!
"
Mr. M
proceeded to read on, and said, turning to Mrs. Berkeley,
"Why, I believe, Berkeley must have written this letter himself."
To which Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"HE write such a letter, poor dear soul! poor as I am, I would give a thousand pounds that he could, three years hence, write such a letter as that."
To which Dr. Berkeley added,
"Aye, poor fellow, I hope, if he is not idle, he may,
in time,
write as well as this Eton champion."
About seven years afterwards Mr. Berkeley, sitting conversing with his Mother in her dressing-room, said,
"My dear Mother, do you remember, before we went to Scotland, a letter that M
redde us out of the newspaper, exposing Lord Kaimes's attack upon Eton School?"
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"Yes, very well.
Mr. B.—
"Do you remember his saying jocularly to you, that he believed that it was written by me?
Mrs. B.—
"Yes.
Mr. B.—
"And do you remember what answer you made?
Mrs. B.—
"Yes, that I would freely give a thousand pounds that you were capable of writing that letter.
Mr. B.—
"Well, my dear Madam, perhaps it may now give you some little pleasure to hear that your
Bairn
did write that letter, and that Lord Kaimes answered it, acknowledging that he had been in an error concerning the Eton
Montem;
adding, that he must have been an hasty writer to publish such a censure on an ancient custom sanctioned by
such
a man as Lord Camden, educated there, who always makes a point of attending, and being ROBBED
Whilst this sheet was in the press the Montem at Eton was celebrated.—It was a fine,
very
fine sight, that the Editor could not now, alas! have witnessed. She was twice called upon by a throughly polite young gentleman—a most active zealous friend of the Captain, who, on his entering the room at ten o'clock, most elegantly apologized for having called before so early as eight.—This young gentleman's conduct encourages the Editor to persevere in her assertion from seventeen years old,
"That the young men, youths, even the lads of Eton School, are the GENTLEMEN of the nation."
Dr. Berkeley used frequently to tell his son, when admonishing him, as a youth, to be, like a gentleman, well-bred,
"Why, child,
every nobleman
is
not
a
gentleman.
"
To use the elegant language of the late Dr. Berkeley in a Charity-sermon—
"
few
can give the rich man's largesse, ALL may give the "
widow's mite.
"
The very polite receiver of the Editor's mite, on her enquiry, she learned, was Mr. Marsh, of Lee in Kent. If he has parents, she congratulates them on having
such
a son. May he be spared to them! May they never suffer as the Editor has done! and must, in some few sad moments, ever do, until she meets her angelic-hearted son in the realms of bliss.
, as Lord Kaimes terms it, of ten guineas; and of late years his Majesty and the Queen. How any man of any country could suppose, that the sons, of men of the highest rank, and most antient families in England, would be permitted to act as he describes, is marvellous."
Mr. Berkeley, from the time he went to Eton, used very acutely to learn his Mother's opinion of any little thing he was going to publish in a Newspaper or Magazine, without her even suspecting him as the author, by saying,
"It was written by an Eton boy of his acquaintance;"
lest, as he told her when he grew up, maternal partiality might tempt her to think it clever when it was not so; or the same tenderness might tempt her to wish it suppressed, lest it should expose him to ridicule.
On Mr. Berkeley's
printing
his "Maria, or The Generous Rustic," written when he was only seventeen, the copies were sent down to him. One day after dinner, he went to his study, and brought a copy of it in sheets, saying.
"He would read something that he hoped might amuse his Father and the ladies."
He began; and Dr. Berkeley, who had eyes like a lynx, seeing it in sheets, immediately exclaimed,
"Good Heavens, child! what have you done? This is written by you. Surely, you have not gone and published some nonsense that will ruin your character as a writer before you are a man."
—
"Why,
I
have never published any thing with my name yet."
Mrs. Berkeley,
mother-like,
in agony to think that her idol had injured his fame as a writer, began lamenting his temerity. When the indignation of Dr. Berkeley and the lamentations of Mrs. Berkeley were a
little
subsided, because they were almost out of breath, he said, in the sweetest voice and gentlest manner,
"Well, I am
very
sorry you are all so angry with me. I have done what I could to
please
you all. I have made the Marquis
learned,
to please my Father; and I have made Maria
pious,
to gratify my Mother."
Mrs. Frinsham here interposed in her
wonted way,
"My dear,
I
think it very beautiful; and I question whether
either
of
them
could have written such a book at your age. I am sure I could not. Indeed I am not QUITE sure I could do it now, that I am more than double your age."
Mrs. Frinsham has a wonderful fund of true humour, which breaks forth on every occasion, before the
very few
with whom she will be intimately acquainted, being perhaps the most reserved of human beings now that Lord
is dead; an excellent understanding, very highly cultivated by reading the best authors in
various
languages; and, to sum up the character in few words, as it is frequently done by the grateful Editor, perhaps the best woman on earth now that her excellent Mother is removed to heaven.
Matters being a little quieted by Mrs. Frinsham's interposition, Mr. Berkeley said to his Father,
"Well, Sir, although it is
printed,
I would not presume to
publish
it without your permission; and, if you disapprove it, I will burn every copy but one. Indeed I have burnt a vast deal many months ago, before I printed it. All the Marquis's
séjour
in England and Wales, his remarks on English manners, customs, &c. I have destroyed. Indeed I have burnt near five times as much as I have printed; and, if you wish it, I will burn that."
Here there was a triple cry of,
"Oh! no."
But Dr. Berkeley asked,
"My poor simple child, why would you not let me look it over and correct it?"
—
"Alas, my dear Sir, I knew what would be its fate. You would have made a new book."
A very just remark. Dr. Berkeley never could correct. He could write admirably, as the world has seen; but any thing sent him to correct he always re-made, generally perhaps for the better—but then, as his Son, through life, used to tell him,
"Sir, the book is yours, not the man's whose name it bears."
—
"But, if you KNEW that, why not let your Mother read and correct it?"
—
"Why, my dear Sir, for fear of getting my Mother into a scrape, for not shewing it to you."
Uncorrected as it was, it has been so admired, that, seven years ago, half a guinea was paid for a miserable, thumbed, dirty copy, only to be found in those banes of industry, cleanliness, &c. &c. a little country-town circulating library. Mr. Berkeley was often pressed to permit a second edition; but his constant reply was,
"
No; never whilst my name is Berkeley.
I was a
great
fool ever to let there be one; but I was young, and, of course, foolish."
That there are great beauties in Maria is generally allowed; and that it has some considerable errors is certain. The calling the idea of a Marquis, even a French Marquis, marrying a little farmer's daughter, however worthy, being highly objectionable,
"
one of the absurd maxims of the world,
"
is what, at twenty, or before, Mr. Berkeley would have expunged. And on his Mother's pointing out to him how much better it would have been to have made her the daughter of a reduced officer, he saw the force of it; but replied,
"
You
know, my dear Madam, that by means of the nunneries in Popish countries every peasant's daughter, living in the neighbourhood of a monastery, can, on very easy terms, have as good an education as a Duke's can."
The styling the wretched consort of the Baron D'Arandar his Wife instead of his Lady, was improper; and on his Mother's expressing her astonishment, that he, who from infancy was well-bred and elegant, could be guilty of such a vulgarism, he replied,
"Mr.
(a gentleman then very intimate with Dr. Berkeley), always ridiculed those who said Lord and Lady
, or Mr.
and his Lady."
This gentleman, long before it became fashionable, was a great advocate for Equality. Mrs. Berkeley regretted the melancholy catastrophe of the amiable Marquis and the noble-souled Maria.
After Mr. Berkeley's return to England, he came one day to his Mother, and, enquiring if she had a couple of hours to spare, sat down, and began to read, in manuscript, "The Spanish Memoirs," telling her, as they appeared on the stage, who the chief actors were; for Mr. Berkeley, in every novel or poem, celebrated or stigmatized some real existing character: thus, the hero of "Love and Nature," bears the title of Westmorland; Mr. Berkeley having always respected the character of the present Earl of Westmorland, for his spirited wise conduct in quitting a great School, where he
then
could not learn any thing, for one where he could, and did, learn very much, and for other parts of his character. The late Earl of
, whose pride, whose cruelty to very near relations, Mr. Berkeley from a youth detested, is held up to contempt, to hatred, in the person of the Duke D'Aranda, as he told his Mother. When he had concluded, he desired to hear his Mother's sentiments of the work. She told him, she liked it very well, untill she came to the murder of Don Frederic
"Murder!"
he exclaimed.
"My dear Madam, you have not been listening with your usual attention to reading. Why, he is not murdered. He is cast away, and drowned."
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"Well, and what is that but murdering him, as you did the poor Marquis de Clerville and Maria? Indeed, worse; for you leave this poor heroine alive to mourn to the end of the chapter. How can YOU practise such cruelties?"
Mr. B.—
"Well, my dear Madam, I am glad you do not disapprove any part but that
innocent murder:
I shall do myself the honour to send you a copy as soon as it is printed."
Mrs. B.—
"And I shall certainly do
myself
the
honour
to tuck it in between the bars of that grate, and
burn it.
"
Mr. B.—
"Burn it, my dear Madam! No, no. I am sure you will not serve me so."
Mrs. B.—
"Yes, I solemnly protest I will, without reading
one
line of it. You know I hate the idea of encouraging melancholy on the mind. I have often told you, that, with Mr. Addison, in one of his beautiful hymns in the Spectator
All the Hymns, &c. in the Spectator, (as has been already noticed, p. clxix.), were many years ago set to music by the late Mr. Sheeles, and dedicated to Lady Albinia and Lady Mary Bertie, daughters of the late Duke of Ancaster, both educated at Mrs. Sheeles's school. Lady Mary had a pleasanter honour than being a Duke's daughter, being mother to Bertie Greathead, Esq.
, I have always delighted that
I
could subscribe to that lovely line:
"Nor is the least a chearful heart,
"Which tastes those gifts with joy."
The next day Mr. Berkeley and his Mother dining alone, after the cloth was removed, he drew out the book, and said,
"He had brought the conclusion of the Spanish Memoirs to read to her."
Mrs. Berkeley said,
"She would not hear another tittle of them."
He conjured her. She rose to go. He said,
"You will catch your death. The fire, I am sure, does not burn well in the drawing-room."
Mrs. Berkeley, being resolute, got to the door. He pursued, and, taking hold of her gown, said,
"Well; suppose Don Frederic is not dead, will you stay and hear?"
Mrs. B.—
"Aye, but he is dead, and I will go."
Mr. B.—
"Will you stay, if I solemnly declare he is alive?"
Mrs. B.—
"Yes, because I know you will not deceive me."
Those who have redde the Spanish Memoirs know how beautifully he is
redivivus.
Mr. Berkeley added,
"You have made me spoil it; but I cannot bear to do any thing that
you
do not approve."
It has been mentioned above, that Mr. Berkeley was indebted to Nature, or rather to the God of Nature, for a most lovely disposition. A very shocking proof that a
nature
perhaps equally amiable (although not blessed with as strong an understanding) may, by a bad education, degenerate into horrid cruelty of the meanest kind, is now daily seen in the Honourable
. It was a common remark of Bishop Berkeley, that the strongest wine, if ill kept, became the sourest vinegar.
The Editor was asked within a few months, if she was not acquainted with
; to which replying in the affirmative, the gentleman answered,
"Then you know the
meanest
scoundrel upon earth; for he is now actually employed as a CRIMP."
She lamented that a creature
so
lovely in very early youth should, by bad education, have become so horridly, so shamefully depraved. One or two instances of the sweetness, the delicacy of his mind, when a child, shall be related.
A very honest old woman, who had lived many years at Lord
's, his father's, and had the care of him from his birth, dressed quite in the old style of
wise
servants fifty years ago; therefore looked a little old-fashioned, about thirty years ago. Lady W
, who visited his mother often, used to laugh at this little man about the cut of nurse's cap, &c. Children should never be teazed; it injures, never corrects their tempers. It is not meant to do it: it only serves to shew the low wit of old simpletons. This hurt his then amiable heart so much, that when, as children usually are, she conveyed her charge to the eatingroom whilst she dined, he used to say,
"My dear nurse, when you have opened the door, slip behind it, for fear that ill-natured woman, Lady W
, should see you, and laugh at you, and make me cry."
One day, when he was barely eight years old, Dr. Berkeley happening to be visiting at Lord
's, Lady
, as ignorant ladies are apt to do, began railing against the university of Oxford. The next time Lady
saw the Editor, she said,
"I must tell you a remark of your little favourite
. Your coach was hardly driven from the door, when he came and said, 'Surely, my dear Mamma, when you abused Oxford so violently, you had quite forgot that Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Berkeley had been educated there a great many years, and must know it well."
Dr. Berkeley was then about twenty-six years old, and had not long quitted that excellent university; where, to be sure, young fools, if not
properly
placed, may fall into mischief, as in the army, the navy, and the merchant's or banker's counting-house.
Dr. Berkeley used every possible argument that a man of his sense could devise, to persuade Lord
to send Mr.
to Dr. Glasse at Harrow, underr whose care, a few years before, he being consulted by the two Dowager Countesses, had been placed the late (not the last) Earl of Barrymore, and the present Earl of Massareen, and his brothers, the Honourable Messrs. Skeffington. Dr. Berkeley was desired by the ladies to fix the salary. The two peers paid each four hundred pounds a year; they had horses kept for them: the others paid one hundred. But Lady
, after deliberating some time, declared she
dreaded
her son's being made
too
religious if he went to Dr. Glasse. She lived to feel,
bitterly
feel, the direful want of religion in two of her sons. The eldest, immediately on his father's death, turning her out of the house in town, and the crimp merchant out of the villa near town; and had not the very worthy Countess of H
d, then going out of town to make a visit in the North, kindly lent hers, she must have taken a lodging. Lady
was the most indulgent mother in the world; she attended to her children's food, their physic, their warm cloathing, &c. but she left the care of their souls to—SATAN, and HE was not wanting in his attentions. One of them had naturally a good understanding; but neither Lord nor Lady
were equal to the task of directing it aright, nor by any means equal to the still much harder task of cultivating and directing weak Minds. Poor Lady!—she lived to
feel
the threat of the Wise King
sorely
verified:
"A child left to himself bringeth his MOTHER to shame
Proverbs xix. chap. 20.
;"
which seems to imply, that in those
ignorant, unenlightened
times the care of sons devolved entirely, in the early part of life, on the MOTHER. The very sensible Lord Halifax, in his Advice to a Daughter, speaks excellently on this subject. This book must become very scarce, since a very learned gentleman, about a year ago, assured the Editor he had never even
heard
of such a book. It is pity that more fathers do not put it early into the hands of their daughters. It might contribute greatly in preventing husbands being obliged to exhibit many unhappy creatures at Doctors Commons and the House of Lords. Between the Wise King and the Wise Peer, if both were duly studied, young gentlemen and young ladies might certainly be very different beings from what many in the present time are.
Solomon, when he says,
"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it,"
does by no means imply, that he shall not, through life, depart from it; he departed lamentably from it himself; but having, as we well know, received an excellent education from his pious preceptor, Nathan the prophet, he returned into the paths of virtue and piety before his death. The late Archdeacon of Berkshire, the very learned Dr. Dodwell, in an excellent sermon on
"One man in a thousand have I found,"
&c. told his audience, that probably that great King owed the salvation of his soul to the admonitions of his beloved friend, the son of Nathan, who certainly, in those times, when Monarchs were absolutely arbitrary,
"put his life in his hand, to save the soul of his sovereign, by admonishing him to return to the paths of piety."
It was an high act of friendship in the late excellent S
t
z, one of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber to a King who reigned over these realms not
quite
a century ago, to admonish his master frequently of the heinous sin of adultery. To do the British Prince justice, although he did not like the Jewish Prince reform, he never resented the liberty taken. The nick-name of this gentleman, before that of Methodist had, like Aaron's rod, swallowed up all others, was, Praying S
t
z. He
prayed
on earth; he is now
praising
in heaven.
So terrifying is the idea of being styled a Methodist become of late, that within these few weeks the Editor (who never was in a Methodist meeting but once in her life, about twenty-five years ago, with a large party at Canterbury, to hear some dull abuse from that accomplished old hypocrite, John Wesley) advising a young gentleman to read a small portion of the Bible every day to his servants, replied,
"Oh! my dear Madam, I should be reckoned a Methodist if it was known that I did it, and that would be
sad
you know."
How wretched must those be who stand thus in awe of mortal man! How happy are they who fear nought but God! That fear in due time will lead to
"perfect love, which,"
as St. John says,
"casteth out fear; for fear hath torment."
To attempt to do justice to Mr. Monck Berkeley's gratitude to many noble relations, friends, and connexions, from his first entrance into what is called
life,
would require abilities far superior to those of an almost dying female, by whom he had been taught from infancy, that he had no
right
to expect any thing but what is usual, the common decent civilities of life, from any but his Parents; that every thing beyond that was to be repaid by gratitude, as more than his due.
His gratitude to the eminently learned Professor Hunter of St. Andrew's, in offering Dr. Berkeley to become himself Mr. Berkeley's tutor, if Dr. Berkeley did not entirely approve of Mr. Bruce, an
eleve
of Mr. Hunter, was through life gratefully remembered by him; but Dr. Berkeley found the Professor's character of Mr. Bruce to be perfectly just. Dr. Berkeley accordingly asked Mr. Bruce the value of his
whole
time, desired him to dismiss all his other pupils, and devote himself entirely to the care of Mr. Berkeley; which he did for a considerable time, until the arrival of his dear friend Mr. Grimston, who came on Mr. Berkeley's account, and entered at St. Andrew's, and an old intimate Eton friend of Mr. Berkeley's in the same form with him there. Being all, as it is termed, reading the same books, they could not interfere; and Mr. Berkeley, amiably wishing to benefit Mr. Bruce, whom he exceedingly loved, requested his Father to permit him to become tutor to those two gentlemen only, from both of whom he received a large salary, which enabled him, a few years after, to enter at Emanuel College, Cambridge, under the protection of Dr. Berkeley's much loved and respected friend, the celebrated and worthy Dr. Farmer.
Mr. Berkeley's gratitude through life to those who instructed him was uniform. He used to say,
"If
I would not
learn,
that
was not
their
fault."
He used always to boast to his Father,
"Well, Sir,
idle
as
you
may think me, I can assert, with strictest truth, that I never have once bowed at Professor Hill's, Hunter's, or indeed at any Professor's lectures."
An explanation being requested of the word
bowing,
it was thus given:
"Why, if any poor fellow has been a little idle, and is not prepared to speak when called upon by the Professor, he gets up and makes a respectful bow, and sits down again."
Mr. Berkeley's friendship for his very learned tutor, the Reverend Mr. Green, on whose sole account he was by his Father sent to Magdalene Hall, rather than to his own beloved Christ Church, was very great. Mr. Berkeley considered him as the most active and vigilant of tutors, who would
force
young men to learn, whether so disposed or not, and the great care he took of their morals, devoting almost the whole of his leisure time to the common room.
Mr. Berkeley was blest with a wonderful sagacity in discerning characters, and often exhibiting them to the diversion of his friends, even when the persons whose characters he drew were present. He used frequently to say to his Father and Aunt,
"Now I will treat you with an exhibition of my Mother last night at Mrs.
's rout;"
and then proceed, generally saying,
"Well! to be sure
my
Mother is a woman by herself; for I believe the Almighty never formed any thing before her, or ever will any thing after her, like herself. The whole world cannot make her say a thing she does not mean, make her answer a question she does not choose to answer, nor visit any body she does not choose to visit, unless once or twice, where my Father has interposed his ROYAL AUTHORITY; then she reluctantly sets off."
This latter part arose from Mrs. Berkeley's resolution, through life, never to visit any cook, house-maid, &c. who had been kind enough to live with a gentleman six or seven years before she was sanctioned from Doctors Commons to step into the coach and six, and sit at the head of the table, and be caressed by all the
amiable
virtuous dames in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Berkeley is by no means one of those styled by Mr. Addison
"
the outrageously virtuous;
"
tout au contraire
—and her kindness in restoring more than one fallen acquaintance, the wives of gentlemen, they gentlewomen, mothers of large families of young children, is well known to many who will read these sheets through curiosity. But the case is widely different. Mary or Nan, if tolerably cunning wenches, reason thus:
"It is hit or miss. If I live with the 'Squire seven years—if I can draw him in to marry me, why, I am a
fine Laady
for life; and if I can't, why I shall do just as well for
Bob the Postillion.
"
Agreed: but you ought not to be company for ladies of virtue, birth, and education; nor are ye, or ever shall be, for one insignificant individual, who more than once, insignificant as she is, has mortified titled harlots of this description. One indeed sent to know what she had done, that Mrs. Berkeley would not visit her; and Mrs. Berkeley bade the lady tell her. Whether the lady did tell her or not must be guessed. The wife of a gentleman may behave very foolishly, very idly; and it may, it must, be very difficult to ascertain whether her conduct is criminal or not; and if her husband (not a known scoundrel) does not give her up, her friends and neighbours ought not to do it. But with Mary and Nan and the 'Squire, there cannot remain a doubt, especially when a poor little base-born brat appears, and is owned every year. It is the
bounden
duty of
every sincere
servant of GOD to discountenance vice; let it be seriously remembered, that
himself says,
"
Who will rise up with me against the wicked, and take my part against the evil-doers?
"
Every individual, however humble their station in life, may enjoy that honour by browbeating vice, as the worthy Dr. C
b
y, of M
, did, when his neighbour, the late Lord C. urged him to visit at
.
In a country where the QUESTION, as the torture used to be termed in France,
i.e.
the rack, is not allowed; Mrs. Berkeley did not think
very
highly of
her own mental
powers in resolving not to answer any
home-thrust,
as she termed it, however it might excite the admiration of her clever Son, and sensible excellent friend, Mrs. Duncombe, the cultivated, the enlightened relict of the late very learned, amiable, Reverend John Duncombe, M.A. well known in the learned world, and of whom the great Mr. Burke once said, speaking of him, to the Editor,
"He was a very considerable man indeed."
This lady, with whom the Editor esteems it one of her greatest earthly felicities that she has lived in the strictest, the most uninterrupted friendship for the last twenty-five years of her life, that is, ever since the commencement of their acquaintance, and to whom she feels herself deeply indebted for a thousand amiable attentions, particularly during her last melancholy visit to Canterbury—any attempt by so feeble a pen to celebrate the
elêve
of Mr. Richardson, the friend of Mrs. Epictetus Carter, the relict of the abovenamed learned, well-informed Mr. Duncombe, would be a vain effort, unless it were to sing
"
a hymn to my own praise and glory,
"
for having been honoured with the friendship of such a woman. Mrs. Duncombe's own fine pen
has, does
celebrate her fame, her praise; long may she live to use it, for the entertainment, the improvement, of those who read what is worth reading. Her letters, carefully preserved, if printed, would give the English a
Madame Sevignée
of their own nation. It is to be hoped, that some time or other they may be collected and given to the world
It is certain that they would
not
cost the pains that those of the lovely, lively, and, in her latter days, excellently pious, Madame de Sevignée's did; for one has frequently heard, that it took many months to a
patient
genius, to correct the false orthography of those very entertaining, improving letters. Madame de Sevignée had never studied "The complete Letter Writer," published some years ago. Of the minor visitations there are few things more dreaded by Mrs. Duncombe and the Editor, than an epistle from any lady who has. Last time they met, Mrs. Duncombe redde such an epistle to the Editor, who said,
"My dear friend, I am grown very stupid, I do not understand it."
"
No, how should you without the book?
"
The Editor's Father always told his girls, letters should be conversation upon paper. A most charming correspondent of the Editor's, long since removed to bliss, once shewed her a letter from a lovely young friend of her's—after a page of chit-chat, she writes thus:
"Oh! aye, but I forgot to tell you that I was married about a fortnight ago, that is true;"
and then proceeds as before. The Editor greatly prefers Miss P
ge's letter, as above quoted, to the studied epistles of
letter-book
ladies.
, although in them would be found some very
smart
strictures on the Writer of these pages. This lady, like Mr. Monck Berkeley, has often said that the Editor had an art
superior
to
magic,
in not being made to speak when she had not a mind to speak. Mrs. Duncombe
can,
and Mr. Monck Berkeley
could,
alas! entertain very highly by speaking—the Editor, it should seem, by her silence.
Mr. Berkeley, having been out of England for several months, on his return, as usual, immediately paid his duty at home. After dinner, as he sat chatting with his Mother, she said,
"Berkeley! your old friend,
, is married, since you left us, to Lord
's niece, a very sweet, pleasing, young lady. But I am sure you won't believe me, when I tell you, that it is a certain fact (no
flam
or
fun
Mr. Berkeley had the pleasure of living in great intimacy with the family of the late Lord and the present very worthy, throughly amiable, Dowager Lady Dacre. He had the honour to be a great favourite with that learned, accomplished nobleman, who used often to say,
"Berkeley, Berkeley, how you do love
fun,
as they call it at Eton, I wish you did not love
fun
quite so well."
Mrs. Berkeley used to say,
"It was an hereditary matter, quite incurable she believed, as derived to him from his Mother."
Mr. Berkeley and his Mother often amused themselves with trying to impose on the credulity of each other, to the no small diversion of Dr. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinsham.
I assure you) that he wept like a child through the whole of the ceremony."
Never, whilst the Editor retains her reason, can she forget the reception this speech met from Mr. Berkeley. He lifted up his beautiful eyes, and, with the solemnity of a pious judge when he pronounces the sentence of death, said,
"Weep, my dear Mother! Well might he weep, poor fellow! I shall wonder if he ever does any thing but weep through life."
Mrs. B.—
"Why so?"
Mr. B.—
"Why so? Why, because three years ago he courted a gentleman's daughter to marry her, when the Devil put it into his head to prevail with her to elope with him; and when he had got the poor creature to
House, he refused to marry her
The gentleman being asked to subscribe to a book, Mr. Moore's Treatise on Suicide, Gaming, and Duelling, which Dr. Berkeley used to say he esteemed to be the first, the most useful work of this century, laughingly replied to the solicitor of the guinea,
"Oh!
I
am in no manner of danger of killing myself."
That did not appear quite so certain to the person who asked the subscription. He is a young noble of very large paternal estate. Mr. Moore's two volumes are more entertaining than most novels, and as pious as most sermons. On the publication of the first volume, the Editor ventured to recommend them, in a letter in the St. James's Chronicle, proposing to have prints engraved for firescreens from some of the most
tremendous tales of woe
related by Mr. Moore. The Editor supposes it never reached Mr. Baldwin, as he generally finds a corner to insert any hint that she thinks may benefit her fellow-creatures. Dr. Berkeley made the Editor write to the very worthy Mr. Moore, to raise his inestimable volumes to three guineas, instead of to
half
that sum. Their worth, to those that
well weigh
them, is beyond all price surely.
; and the poor unhappy girl, cast off by her own family, has lived with him ever since, behaving in every other instance like an angel. Might he not well weep, my dear Mother?"
Mrs. Berkeley assured her Son, that she had never heard a tittle of this dreadful business until he told it her.
Mr. B.—
"Had I been in England, I would certainly have used all my poor rhetoric to have prevailed on him not to load his conscience through life with such a crime, but honourably, honestly marry her. The poor creature is, I hear, dying of a broken heart, for she really loved the little scoundrel. With all your saying that girls must beware of men, and take care of
themselves,
and never trust them, how often have I heard you applaud my grandfather's conduct with regard to his brother, who, having treated a lady of family in a similar way, utterly refused to marry her, and
many many
years afterwards, when he went to visit him at Cloyne, absolutely refused to see him, although he was then become what the world calls a worthy man
This unhappy gentleman married a young lady of vast fortune. He was killed at Carthagenia in the year
. His lady died of grief, and left an only daughter, who inherits her father's exquisite beauty, her mother's worth, and vast patrimony. She died about five years ago.
, but, during his two or three days visit there, dined, as you have often and often heard my Father say, in the library by himself, and no intreaties of my Grandmother or my Father could prevail upon him to see him, constantly saying, 'He is a genuine scoundrel. I trust God will forgive him upon his repentance; but
I
will never see him whilst I breathe.' And I am sure you used to have as much horror of seduction as my grandfather, Where honourable proposals had been made, how often have you rung in my ears the worthiness of
your
excellent General H
, who, having been educated in the most pious way, by his mother, Lady H
, used to return the ridicule of his friends, when a young man in the guards, for his taking up with any drab, with, 'Well, well, you may laugh as you please; but
I
would not, for
all this
world has to give, have the ruin of an innocent woman to answer for."
This excellent gentleman has, for near forty years, done due honour to his, alas! for this poor nation,
very uncommonly
pious education,—family prayers every day, with the lessons and psalms of the day—and the Editor hears with pleasure, that his exemplary care of his family is repaid, by that God whose doctrine
"he so beautifully adorns,"
by the excellent conduct of his children. May
they
be spared to him! Long may
he
be spared a blessing to them!
Few men, perhaps, have ever been formed with more qualifications to make a complete orator than Mr. Berkeley; a very uncommonly harmonious musical voice, with, from an infant, the sweetest tones imaginable, which he could at pleasure elevate, like his grandfather, Bishop Berkeley, to
tremendous
thunder; taught, from four years old, to repeat by heart, without rant or forced action, being told, after he properly understood the meaning of what he had learned, to repeat it as he felt it on his own mind; and being, from seven years old, accustomed to talk with delight of speaking in Westminster Hall; he took every opportunity of improving himself.
When a boy at Canterbury School, which, as has been already observed, he quitted at twelve years old, during the sessions for the city at the Guild-Hall, and for the county at the old Castle, Mr. Berkeley generally went without his dinner, flying off the instant the school broke up to the court, to hear the pleadings. He once prevailed on his Father to permit him to go, attended by Mr. Wrightson, under a strict promise
"
of doing every thing that John bade him,
"
to Maidstone, to attend at the assizes. On his return home, he related all the causes and pleadings, and a particular in the summing up the evidence by Sir William Blackstone, as accurately as if he had taken it all down in short-hand, which he could not then do. He was, if the French expression
fort éveillié
may be permitted to be translated into English, the most
awaked
of all creatures.
Nothing
escaped him; he caught every thing he saw, and wished to know, in a moment. One instance proves it very strongly. Soon after he went to Eton he had a
raging
desire to learn to fence, which his Father was
resolved
he should
not
do, until he attained to a certain age, fixed by him. All Mr. Berkeley's arguments that the Bishop had let his Father learn at fourteen were ineffectual; Dr. Berkeley saying, that many youths of fashion were often killed by its straining their lungs when they were too tender to bear it. Mr. Berkeley was, however, resolved to learn what he could, as he afterwards told his Father, saying,
"I had little trouble when
I did
learn; for I used, instead of going to cricket, &c. to go regularly at the hours of learning, and fix myself like a statue at the window."
Whilst the very worthy, respectable, universally respected Mr. Angelo was instructing his pupils, he used to say,
"I think I hardly came
honestly
by my skill in fencing. But Angelo is as worthy, amiable a man as ever lived; and, I dare say, did not grudge me what I so gleaned from his great skill."
When Mr. Berkeley spoke his Prize Exercise in the Parliament Hall at St. Andrews, before the then Chancellor of that University, the late Earl of Kinnoul; when all the prize exercises had been delivered, Lord Kinnoul went to Mr. Berkeley, and, embracing him, said,
"I rejoice, Sir, to embrace the grandson of my dear old friend, Bishop Berkeley, and to be able to say, that
I
never heard speech
so
spoken from this pulpit since I have had the honour to be Chancellor here."
Mr. Berkeley had redde his prize exercise near fifty times over to his Mother. Just before he went out, he conjured her to hear him once more, that he might lay his emphasis exactly right. The request was complied with.
Mr. Berkeley, together with his amiable, beloved friend, the late, learned Sir John Ramsey, and his dear friend, Mr. Lennard, frequently spent part of their vacation very pleasantly at Lord Kinnoul's seat. A droll anecdote or two might be here related, particularly a scene in the Library; but this Preface is already too long, and the reader has, perhaps, frequently exclaimed,
"What is all this chit-chat to
me?
I wish to read the great actions of great men."
If so, according to the advice of the
great
Johnson, and the
little
Editor, read Sir Francis Knollys's History of the Turks, Marcus Antoninus, &c.
But to return from this digression. It is impossible to omit an amiable attention of a young Scotch gentleman, who, with his wonderfully sensible younger brother Thomas, constantly attended the service of the Church of England at Dr. Berkeley's, and who were frequently invited to visit there. The young Laird of Logie-Almon came running into Mrs. Berkeley's dressing-room quite breathless; he threw himself into a chair, and on Mrs. Berkeley's enquiring if he was ill, and asking whether he would have any thing, he replied,
"No, my dear Madam; no. But I flew hither to tell you how delightfully Mr. Berkeley has spoken; and in what
extacies
Lord Kinnoul (one of the many guardians of this very pleasing, amiable, young gentleman) said to me, I thought it
must
delight you; so I ran every step of the way, that I might be the
first
to tell you of it. I was sadly frightened at first, poor Mr. Berkeley
The Editor has heard from others, never from her Son (although from him, by letter, she heard much of his
expected
tremors), that the first night of his speaking at Blenheim, even whilst his obliging neighbours, the Mayor, Corporation, and their families, were clapping him; which the dear amiable Bishop of Norwich wrote Dr. Berkeley word, the next post, they did for some minutes before they suffered him to speak; Mr. Berkeley dropt his hat, and was unable to take it up, so exceedingly did his hand tremble; and on the stage it must have remained, but that the very accomplished, amiable Lord Mount Edgecombe, happening to see Mr. Berkeley's distress, stepped on the stage, picked up the hat, and gave it to him.
trembled violently, and was so long before he
began
to speak, that I expected every moment, the Chancellor would say,
Pray, Sir, begin;
and that would have made him ten times worse. But when he had once begun, he got courage, and went on nobly; and every body is astonished."
This young gentleman was at that time barely fifteen years old. May he, as a man, through life, be what he was in youth!
A very extraordinary circumstance happened at the birth of this young gentleman. A very aged domestic of the Drummond family, many years more than an hundred, who lived in a little cot (by the bounty of the excellent Laird) on Logie-Almon estate, as soon as he heard that his dear Laird had a son, walked down about a mile to get a sight of him. He was told the infant was asleep. He returned the next day. The Laird walked out; Lady Catharine feared letting the child be carried out of the room. He returned the day but one following: the Laird
at home,
ordered the infant down, to be viewed by worthy old Steel; who, taking him into his arms, said,
"
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.
I thank thee for having permitted me to see (the Editor thinks) the
seventh
generation of my dear old first master
A somewhat similar circumstance occurred between two relations of the Editor.
"Old Tom Leigh of Iver, the
honestest old Tory in England,
"
aged about ninety—on the birth of the late Colonel Powney, member for Windsor—ordered his coach, and went over to Iver Place, to congratulate his friend Powney. He rejected caudle, cake, &c. and, to the no small amazement of Mr. Powney, said,
"Tell your butler to bring us a bottle of wine."
The infant was desired to be brought down; when Mr. Leigh, filling out a glass of wine, took the infant's hand, saying,
"Little man, I have come hither on purpose to have the pleasure of drinking a
bottle
of wine with
you,
the fifth of your family with whom I have enjoyed that pleasure."
The Powneys are a short-lived family; the Leighs, in general, very long-lived. The Editor's ancestor of that name lived to a great age.
."
The excellent Laird, equally delighted, ordered him refreshment. He walked gently home, sat down in his chair, saying,
"
Now I am happy
"
—and his faithful affectionate spirit took its flight without even a sigh.
Those medical gentlemen of skill, who heard the above fact (much spoken of at the time) agreed, that had he seen the young Laird on the first day when he went for that purpose, the spirit of the good old man had been freed three days sooner; that his ardent desire had detained it. One has frequently heard of similar instances of the detention of the spirit in its earthly prison for hours, even days. What a wonder is the spirit of man! How passing wonder HE who implants it in the curiously wrought prison! The late very sensible, unfortunate, Honourable Colonel Nairne, a great collector, who had a fine print of old Steel, which Mr. Monck Berkeley purchased, with many other curiosities, after his death, has frequently told the Editor, that the engraver mistook in setting down his age, one hundred and nine, that it ought to have been one hundred and thirty-nine. One cannot help dropping a tear on the lamentable fate of this very accomplished, well-informed man. His father, Lord Nairne, unfortunately engaged in the Rebellion; the son fighting for the Hanover family. The first duty to which he was appointed, was to go and batter down his own noble magnificent castle. His late Majesty, who knew him personally, was very desirous to have given him a regiment and other bounties; but the Duke of Cumberland prevented it, by telling his Majesty it was
impossible
a man who had suffered so much could ever forget or forgive it. Thus the desperate, despairing, poor sinner, thinks of an all-merciful Saviour; although he has repeatedly declared,
"Him that cometh to me (
i.e.
during the state of trial on earth) I will no wise cast out."
—There is no SAVING repentance
after
death—whilst we are on earth, he is a Sovereign,
"
mighty to us:
The Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world."
The instant we quit the body, he becomes our Judge—the Lion of the tribe of Judah. The Editor is not a disciple of the acute
; she has redde Horbury, and thinks with Dr. Young,
"Not so our Infidels—."
"—A GOD ALL Mercy—is a GOD unjust."
Indeed, so anxious was Mr. Berkeley to improve himself in public speaking, that, with the permission of Principal M'Cormick, of whose polite attentions to himself and the other English
gentlemen
students he always spoke in high terms
The Editor seldom recollects to have seen Mr. Berkeley more angry than once in a large circle, when a gentleman said,
"Mr. Berkeley, Dr. Gilbert Stuart has wonderfully attacked your Scotch Principal of St. Andrews,"
and proceeded to repeat what Stuart had published. Mr. Berkeley reddened with indignation, and said,
"He is a rascal;—and, let him say what he
will, I
say, who lived near four years under his discipline, that his conduct towards us was remarkably gentleman-like and liberal; and, I am persuaded, there is not one Englishman that would not join me in declaring it; and Stuart is a rascal, I repeat it."
, he instituted a
Literarii Viginti,
who were to meet and speak for two or three hours in the evening, either once a week, or once a fortnight. The Principals, Professors, gentlemen of the city and neighbourhood, frequently honoured this little seminary of
juvenile
orators with their presence. Two on each side were generally chosen to speak and oppose; and every one, as in the House of Commons, was permitted to rise and speak on either side. Those appointed to speak on the subject always carried a speech prepared on paper. Mr. Berkeley used always to say,
"Hang that paper, I am so glad when I have done with it. When I throw my notes aside, I can speak with
spirit.
I hate to be hampered. I love to be, as the French say,
coudes franches.
I believe I shall
do
at the bar; for I feel twice the strength after all my arguments are opposed and pulled to pieces, that I do at going on without opposition; it
animates,
it
inspires
me."
One morning, after a Viginti evening, Mrs. Berkeley, walking out, was met by Professors Hill, Hunter, Baron, and many others, who all congratulated her on the figure Mr. Berkeley had made the preceding evening amongst the young orators. It would be wasting ink to say how much the heart of the Mother of an only child must have felt this commendation.
A rather laughable circumstance occurred two or three days afterwards. Mrs. Berkeley, taking her usual walk by the sea, was met by a lady, who, after
complimenting
her on Mr. Berkeley's fine speaking, added,
"and my son spoke too, and did pretty well, I hear."
Mrs. Berkeley, who, as her Son always said of her,
"would not flatter Royalty;"
no, not her favourite
"Queen of Sheba, were she now on earth;"
said,
"she was glad to hear that sweet
had done so well."
A most lovely excellent young man he was; and Mrs. Berkeley used frequently to say to him, as she used to say to the angelic Mr. Montgomerie a dozen years before,
"
, if I had a daughter with an
hundred thousand pounds
in her pocket, and you had
only
the coat on your back,
such as you are,
I would beg the
favour
of you to marry her."
Should any one read thus far, perhaps long ago they have done it, they will probably again exclaim,
"The creature is a FOOL! quite an IDIOT!"
But the Editor never conceived any happiness could arise from setting two sacks of gold together, any more than that bread will be produced by setting two sacks of wheat side by side. But to return. This wise lady proceeded,
"Well, Mrs. Berkeley; as both our sons have spoken, and gained credit, let
you
and
I
make an agreement, that
they
shall not speak any more,
for fear
they should lose the credit they have gained."
To which Mrs. Berkeley, observing the
extreme
cleverness of the speaker, replied,
"Oh! dear Madam, you know you are
sole
directress of
; but, thank God, my Son has a
much wiser
director than his Mother. Dr. Berkeley is a most excellent judge, and judicious director of young men's education; and I have no more idea of interfering in parts of my Son's education as a scholar, than I have of sitting down to write a Visitation or Assize Sermon for his Father; BUT I will
certainly
tell him what YOU, Madam, say."
Mrs. Berkeley
failed not
to do it; BUT Mr. Berkeley went on speaking, without losing
any
of his credit as an orator. Two of the Scotch speakers are now in England, the learned, entertaining, Reverend Mr. James Bruce, Mr. Berkeley's tutor, and the gentle, pleasing Mr. William Kemp, tutor to Mr. Lennard, who was many years ago recommended, through Dr. Berkeley's recommendation, by his amiable friend, the late Lord Dacre, into the family of the Earl of Beverley, where his uncommon merits as a tutor are felt, and most generously, most nobly rewarded, by the noble descendant of the great hero of Chevy-Chace.
Soon after Mr. Berkeley's return to England he began to feel an ardent desire to obtain a seat in Parliament. How was that wish to be gratified? Bishop Berkeley was too generous to amass a fortune. He constantly gave away with both hands. After thirty thousand pounds debt paid by Mr. Berkeley's grandmother, Mrs. Frinsham, and her single sister, Mrs. Cherry, of their grandfather William Cherry, Esquire, and
establishing,
instead of taking, (as ordered by him if wanted to pay his debts,) a very good estate left by him to found a charity school in the parish of Bray in Berkshire, where lay a large part of his vast estate
It would be a pleasantry to say, that the burning of Cliefden's "
Proud Alcove
" finished it; but, on that conflagration, the other day, went ten thousand pounds more of old Mr. Cherry's fortune; he having lent the Duke of Buckingham, commonly, justly, called the wicked Duke of Buckingham, that sum to build that delightful mansion. Mr. Berkeley's Mother and Aunt have a note of hand of the Duke for seven thousand pounds. The Editor did not produce it as any part of her fortune when she married. The wonder was, that
so very acute
a man as old Mr. Cherry certainly was,
should lend to such
a man as the Duke of Buckingham, so large a sum, on only a common note of hand.—but Mr. Cherry was immensely rich, and lent to every one of his friends that asked him—accordingly his great-grand-daughter finds
some
of her kind friends much more ready to
lend
than
she is to borrow
—for which may GOD reward them here and hereafter.
. The South-Sea bubble had, although not beggared, yet wonderfully reduced the large remainder of Mr. Cherry's fortune; so that, during the life of Mr. Berkeley's Mother, he could not get a qualification that would sit easy on
his
conscience. His Mother, on learning this, offered to give up
entirely
into his hands her whole settlement, adding,
"I have, from your infancy, ever said, 'If
I must be
absolutely dependant on any fallen child of Adam, may it be on Berkeley! not on dear sweet Robert; for Berkeley has a generosity of soul that
I
have never seen in any human being, through my whole life, but in himself alone."
On saying this he exclaimed,
"Jesus avert that I should be SUCH a villian. No; I would, were it necessary, sooner carry a brown musket, than ever touch a six-pence of your settlement. It is too small, we all know. No; never whilst my name is Berkeley, will I ever diminish it. It may, I hope, please God that I may live to
add
to it."
On his coming home at vacation-time, he often mentioned curious causes at Westminster Hall and the Old Bailey. His Father one day said,
"Berkeley, it does not seem to me that you go often to the House of Commons. I should think that you would be there perpetually."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"My dear Sir, I never go at all."
Dr. B.—
"Never go. How is that? I am sure you know at least
half
an hundred members that would take you in."
Mr. B.—
"Yes, my dear Sir, I know men enough that would take me in
every
day if I would go; but I will
not go.
I dare not trust myself."
Mrs. B.—
"Not trust yourself! what, do you think you should spring up and speak?"
Mr. B.—
"No, my dear Madam, no; but I am afraid the Devil should tempt me to long
so much
to get into Parliament, that I should deceive myself, and reason myself into a belief that a
sham
qualification had no harm in it; and therefore, the Lord being my helper, I never will set foot in St. Stephen's Chapel, unless I can go thither properly authorized to speak. So you will never hear any account from
me
of the orators there."
Mr. Berkeley went perpetually to hear Hastings's Trial. He told his Father, that
"after listening with all the attention he was possessed of to the harangues of a certain great Orator, he conceived that his grand argument was a strong arm, which enabled him to
thump
the table violently
The Orator here described, has
certainly
many other arguments than
"
thumping the table.
"
—But Mr. Berkeley was so convinced of Mr. Hastings's innocence with regard to
money
matters, that he felt indignation at his nearest friends for not seeing it. The Editor, at one time, suffered a sort of persecution from her
two
sons (the excellent Mr. Grimston she always styled her
second
son), so as to occasion her threatening to bolt her dressing-room door—enter Mr. Berkeley with a thick pamphlet—
"My dear Mother, I conjure you to read
this,
and you will be
convinced
that Hastings is an injured man."
"My dear Son, I have redde Mr. Hastings's
own
letter, where he says, 'Nothing can be done in this business until Mr. Fowke is removed;' Now
you know,
I have told you a score times, that 'if there is
but one
honest man upon earth,
that man
is my old friend Mr. Fowke, whom I have not seen these last thirty years; but men seldom turn rogues at
fifty.
You know the
two
instances of his
stern
integrity, that I have held up to your imitation since you were ten years old."
Then enter Mr. Grimston, with two or three
thick
treatises on the INIQUITY of the Slave-trade—
"Come now, my dear Madam, I am sure you
can,
you
will,
find time to read
these,
and you will see
"
—
"See what, my dear Grimston, you know that I am a great reader of a
very old fashioned book;
and I read
there,
in Leviticus, 'WHOSOEVER is found stealing a MAN, shall SURELY be put to death;' now I believing, with
all
my soul,
that argument
against the Slave-trade, what would you have more of me?"
When they are stolen, would to God all would treat them as does my kindly respected friend John Ashley, Esquire, of Jamaica, none of whose slaves
will accept
their freedom when asked.
."
It must here be said, that Mr. Berkeley was a strenuous assertor of Mr. Hastings's innocence. He had put himself to considerable expence to procure documents from India, and had prepared for the press, perhaps as elaborate an investigation of Mr. Hastings's conduct and character, as beautiful a defence as was ever penned, which he, however, the day before it was to be sent to the press, sacrificed to paternal authority. He brought it to the Editor, and, with tears in his eyes, threw it on her table, saying,
"There is a
sacrifice to duty.
I beseech you to take care of it. It cost me many pounds and much time, and might have benefited,
I think,
an injured man. Do not let it be lost; perhaps it may, some time or other, see the light."
It is, as requested, still carefully preserved, with many other things of Mr. Berkeley's writing; for he was never idle but whilst in company. When at his Father's, he retired soon after dinner, and immediately after tea. As he very seldom ate any supper, as soon as the cloth was removed, his servant notified it to him, and he came down and entertained his friends with his enlivening conversation, and sometimes delighted the soul of his Mother, by complying with her request to sing to her the hymn sung by the Eton College gentlemen. It begins
"
Salvator Mundi,
"
&c.
It may be asked, why the Editor, who, as an old servant of her mother's once said,
"
I don't know Latin from English,
"
knows not Latin, but had two kind translators of it, and Mr. Berkeley's voice, when he sang any thing sacred, was quite divine, very like Mr. Airson's. His father, early in life,
charged
him never to sing in company.
. until the servants came in to family prayers; after which he more frequently retired to study than to rest.
Few persons were ever more strongly impressed with the terror of being called into judgement for idleness than Mr. Berkeley. During the latter part of his illness he would frequently exclaim,
"Lord, forgive me; what an idle life I do lead! Surely God will call me to account for it."
His Mother assured him that
did not resemble Pharaoh's task-masters; that the work God had then appointed him to, was what he daily performed, bearing with the most perfect resignation, and the sweetest, cheerful submission, his heavenly Father's gracious chastisements, for which, when not in actual agony, he humbly, heartily, thanked God for sending him.
Mr. Berkeley's delicate attentions to his Mother's feelings were throughly amiable. When he was about three and twenty, in the summer vacation he went down to his Father's, and one day said to his Mother,
"I might have had a fine summer of it if I had pleased, for my friend
pressed me exceedingly to spend it with him. A
Charming high
were spoken by Mr. Berkeley; for the Editor, who always laughed at the young men of her acquaintance, for any thing
outré
—wishing to
brush
the moon, or break their necks from an elevated phaëton, or odious high gig.
charming high
phaëton and
four
in hand, a delightful neighbourhood, and near
."
Mrs. B.—
"Well, my dear child, and why were you such a simpleton as not to go?"
Mr. B.—
"No; I chose rather to come and spend some part of it with you."
Mrs. B.—
"With me! how could you be such a fool? Have not I always told you, as I used to tell your dear Father when he was young, if any pleasant scheme presents itself, never to think you have a wife, but enjoy it. I will never expect you at home till I see you; only write to me, that
I
may enjoy
your
happiness by rebound. So
I
have always said to you since you grew up. Do not think of your Mother. If
you
are happy,
she
is so."
Mr. B.—
"Well, but, my dear Madam, the case is this: Some fellow or other would have told you that
is a Deist; and they would have told you truth; and then you would have been wild for fear of your poor Bairne.
Mrs. B.—
"My dear, I honour, as I ever must, the extreme delicacy of your conduct towards your Mother from your childhood. But I should not have been uneasy; for, I humbly thank God, I am persuaded my Bairne is too well grounded to let even the arguments of so learned, so acute a man as
have any influence on
your
faith, founded on the Rock of Ages."
About two years before Mr. Berkeley's death his Mother said,
"What is become of
? I think I never hear you speak of him now."
Mr. B.—
"Why no, my dear Mother, I very seldom see him. I found it
quite
impossible for
me
to do him
any
good, and I was
resolved
that
he
should not do
me
any harm; so by degrees I gently dropped him, intimate as we formerly were."
The blessings of being throughly instructed, wellgrounded in the true faith in early youth, is most beautifully described in a letter of the late Dr. Kenrick, Prebendary of Westminster, minister of Hambledown, father of the worthy Lady Gibbon. During Dr. Berkeley's residence in Scotland Mr. Berkeley brought his Mother a very dirty old Edinburgh magazine, with a leaf folded, saying,
"My dear Madam, there is a letter that will delight you."
It was from Dr. Kenrick (the year forgot) it deserves to be printed in letters of GOLD.
Mr. Berkeley, when staying at his Father's house in Berkshire, had books constantly from Bull's circulating library at Bath, or from Hookham's. His amiable spirit led him always to order, that
some
of the allowed number should be such as would be pleasant to his Mother. He one day coming down into the drawing-room to tea, with a book in his hand, said,
"Observe, now, how persons are rewarded for serving their
friends.
I sent for this book
solely
on my
Mother's
account, not meaning to read three pages of it myself; for I am at present very busy; and when I opened it to twirl over the leaves, I have been so charmed by it, that I have redde every line attentively; and, when my Mother has finished it, I shall read it over again."
This book was The CALVARY of the excellent Mr. Cumberland, just then published. Mr. Berkeley spoke of it,
as it merits to be spoken of,
in all companies. A
learned critic
once said,
"Sir, I am surprized to hear
you
speak so very highly of it, who are certainly a very excellent judge of poetry,"
and began objecting to some lines which he termed prosaic. At length Mr. Berkeley replied,
"Well, Sir, it is possible there may be more piety than poetry in some of the lines; but I think it was worth being born, if it were only to have written that
excellent
work."
A gentleman once said to Dr. Berkeley,
"I wonder Mr. Berkeley is not as vain and conceited as he is high, so admired, so caressed, and courted, as he is in town."
Mr. Berkeley, in conversation at the other end of the room, overhearing it, broke off, and said,
"Alas! Sir, no; Mr. Berkeley
knows himself
too
well
to be made vain. He knows what he is equal to, and can never be
fool
enough to be vain."
His humility was great. When abroad, every marked attention that was shown to him by eminent men of great learning or high rank, he constantly, humbly, attributed to his being the grandson of so great a man as Bishop Berkeley, who was extremely well known and highly respected, as a wonderful genius, in France, Italy, and Germany. Before what a late
blackguard
publication has called
"
a few lucky words of Mr. Pope's,
"
that great man, according to the account of his very old intimate friend, the late learned Richard Dalton, Esquire, of Lincolnshire, who, with Sir John James, accompanied Bishop Berkeley to America, was, at least,
sixty-six
years old when the said
"
lucky words
"
were written. Bishop Berkeley was idolized in England—before he set off for America was offered a bishopric—used to go to St. James's, two evenings in a week, to dispute with Dr. Samuel Clarke before Queen Caroline, then Princess of Wales—had a magnificent gold medal presented to him by his late Majesty when Prince of Wales, as a keep-sake, at the time that the Father of the said PUBLICATOR
Dr. Berkeley used frequently to say to his Son,
"I do admire the words of your Mother's coining. They are wonderfully
expressive,
energetic."
—The Editor, when unexpectedly hearing of any base or worthless person, or action, has ever been addicted to utter her indignation in a word of her own composing, if she thought no Dictionary afforded one sufficiently strong.
was employed) it is to be hoped not in cheating) as bailiff by a noble relation of the Bishop's. That noble Goliath in punishing ingratitude and sauciness, Mr. Burke, has most happily introduced holy Job; he has not quoted one verse, quoted below, for which, as he, Mr. Burke, says,
"we do not find Job reprehended."
"Whose fathers I would have disdained to have set with the
dogs
of the flock."
—
Job,
chap. xxx. verse 1.
It is certain that when Bp. Berkeley dined at his noble relation's, Lady
, the father of this acute UNGRATEFUL Publicator did
not
dine at the same table with her Ladyship and the Bishop. By the generosity of Mr. Berkeley
The account in Dr. Berkeley's own hand was lately shewn by the Editor to an acquaintance of the Publicator's—on the
universal ourcry
on the
manner
in which Dr. Berkeley and his Father are mentioned in that
inimitable
work, "The Life of the excellent Bishop Horne."
one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, at different times, were presented to this Publicator, which must have been a pleasant addition to a poor curacy.
Poor
Dr. Berkeley seems tacitly censured in the
said
publication, for giving his honoured Patron
"
no rest until he preferred a particular friend.
"
The Editor has been repeatedly asked who that was? and
violent
exclamation has constantly followed the answer. A gentleman, within this week, told the Editor, that Dr. Berkeley said to him eighteen years ago,
"Until I had gotten preferment for
, I used to receive all his publications bound in blue or green Morocco, magnificently gilt and lettered; but, since I have never received any
even in boards.
"
Dr. Berkeley, in procuring from Archbishop Secker preferment for the Reverend Mr. Andrews, the incomparable answerer of Bishop Warburton, served the most grateful of men—farther this deponent saith not at present.
All the PUBLICATOR's letters, some very curious, were preserved by Dr. Berkeley; some
few
were deposited in the hands of the Editor, and are models of
. In one the PUBLICATOR tells Dr. Berkeley,
"I begin to think it time I got some
Dignity
in the Church, as I wish to keep a
Carriage.
I think I should like a stall at Canterbury."
It may, perhaps, not be impertinent to remark, that the Archbishop of Canterbury has only
three
stalls to dispose of; and that at this time his Lady's nephew, the polite, elegant Dr. Benson, and the son of his friend Bishop Berkeley, were only
poor Vicars,
the one of Bray in Berks, the other of Shepherd-Well in Kent. The PUBLICATOR seems to have
laboured
to pour contempt on the name of BERKELEY; but it was renowned in history before he was born. Every one remembers the answer that poor Sir Roger de Coverley received from the
Royalist
when he enquired the way to
Anne's
Church, Soho,
"that she was a Saint before he was born, and would be after he was hanged!!!
See the Spectator.
"
The Editor hopes that
she
may not be doing what her honoured Father-in-law never would do, when he refused to make the least answer to any of the scurrilous things written against him by that worse than savage monster Archbishop King of Dublin; Bishop Berkeley saying,
"The noticing them would be like preserving a
dirty
fly in AMBER."
The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley relate the following story from his father: This old monster and Bishop Berkeley, then Fellow of Dublin College, a
little
known in the learned world, were both at dinner in Dublin at the house of an Earl, whose title the Editor does not at present recollect, but who had a beautiful Lady and an house full of remarkably fine children. During the time of dinner, half a score of servants in waiting, this
purpled
brute said,
"Whenever I see a parcel of fine children, I
always
look round the table to see which of the footmen is the father of them."
With these words he threw his
devilish
eyes around the room. The Lay Peer must have been a saint not to have ordered his domestics to drag the spiritual one nine times through the kennel, and the Lady must have been either an
angel
or a
fool
not instantly to have risen from table. They, however, contented themselves with never admitting his GRACE within their doors any more. The late Dr. Berkeley used frequently to relate this and two or three other stories, in order, as he used to say to Mr. Berkeley,
"to call your Mother out."
To be sure, Mrs. Berkeley used to
storm nobly
on these occasions, to the great diversion of her amiable husband, who used to ask
"What would SHE have done had she been Lady
?"
To which she used to reply,
"Why never have visited any woman who admitted that BRUTE into her drawing-room."
An
heavy
punishment, to be sure; but the Editor, insignificant as she is, has often mortified
fine
ladies, even of rank, in that way. She began early. About the age of twenty, soon after the death of her excellent Mother, being with her younger sister at a waterdrinking place, Lady
, who had done
the favour to live with him five years previous to her being married to him, came thither, was visited by every mortal; Lady
, Lady
, &c. &c. yet all this availed her
poor
Ladyship, with a set of horses, two men cooks, of whom she made
frequent
mention, and about twenty thousand pounds
per annum,
like Haman with Mordecai. These two little insignificant country gentleman's daughters
would not
visit her Ladyship. They were told, that it was
ridiculous, not
to do it. Some of their relations, their superiors, told them that they
ought
to do it. It availed not; they were as stubborn as two little mules. Well; but her Ladyship would,
willi nilhi,
constantly join the one who drank the waters every morning, and converse with her. She one morning said,
"She computed all her ill health to a bad lying-in."
FAME said, that her Ladyship never had lain-in at all.
The Editor and her sister always went to town every spring from Windsor, where they resided before Mrs. Berkeley married, for about two months or ten weeks, to look about them, and prevent their being rusticated. At Ranelagh, the Ridotto, &c. her Ladyship never failed to find them out, come to them, and make the kindest enquiries. A woman of quality once, at an installation at Windsor, said to Mrs. Berkeley, then Miss Frinsham,
"How comes it that
you
visit Lady
?"
Miss Frinsham.—
"I visit her! who told you that I visited her?"
Lady
"Nobody; but just now she happened to see you, and said, 'Oh! there is Miss Frinsham;
I must go,
and speak to her directly;' and away she
bustled.
(Her Ladyship's gait was of that description.) I thought, by her manner, that you were very intimate."
Miss Frinsham replied—
"It was her own fault that she did not enjoy that
honour.
"
The poor Lady is now no longer an inhabitant of this world.
Such contempt may the most insignificant pour on VICE. It is not saying,
"
Stand by thyself; I am holier than thou.
"
God avert such pride from every
real
child of God. The Editor who, during a course of forty years, has been frequently in such skirmishes, has been often asked
"If they may not be
very
penitent;"
to which her constant reply is, the poet tells us, that
" 'Tis best repenting in a coach and six."
But the Editor has no
great
idea of the house-maid or the kitchen-maid's repentance
in
the
coach and six.
Her penitents are such as the late lovely Lady of
, who, having trusted that most agreeable of wretches
too far,
was ruined, and he compelled by Authority to marry her. She was, as country-folks in Berkshire phrase it, made an
honest woman.
But the Editor has been repeatedly told by an intimate excellent friend of hers, who constantly added,
"I had probably shared the same fate as Miss
, if my excellent Mother-in-law had not watched over me at eighteen, and never left me one minute alone with
;"
adding,
"I am sure, had my Mother been asked whether she would choose to leave me alone with
or with a tiger, she would not have hesitated to prefer the tiger."
How different are mothers
now,
in these enlightened days, to what they were fifty years ago!
was of the sly tiger kind, and seldom laid wait for his prey in vain. This excellent lady has often told the Editor, that after Miss
was married, no one ever saw that she had an eye, for she never lifted those beauteous causes of her sad fall, from the earth, scarce ever spoke in company, but little to her most intimate friends, and died of grief at the end of two years. Happily her worthy Son resembles his Mother more than his Father. This was repentance although in a coach and six, which Miss
's situation in life might entitle her to, for she was the daughter of a gentleman, and had a very good fortune.
Some few years ago Dr. Berkeley, going to spend some months at
, Mr. Monck Berkeley said to his Mother,
"Now, my dear Mother, as soon as you get to
, such a lady (naming the name) will visit you, and you
must
return her visit. You must
not
know that she broke her first husband's heart by her
flirtations
with her present husband, whom she
."
"But all that is nothing, you know, to
you.
"
—
"No, my dear; but, I am afraid, it will be somewhat to
her
one day or other; and
must
is a bold word for any body to use to your Mother, excepting it is your Father."
He turned to his Father, and said,
"I wished to hear my Mother's sentiments of
that
Lady."
It has been said before, that Mr. Berkeley could not rest if he saw any creature in distress, from which it was possible for him to relieve him. In the year 1787, during the long vacation, Mr. Berkeley, with two of his Temple friends, J. R. Baker, Esquire, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and another, very sensible, amiable, young gentleman, now no more, took a trip to the continent. During their residence there, Mr. Berkeley had it in his power to assist, in a very awkward and unpleasant situation, a very worthy amiable personage of very high rank, his Serene Highness the then reigning Prince of Saxe Gotha, uncle to the King of England. The circumstances attending this transaction are too long to be related here. In the vessel the Prince saw and admired Mr. Berkeley's wonderfully curious Highland dog of a very scarce breed, so much as to make Mr. Berkeley often regret that he could not prevail upon himself to present him to his Serene Highness; but adding,
"My faithful companion so many hundred miles, in so many different countries, I found I could not part with OSCAR."
Mr. Berkeley's honest Scot, Richie, did the honours of Oscar, told his serene Highness many wonderful, yet actually true, stories of the sagacity, fidelity,
prudence,
of that lovely beast. On the discovery of the Duke's rank, poor Ritchie said to his master,
"Laird, Sir, what an a sad thing it is that I must lave ye!"
Mr. Berkeley.—
"Leave me, Ritchie! Why must you leave me? Have you got a better place, laddy?"
Ritchie.—
"No, Sir, no; but I can never go back to England."
Mr. B.—
"Why not, Ritchie?"
Ritchie.—
"Why, Sir, that elderly gentleman that talked so much to you is the King's uncle: Laird have mercy upon me, and that ever
I
should not know it, and should dare to talk to him so about the dog—to be sure, the King will have me hanged if I go back to England. I will stay till you go, and then contrive, if I can, to slip into Scotland."
Mr. Berkeley answered for his Majesty; but some of Mr. Berkeley's English friends, to divert themselves, encouraged poor Ritchie's fears. His Serene Highness at parting expressed his gratitude for Mr. Berkeley's services, and most condescendingly said,
"I find, Sir, that you are a great traveller. I hope, sometime or other, that curiosity (although we have not much of curious) may lead you to my Court, where I shall be most happy to return your wonderfully kind attentions to me by every respect in my power."
Mr. Berkeley used often to say,
"Ritchie is a true Scot, he will not own that he sees (like the pumkins in the
The well-known story of the English gentleman's ordering his gardener to tie pumkins on a pear tree—and the foolish vain Scot saying he had seen the like
"in the Duke of Argyle's garden in Scotland."
No person is ridiculous for
unavoidable
ignorance—every person, of every nation, for pretending to knowledge they do not possess.
Duke of Argyle's garden) any thing of any kind better in England than in Scotland."
One day, when Mr. Berkeley came down to dinner, he said,
"Well, I must confess, Ritchie has at length vanquished me, just when I plumed myself on victory. As he was dressing my hair, just now, it occurred to me I will ask Richie, if ever he saw a crusade in Scotland, and see if he will answer, O yes, Sir, in the
Loodons,
i. e. the Lothians. I put the question, Ritchie, did you ever see a crusade?"
Ritchie.—
"Crusade, Sir? what an a thing is it? is it any beasty?"
i. e.
a beast.
Mr. B.—
"No; it is a great number of people collected together to go to Jerusalem to recover it out of the hands of the Infidels."
Ritchie.—
"O! yes, Sir; I have seen that in the Loodons (his native county). When you were in Edinburgh last, you gave me leave to visit my friends; and I heard of them, and went to the wood where they were all waiting to go to Jerusalem."
Mr. Berkeley then recollected to have heard in Edinburgh, that there were a few deluded poor creatures who had assembled themselves in a wood, expecting to be conveyed through the air to the Holy Land. Their numbers increased prodigiously afterwards, as was related, and a long account was given of them in some Magazine, the Editor thinks the Gentleman's. What became of these poor deluded souls she does not recollect to have heard; but Mr. Berkeley, laughing, said,
"I must now give it up as a gone cause, the hope of finding out any thing Ritchie has not seen in the Loodons."
The PUBLICATOR, as mentioned before, very soon found out that he did not like the situation of his living. Poor Dr. Berkeley was
worried
to besiege good Archbishop Secker to exchange it for another; one with a better house, and
much
better income, was soon given to this
"
particular,
"
this GRATEFUL friend; where he commenced his acquaintance, and, by the
elegance
of his manners, soon formed that
intimacy
with the present Sir Edward Dering, Baronet, of Surrenden, which, for many months, afforded so much amusement in West Kent, and even in East Kent. His contentions with that gentleman, concerning game, could not be that he might send some to his friend, Dr. Berkeley; for he never, in his whole life, sent him even a lark.
Some time after the PUBLICATOR had been gratified by the exchange of his living, Dr. Berkeley went, as he frequently did, to make a visit of some weeks at Lambeth. The first day at dinner his Grace accosted him thus:
"Dr. Berkeley, I HEAR that your friend Mr.
has been in town for about a fortnight.
I hear
it, for I cannot say
I saw
him. He did not find his way to Lambeth."
Poor Dr. Berkeley sat abashed at, as he termed it, the brutal folly, to say nothing of the
ingratitude,
of this
particular
friend, and replied,
"I hope that your Grace must have been misinformed."
—
"No, my good young gentleman, I have not been misinformed;" (then quickening his voice, as he frequently did;) "for he was seen driving over Westminster-bridge in a hackney-coach," (the
Publicator
had not
then
a carriage of his own;) "and," (quickening his voice still more) "in
many
other parts of the town."
To this no answer could
possibly
be made. A
mourne silence
followed, until broken by that loveliest of women, the angelic, the incomparable Miss Talbot, who, to relieve her distressed friend, introduced some
pleasanter
subject, than the marvellous (as Dr. Berkeley termed it) conduct of the
particular
friend. Dr. Berkeley, at his return home, appeared extemely chagrined on relating it.
Some time after, on taxing the
Publicator
with his unaccountably strange conduct, he excused himself very
cleverly,
by saying,
"Aye, I believe I should have gone, but I had not time; for, to tell you the truth,
I
went to London (always to a friend's house) to shew
Beely
and
Peggy
the wax-work, and the monuments, and the lions, and every thing."
It was very lucky that it did not occur to him to carry
Beely
and
Peggy
to
dinner
with his Grace on a
public
day, and shew them the Lollards Tower there.
The
Publicator
seems to have taken pains to tack at the very end of the list of Bishop Horne's friend's Dr. (then George Berkeley, Esquire)—a
real
Esquire, from his poor,
unknown
Father's rank in life, and expending every year at Oxford, as he has repeatedly told the Editor,—not in vice, She is sure, as his excellent Father said, when, on his arrival in Oxford, Dr. Berkeley said,
"I am ashamed, my Lord, to say that I have spent six hundred pounds in four months—here is the account."
The Bishop made the above generous reply,
"Not in vice, I am sure, child,"
and threw the account into the fire. It was great part in virtue. A servant to wait on himself, and a groom for his horses, could not be reckoned extravagant. A young man, who never tasted wine, could not spend more than a thousand pounds
per annum;
but, having never been, according to his Son,
buffeted
through a public school, and being quite unacquainted with characters, he was perpetually imposed on by designing, ungrateful, young men, to whom he was
too
bountiful, as appears by his accounts, now in the Editor's possession, from the day he arrived at Christ Church. He is receiving his reward;
they,
no doubt,
will
receive theirs. Much went in charity to real, frequently unknown, objects.
The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley say, that one morning at Christ Church, his servant shaving him, he redde a sermon preached on charity for lying-in women in Aldersgate-Street. The preacher, the Editor thinks a Prelate, described the miseries of
poor
women in those circumstances so pathetically, that Dr. Berkeley said
"I, a young man, had never thought on. I felt it so strongly, that, with one half of my chin unshaved, I made my servant lay down the razor, catched up a sheet of paper, wrote to my banker an order to pay to the treasure of the hospital fifty pounds, to make me a governor for life, for fear I should be at any time unwilling to pay the annual subscription."
Some Scotch friend, the Editor has not been able to disdiscover who has celebrated Dr. Berkeley's charities to the poor, during his
séjour
with his Son at the University of St. Andrew's, saying,
"that he every year gave away above two hundred pounds with his own hands."
This is a mistake. He very seldom did give with his own elegant hands, unless his wife's may be called his own; for unless, which was frequently the case, he inclosed in a blank cover a ten, often a twenty pound bank note, to any person, unable to
ask,
though not to
receive
charity, whose face he had never seen, only heard from good authority of their distress. How often has he thus
"
made the widow's heart to sing for joy,
"
and with holy Job
"the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him."
In other instances, with regard to the surrounding poor, he always left the pleasing task on Mrs. Berkeley; constantly saying,
"I never trouble myself; my wife is my almoner;"
adding, as Mrs. Berkeley once said to her excellent kind friend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury, on his asking her concerning a poor old man,
"
I
know nothing of him; when
once
I have introduced an object of charity to you, or Mrs. Tatton, (one of the charitable daughters of the
nobly
charitable Dean and Mrs. Lynch,)
I
never trouble myself
any more
about them, but search out some new objects, well knowing that
they
will have ample abundant care taken of
them.
"
A Scotch minister was once celebrating to Mrs. Berkeley the
vast
charities of the LATE Earl of Lauderdale—a very worthy Nobleman HE was. He began by saying,
"His charities are
amazingly great
indeed. As surely as you sit there, Madam, that man puts a
guinea
into the plate, (a plate at every kirk door, guarded by two ruling elders,) every Sabbath day, and every year three guineas at the
Occasion
The annual kirk sacrament, to which a cook of the Editor's, lamentable to tell, returned so often to the kirk that she was shamefully intoxicated. The expence of wine on these
Occasions
is said to be very great indeed, that of bread very small.
."
Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"Lord Lauderdale has, I know, not a large
paternal
estate; but he married a very worthy friend of mine, the daughter of Sir Thomas Loombe, with an English fortune of four thousand pounds
per annum,
so that lending fifty-three guineas annually to the Lord
I
do not consider as being so very bountiful as you Sir, do. I will now tell you of a bountiful donor to the poor, the late Dean of Canterbury, father to our equally charitable, amiable ambassador at Turin, Sir William Lynch. The Dean had a large paternal estate, married one of the daughters of Archbishop Wake with a large fortune, and had considerable church preferment: now guess what he gave annually to the poor."
Scotch Minister.—
"I cannot tell."
Mrs. B.—
"Guess."
Scotch Min.—
"Why, perhaps he might give them a hundred pounds a year."
Mr. B.—
"No; but he gave them nearer to a thousand; for of all his vast income, it is universally known at Canterbury, and forty miles round, that he constantly gave to the poor ten pounds out of every hundred he received, from whatever quarter it came, beside all sort of good things made for the sick poor in his kitchen and store-room. And to this, that he kept open house for rich and poor; and when the silk manufactory (now, alas! no more) was at a low ebb, he nobly asked, 'Will my new furnishing the deanery with silk damask help to raise it?' and being answered in the affirmative, he instantly ordered five hundred pounds worth of furniture damask to be wove, which saved it at that time."
It is to be hoped, when a score or two more of ladies have been burnt to death by wearing muslin gowns in winter (
absurd, ridiculous, foolish
fashions) that the Editor's poor honest
quondam
neighbours may again use their looms. If the Editor's leisure had permitted, she would have advised them, in the Canterbury news-papers, not to elect any member to represent their antient city in the new Parliament, who would not promise to
make
his wife and daughters wear silk gowns, at least during the winter season. The Inhabitants of Canterbury are surely as respectable as those of Manchester, who will not admit of their printedlinens being
slightly
taxed.
The Editor has had occasion to remark that the PUBLICATOR was not very forward to make any grateful return for any favour bestowed on him; for he never presented his friend Dr. Berkeley even with a lark
See above, p. ccxxxvi.
. It is commonly said, that in the county of Berks during the partridge season there are as many guns as birds; therefore game is always a most agreeable present, especially to those who keep much company; and frequently, in their several seasons, would arrive hares, partridges, pheasants, &c. from the very grateful Mr. Andrews, of Marden in Kent. He never suffered any neighbour to go to London without requesting him to take some game, and send it down by the Maidenhead coach. The year that Archbishop Secker presented Mr. Andrews to this living, apples sailed in every county of England except Kent; which is no great wonder, since the farmers of that county pay most careful attention to their trees in winter, clearing them of all dead wood, moss, &c. Mr. Andrews packed up his whole crop of apples in hampers, and sent them all, except a
very few
stinted ones. Apples that year were such rarities, that Mrs. Berkeley suggested to Dr. Berkeley to send them to Lambeth Palace; which was speedily done, a few only being reserved as curiosities; and a most acceptable offering they proved. Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley going to make some stay at Lambeth Palace soon after, the first day after dinner from some apples being on the table, the Archbishop, with his wonted politeness, said,
"Lady and Gentleman, will you not eat some of your
own
fine apples? How came it to pass that
your
trees produced this wonderfully scarce year?"
To which Dr. Berkeley replied,
"Alas! my good Lord, we had not a score on all our trees. They are the grateful offering of a very grateful man, Mr. Andrews; and my wife thought that, as
we
owed the apples to your Grace's goodness to him, they ought, in
conscience,
to be sent to your Grace:"
who, with his accustomed pleasantry, turning to Mrs. Berkeley, who had the honour to be a great favourite with his Grace, said,
"Why, my good young lady, I don't know that I ought to accept
th
se apples.
I am afraid they are a
little simoniacal.
"
To which Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"Oh! no, my Lord: if they had come
before
your Grace had preferred Mr. Andrews, it might have been a case for Bishop Taylor's
Ductor Dubitantium;
but, I think, as it is, your Grace may eat them with a
very safe conscience.
"
His Grace laughed heartily, and said,
"I remember Arch bishop Potter used to tell of a man whom he had given a small living, on which grew a remarkably fine peartree. He used every year to send the pears to Lambeth. His Grace gave him a second, much better, living; and he used to say, 'Whether the pear-tree
died,
or the pears were
blighted every year,
I know not; but I know that I
never saw another pear
after I gave the
second
living."
This GRATEFUL man did not, probably, like the PUBLICATOR, expect one of the
three
stalls at Canterbury. He was at least
modest,
if ungrateful.
It is not possible to avoid contrasting two men, both of whom were indebted for their first comfortable establishment in life to the exquisite amiability of Dr. Berkeley the Reverend Dr. Glasse and the PUBLICATOR. When Mr. Monck Berkeley was about six or seven years old, Dr. Glasse said, more than once,
"If you and Mrs. Berkeley would confide your little man to me, how happy should I be! what care and attention I would pay him! and I am sure, if you would condescend to
accept
it, I desire neither fee nor reward."
The last grateful offer was of course thankfully declined; and from Mr. Berkeley's birth his Father determined, that, if God spared his life, he should be educated at a Public School; often lamenting that the good Bishop had not sent
him
to one, particularly after his son grew up, often saying,
"he had then got a second guardian."
Bishop Berkeley, at one time, for several years paid four hundred pounds
per annum
to different masters to instruct his children in Music, Painting, Fencing, Riding, and French; the Latin and Greek he entrusted to none but himself. His sons were never suffered either to ride or walk out unattended by a careful servant.
When Dr. Berkeley came to Oxford, at the age of nineteen, attended by a most respectable worthy Chaplain of his Father's, and his own servant, he had never rode a mile alone; and he had contracted an habit of meditating and composing on horseback, which occasioned his being the most careless of riders, leaving the horse's bridle so very loose, that he was perpetually thrown. Soon after his marriage, Mrs. Berkeley, finding this to be the case, made it a point that he never should ride without a servant. When Mr. Berkeley grew up, he joined in what Dr. Berkeley called his Mother's
persecution,
and one day said,
"What is the reason, I would fain know, why your Mother lets you ride fifty miles without a servant, and over hedge and ditch, nobody knows where, hunting, and won't let me ride to Taplow or Maidenhead alone?"
To which Mr. Berkeley replied,
"Ah! my dear Sir, if
you
had been
buffeted
for seven years though Eton School,
I dare say, my
Mother would have let you ride alone as
Mr. Berkeley constantly hunted with buck-hounds twice a week—frequently with Mr. Clayton's hounds. It was not
so quietly
as Mr. Monck Berkeley supposed; for Dr. Berkeley used to say, on hunting days,
"
prays the whole morning—let me go into the dressing-room ever so often, I am sure to hear—"Berkeley is not come home—GOD watch over him, and send him safe." These ejaculations were frequently continued till the afternoon. They were certainly heard by HIM who heareth prayer, and, as it should seem, answered; for Mr. Berkeley never once got a fall in hunting—he rode remarkably well."
He never would cross his Majesty in the chase. He used frequently to express indignation at a hunting butcher, particularly well mounted, who used to cross so as sometimes to endanger his Majesty; saying,
"What can the fellow be made of, to be such a savage?"
to which Dr. Berkeley used to say,
"Why, of bulls hides, to be sure."
quietly as she does me; but that is out of the question, for ride alone you must not; that is agreed on all hands."
To which Dr. Berkeley replied,
"I am sure, you are obliged to
me,
Sir. I wish I had been buffeted
any where
in my youth, as you have been, you rogue."
But to return from this digression to the contrast of, as Mrs. George Berkeley ever termed him, the really grateful Dr. Glasse. We have seen his kind offer, in the preceding page; we will now proceed to the PUBLICATOR's polite refusal. When Archbishop Cornwallis visited at Canterbury, he was of course at the Deanery. It was impossible that the attendant Bishop should be also lodged there. On a consultation concerning the place where he should be received and entertained, not one of the Prebendaries seemed desirous of that honour. The generous hospitable Dr. Lynch was not then a member of the choir; and it must in justice be said, that numbers of the Prebendaries, who are not in office, let their prebendal houses, and are only visitors or boarders to their tenants; so they have it not in their power to receive any one. It was suggested that the Prelate must be contented to go to one of the miserably bad, excessively dear, inns in the city. This shocked Dr. Berkeley, although only the son of a poor UNKNOWN Irish Prelate; and he instantly said,
"Bad as my house is, it is better than a nasty dirty inn; he shall be my guest."
As soon as it was known who the attending Bishop was, Dr. Berkeley wrote a polite letter, requesting the honour of having his Lordship for his guest. Mrs. Berkeley requested her amiable consort to permit her to invite his lady, with whom she had the honour to be acquainted, and whose lovely eldest sister, sweet, beautiful Miss Maddox, was a beloved friend of her childhood. Bishop Maddox, when a Welsh bishop, had for several summers a house at East Burnham, in the neighbourhood of White Waltham. That lovely creature died early. The Editor cherishes, with tender care, a keepsake, a small silver medal, given by the good Bishop to his sweet daughter, to present to her little friend.
Some days before the arrival of the Archbishop, &c. Dr. Berkeley said,
"the children (then both living at home and going to Dr. Beauvoir's school) will be horridly in the servants' way, for we must keep open house for a fortnight. What can we do with them?"
Mrs. Berkeley said,
"She would contrive it as well as she could: they should get a cold dinner at one, and be off to play directly."
Mrs. Frinsham, then at Dr. Berkeley's, said,
"You know I am going to Ramsgate, and I will take
one.
"
It was Dr. Berkeley replied,
"You are very kind; you shall take Robert: and it has just occurred to me that I will send Berkeley to *****; HE will be glad of an opportunity of obliging ME."
Dr. Berkeley was, alas! ever too apt to judge of others by his amiable self. Delighted with this idea, he wrote to the PUBLICATOR, stating his situation, and saying,
"On such a day John will deliver into your care my eldest boy for a fortnight; at the expiration of which I shall fetch him home."
By the return of the post, Dr. Berkeley received a letter from the PUBLICATOR, saying,
"that he was very sorry that it so happened that he could not possibly receive his little
Nor spelt, but always so pronounced, by the
elegant
Publicator, when speaking of the young gentlemen his boarders—
"My bouys"
—or of his own son, who was a remarkably elegant lad. The Editor has not seen him since he was a very pleasing youth, when she advised his father, in return for the Latin and Greek he taught his son, to make him teach him a little politeness. Dr. Berkeley said,
"Nobody flatters ***** like
my wife;
"
on which Mrs. Berkeley fired, and said,
"
I
flatter him! how can you say so?"
—
"Nay, I will prove it; for, whenever he is here, you won't suffer any body else to speak; but say, do pray hold you tongueS, that
I
may hear what ***** says,"
about Botany, Farming, &c. in which he is well skilled.
bouy;
but that he had just settled all matters to take his pupils to the sea, to shew them the shipping, and give them a week's pleasure;—it was unlucky, but it could not be helped."
Dr. Berkeley flew with this letter to Mrs. Berkeley, saying,
"Well, this is the luckiest thing in the world;"
then redde the epistle; observing,
"it will make Berkeley" (just then turned of eleven years old, and, as an excellent judge used to say, "the best-bred properly behaved child of that age in England; no affected manly airs, but a sweetly polite lad") "as happy as a prince, poor fellow."
Dr. Berkeley notified this by letter immediately to the PUBLICATOR, who
instantly
returned the following
elegant, grateful,
answer. The letter is carefully preserved.
"My dear Friend, (his constant familiar address to Dr. Berkeley,)
I cannot
help thinking
you very unreasonable,
in wanting to fasten your Son upon
me,
especially at a time when I have told you, that
I cannot
take him."
The letter goes on in the same
elegant
style. Poor Dr. Berkeley was, for the time,
very, very
angry indeed; and Mrs. Berkeley
maliciously
laughed at the
gratitude
of his
dear Friend.
After some time, Dr. Berkeley wrote a letter to the Publicator; and, as was frequently his custom, when going out to dinner, passing from his study, threw half a dozen letters on the table in Mrs. Berkeley's dressing-room, saying,
"I am in haste; I shall be distanced; pray seal these unsealed ones; and send them all; with, yours, to post."
The letter to the
grateful
Friend was safely sealed; and Mrs. Berkeley, having very little of our grandmother Eve's curiosity in her composition, did not ask permission to read it; but, hollowing it up, she, with a good pen, wrote, as plainly as she could contrive to do, the little word
gratitude.
Off went the letter to the post. In a few days Dr. Berkeley, coming into the drawing-room to tea, said,
"I have got a letter from *****, in which he seems much disquieted. He asks what could possibly induce some member of my family to write on the edge of the inside of the letter I last wrote to him the word
gratitude.
My dear, do you know any thing about it?"
Mrs. Berkeley, from her cradle, to (she trusts) her coffin, too proud to tell a lie, instantly replied,
"To be sure I do; for
I
wrote it."
—Dr. Berkeley said,
"Why would you write?"
—
"Because
I
think it a
mighty pretty word.
"
—
"Your wrath against *****, like most violent blazes, has abated."
The Editor cannot dismiss the PUBLICATOR without remarking, that, had it pleased the Divine Goodness to have spared Dr. Berkeley to have seen the contempt
endeavoured
to be thrown on his very deeply-learned, justly, universally admired Father, his indignation would
not
have subsided, as it for some time did, on account of his little Son. Dr. Berkeley never did, never would, forgive a greater man than even the Publicator, for speaking, as he thought, improperly against his excellent Father; for which great man and his incomparable writings he had through life the greatest respect,
"RAMBLER John,"
as Dr. Berkeley, who generally redde a Rambler once a week, termed that great man. His Son always called him the noble learned Bear. The accident happening at Oxford was too well known then, too well remembered by many gentlemen then present, still living, to be here detailed. Suffice it therefore to say, that Johnson's want of
le savoir vivre
occasioned his ridiculing Bishop Berkeley's American scheme, by which he meant to introduce Episcopacy there, always declaring,
"if it was not done in a few years, the Colonies would revolt from the Mother Country."
The event has shown that this
unknown
Prelate was not a
false
Prophet. What the Father could not accomplish, the Son contrived to bring about, by his interest with the Scotch Bishops; the very excellent, very deeply learned Bishop Skinner; the very pious Bishop Falconer, who died soon after; and the amiable worthy Sir John Strachan, Baronet; as now that he is no more may be
publicly
known. In a letter to a Friend, written some time after, Dr. Berkeley says,
"I was well aware that it would
never
be forgiven, but I rejoice that I have done it."
Dr. Berkeley selt his amiable heart gratified in rendering every possible service in his power to the repeal of Lord Hardwicke's horrid act after the Rebellion in 1745. Had Dr. Berkeley's advice been adhered to, the first attempt had succeeded, when the three Scotch Prelates came over the first time to solicit it; but in most transactions there is generally a Marplot. Dr. Berkeley was particularly happy in entertaining at his house in Berkshire, and endeavouring to return the very polite hospitality of Sir John Strachan to himself and family at Dundee, and of Bishop Skinner to his Son when at Aberdeen, where Mr. Monck Berkeley had the freedom of the city presented to him, as he had of several other cities and towns in Scotland, and a licence presented to shoot on very manor wherever he went. He spent near a fortnight at Taymouth most agreeably. The Editor fears to trust her once retentive, now, alas! treacherous memory, to say, of sixteen gentlemen who sat down to dinner, every day, how many were John Campbell. This came out accidentally. Some one, not knowing Mr. Berkeley's partiality for Scotland, said,
"How ridiculous they are, calling themselves by the names of their estates!"
Mr. Berkeley reddened, and said,
"Pray, Sir, why so? how would you have them distinguish themselves?"
—
"Why, by their Christian names, as we do."
—
"That will not do, Sir. The mode of distinguishing several brothers in a public school,
major, minor,
&c. will not do; nor will
first, second, third,
do."
He then mentioned as above related. The worthy learned Laird of Ahaladar (certainly not spelt right by the Editor, although so pronounced) and his accomplished, amiable, eldest son, both much beloved by Mr. Berkeley were two of near half a score John Campbells. Mr. Berkeley retained a most grateful sense of the kind, elegant hospitality at Ahaladar. Talking frequently, after his return from College, of Jack Ahaladar, his brother asked,
"Who is Jack Ahaladar, of whom you talk so much?"
"Why, the
young
Laird, a charming young man—YOU would like
him.
"
—Probably now the elegant Laird of Ahaladar, as the Editor thinks she was told the worthy old Laird is dead. He presented Mr. Berkeley with a very curious original letter, which, when the Editor can afford to print the second volume of Literary Relics, will be published in it.
To return from this digression. Dr. Johnson had no sooner finished his rude sentence, than Dr. (then Mr.) Berkeley, then a little turned of twenty, rose from his seat, reached his cap, made his bow, and, to the no small distress of the gentleman who had invited him to meet Dr. Johnson, quitted the room in great indignation before supper. On some of the company, intimates of Dr. Johnson, reproaching him for his
conduct, HE made a sort of
amende honorable,
by saying,
"Why, I think the Bishop's scheme no bad one; but I abused it, to take down the young gentleman, lest he should be too vain of having had SUCH A FATHER."
Some one presumed to say Mr. Berkeley was exquisitely well-bred, not at all insolent; to which he replied,
"No, not at all, but I thought it might do him good to mortify him
a little.
"
Dr. Johnson wished to have written the Bishop's life; but Dr. Berkeley said,
"he would not furnish him with any documents;"
which Mr. Monck Berkeley used exceedingly to regret, saying to his Father,
"My dear Sir, it will never be so written as Johnson would have written it;"
to which Dr. Berkeley used to reply,
"It may be so; but I was resolved HE should not write it. You may, if you please."
Dr. Johnson, through a common friend, made many attempts to visit Dr. Berkeley in Berkshire, and once said,
"I have a good mind to go down to Cookham, and see what they would say to me."
Mrs. Berkeley hoped that her beloved partner would have said,
"We should be very happy to see him;"
but his reply was
"No; the man that could speak slightingly of my great Father shall never be entertained under his Son's roof."
It is therefore probable, that this respectful mention of Bishop Berkeley by the PUBLICATOR would have completed the business begun by the smothering of the Consecration Sermon for four years.
Dr. Berkeley preserved all the letters he received, except now and then one, which he flung into the fire before he appeared to have redde it through; and, like his Father and Dean Swift, some he never opened at all, but threw them into a drawer. After his lamented death, the Editor found a baker's dozen (fourteen) from a fleecing Ingrate, with the seal unbroken, as she told the man when obliged to hold a short conversation with him. It has been often said of the Editor's grandfather, the celebrated Francis Cherry, Esquire, that he met with more Ingrates than any other man ever did. I suppose of most persons of very large fortunes and very liberal minds, it may, with equal truth, be asserted. Dr. Berkeley's fortune was by no means large, but his
soul
was noble. He, by his wise advice and direction, made the fortunes of great numbers. Mrs. Berkeley used often to say to him,
"My dear friend, you can make the fortune of every one you take in hand, but yourself and your Son, and you will not stir a stroke for
him.
"
His reply constantly was,
"I cannot help it. I cannot ask or push for myself or for him. If others do not, it must remain undone by me."
Both are now happily provided for by
"
that Friend who sticketh closer than a brother;
"
both are receiving the reward of their labour of love to real friends and base ingrates, whom may God, for Christ's sake, forgive, prays the Editor.
Having been
obliged, necessarily obliged,
to descant so much on that odious temper of the mind, INGRATITUDE, she turns, with double, treble pleasure, to what her beloved, respected, friend Mrs. Duncombe has ever obligingly observed, is the prominent feature in her character; to whom that lady has repeatedly said,
"No one can do any thing for you but give you a dish of tea, (a very delightful solace
A pleasure
now
almost totally lost to the Editor,
"
a poor old-fashioned creature,
"
who does not like that solace at half-past seven or eight; she not being able to sleep without a small quantity of malt-liquor, a most excellent safe narcotic; so much so, that, for very many years, she never took it at night, as it prevented her rising at five in the morning—when she was young to improve her own mind, afterwards to attend to her childrens. Not long ago, about a quarter after nine, just as the Editor was sitting down to her slice of French roll and glass of beer, her servant announcing the arrival of a Lady in the drawing-room, the Editor involuntarily said,
"If it had been five minutes later, I had supped, and it would have been so pleasant to have enjoyed
conversation after supper;"
which was that night unavoidably deferred until
half-past ten.
The Editor rejoices that her spirit is not as wilful as her sadly weakened stomach, which suffers direfully, if it does not get the
very small
dinner it will receive at three, and so on in course, according to the VULGAR hours in use 40 years ago.
, surely, in pleasant company,) without your setting about to think what
return
you shall make them."
The Editor ever did, still does, labour, as Lord Burleigh, in his letter, advises his son ROBERT, on a
very
different principle, (to advance his OWN interest,)
"to find out
something
that may be acceptable to his great and noble friends."
The Editor having been, still being, joint possessor, with her excellent Sister, of some curious things collected by their accomplished grandfather Francis Cherry, Esquire, a great Antiquary, and curious Collector, before Antiquarian Societies were formed, has generally been so fortunate as to select some token of her gratitude to offer to her Son's friends of highest rank, more substantial than words, well remembering the saying of a witty old servant of her Mother's, who lived with her before the Editor's birth, and died, at near an hundred, last summer. This worthy woman's uncommon wit introduced her as nurse to all the lying-in ladies, and sick gentlemen and ladies, in the neighbourhood, whose spirits she, by her wit, kept up when the apothecary's cordial failed to do it, This humane woman, when at her own home, always nursed the poorest of her neighbours
gratis.
She was a pious woman, and is now receiving the reward of her
"labours of love."
She, when persons said
much
and did
little,
would, looking archly, sing, from an old song,
"Aye, aye,
"Words,
fine
words, are
but
WIND," &c.
So
has
ever thought the Editor, so
may
she ever think whilst she possesses any thing else to offer. But there are those who withhold
even
those; witness the learned PUBLICATOR, and another
infamous
INGRATE, who owed to Dr. Berkeley wonderful obligations indeed, being in the receipt of near two thousand pounds
per annum
at the time of his death; but he is spared for the present, his excellent amiable brother having accidentally stumbled once on Mr. Monck Berkeley at Bath, and having there, and ever after, until his death, paid him every polite, respectful attention; and it would wound the lovely tender heart of that gentleman, to see his worthless brother's corrupt, base, putrid, heart dissected. Some few years before his universally
unlamented
death, he CONDESCENDED to visit Dr. Berkeley, He was often, for weeks, within three miles of him without doing it
One morning the Honourable Mr.
came in, saying,
"I should not have visited you just yet, as I am much in debt, but that I come to
bring you a message from
Doctor
. He has been staying with me these last ten days."
—Doctor Berkeley replied,
"So I heard, or I had visited you."
—
"This morning, when he was going away, he said
nonchalantly,
Mr. ********, I beg the favour of you, when you see Doctor Berkeley, to give my compliments to him, and tell him, I should have waited upon him, but the weather has been so catching I could not venture to Cookham."
—Mr.
replied,
"Oh, I shall see him very soon, for we meet often."
—
"So I have come down to day on purpose to bring you the message, not for fear
I should forget it;
"
adding,
"I did long to have said, there are plenty of post-chaises at March's, and that you have money to pay the hire of one is owing to Doctor Berkeley."
In a large company some gentleman gave
"Doctor Berkeley"
for his toast, and, turning to Doctor
, said,
"I am sure, Sir, you will drink my toast in a bumper."
He rolled his
boiled fishes eyes,
exhibited his exceedingly fine teeth, and asked,
"Why so, Sir?"
The gentleman spiritedly replied,
"If you do not know, Sir, I shall not tell you."
The very learned, very worthy Mr. Whitaker, formerly Curate of his beloved friend Doctor Berkeley, was one of the company.
. On this person's getting his first preferment, Dr. Berkeley generously lent him one hundred pounds, to get things a little decent in his house, and had some difficulty, a few years after, to get it repaid. Dr. Berkeley was gone out on horseback. Mrs. Berkeley heard the bell of the front gate ring. Nobody appearing, she rang, to enquire who it was; the servant above named said,
"It was Dr.
."
—
"How came it that he he did not come in?"
—
"I told him, Madam, that my Master was out: he asked for you; but I thought you did not wish to see him, so I told him that my Master and you were going out to dinner,—and I believed you were dressing."
This honest man, when waiting at table, had so often heard the Honourable Mr.
, and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, abuse
this
INGRATE's
shameful
inattention to Dr. Berkeley, that he very naturally
supposed
his Mistress, who ever resented
ten
times more for her friends than for herself, was not very partial to him. He is no longer an inhabitant of this world. Dr. Berkeley's goodness probably hastened his removal to
,
another
world.
Two very different personages are now coming on the
tapis;
two grateful, or rather, one gently amiable, the other amiably grateful.
Some days before Archbishop Cornwallis's arrival at Canterbury, as before mentioned, one afternoon the servant announced the arrival of that loveliest of women, in mind as well as person, the late Mrs. Tucker. As soon as seated, she began, in her sweetly musical voice, saying,
"that, having heard that Dr. Berkeley was to have the attendant Bishop for his guest," she came to beg that Master Berkeley might be her guest for the next fortnight, that she had prepared a bed for him, and that the utmost care should be taken of him."
THAT no one in the county of Kent could doubt, where her fame, as well as in many other counties, was, as it justly merited, blazed abroad.
A young gentleman of large fortune at Canterbury School, the amiable Richard Tilden, Esquire, who boarded at the second master's, Mr. Tucker's, was nursed by Mrs. Tucker through a dreadful fever. Mrs. Tucker, although then lying-in, caused his bed to be removed into her own chamber, that
she
might
see
he got his medicines at the appointed hours. As soon as sufficiently recovered, he was conveyed home, where he had not been many days, when he requested his Mother (he was an orphan) to order the coach to carry him back to Mrs. Tucker, saying,
"that he liked
her
nursing better than home nursing;"
and the request was complied with. This happened before the Editor was resident at Canterbury, but has been frequently related to her by her very sensible worthy friend, the late Lady Head, and by many other persons.
Mr. Tilden was a
more
than father to the Editor's youngest Son, of whom he was so very fond, and to whom he was so very kind, that the little creature one day said to his Mother,
"Mamma,
I
shall never want money; for Dick Tilden (it is the custom at Canterbury School to call the eldest and all the Brothers by their Christian name) "bids me, whenever I want a shilling, come to him; and if any great boy, that
I
cannot
manage,
beats me, he always beats him
soundly
for his pains."
Mr. Tilden, when the amiable protector of the beauteous little Robert, was eighteeny ears old; soon going to the university, he staid to mourn the death of his grateful little
protegé.
How amiable are some youths! what
odious
savages are others! But the exquisite
unaffected
sweetness of Mrs. Tucker, (the Editor allows
unaffected
sweetness, gentleness, &c. &c.) not only infused sweetness into her
own
children, but into
most
of her boarders, generally sons of the first gentlemen in the county, often from other counties.
The instance of an amiably
retentive
grateful mind is now to be adduced from
one
of those boarders. The Editor received the account from such authority as precludes a possibility of her having been deceived; besides, as it is often said,
"Facts are stubborn things."
The present Lord Thurlow, immediately on his receiving the Great Seal, applied to a Kentish gentleman,
"Has my dear old mistress, Mrs. Tucker, any son that I can provide for?"
—
"No, my Lord; her eldest son is but twenty."
—
"Don't tell ME of
twenty;
the living of Gravesend shall be held for him till he is
four and twenty.
"
That very learned, worthy, careful, now private, instructor of youth, with his amiable partner, has been many years at Gravesend, blessing the noble gratitude of the generous GRATEFUL Lord Thurlow. Why is gratitude so
very rare,
so
scarce
a plant in
human
hearts? but that MAN is a FALLEN creature. Lions have it, dogs have it, in a high degree; even the feathered tribe have it; some of the wildest of them. The worthy woman above named, as having served the Editor above twenty years, is, as well as her old fellow servant, Mr. Wrightson, wonderfully tender and kind to the brute creation; the Editor's Cook
So much so, as to have occasioned the Housekeeper one day telling the Editor, that Mr. Wrightson and herself had at length extorted a promise from the Cook, that when she married she would
not
keep a cat, as they were sure she would starve it to death. The worthy woman married from Dr. Berkeley's, and her cat and self are both
en bon point
now living at Cookham.
rather negligent of them, the housekeeper amused herself with feeding a parcel of Guinea fowls, in general very wild birds. These creatures, although never fed but once a day, used to run flocking around her every time she went into the meadows where they wandered; and more than one Sunday it was with considerable difficulty that she got into the church without near forty of her feathered friends escorting her. She had reared near thirty of them, difficult as the task is, the hens being very bad nurses. They well knew the hour of feeding was past. It was
gratitude;
shame to human nature! which the famous Dr. Cheyne used to say,
"was
without
GOD'S GRACE, a compound of Brute and Devil;"
but these poor quadrupeds and winged fowl have not God's grace, and yet
they
shame mankind.
The incomparable Mrs. Tucker is not held up here as a grateful person in contrast to the PUBLICATOR; for
she owed
no gratitude either to Dr. or to Mrs. Berkeley, unless it was for uniting with the
whole
church, city, and neighbourhood, in admiration of the angelic manner in which she treated and attended to the bodies and souls of Mr. Tucker's house full of young gentlemen boarders, aided by her sedate, wise, excellent,
eldest
daughter, her beautiful lovely second daughter, then too young for any thing but to be universally admired and beloved, which she continues to be in an eminent degree by all who have the pleasure of knowing her; and what is above all, by her throughly polite accomplished husband, Mr. Symonds, a gentleman of large fortune in Leicestershire. Long may she be spared to him and his children.
The Editor regrets that she has trespassed so long on the patience of the Reader. Having delivered her sentiments freely on Gratitude and Ingratitude, it would be unpardonable in her to close this long Preface, without acknowledging the great obligations she feels that she lies under to several amiable friends of her excellent Son, and of her unworthy self, not for any the smallest assistance in scrawling these undigested immethodical pages. It would be injustice, it would be more, it would be cruelty, to let it be suspected, that any literary friend, learned male or cultivated female, had the smallest share in this poor performance. The Editor is at present too far removed from the press; and, franking being, alas! almost annihilated, she has not had it in her power even to consult a friend capable of directing or advising her, one only excepted, who was
too tenderly
affected at hearing half a dozen lines
redde,
however excellently qualified to direct, advise, or correct any
hobbling
sentence.
The Editor's Son used often to regret that his Mother would not write Poetry, saying,
"he was very sure she
could
if she
would,
"
as did a poetical friend of her youth, whose name often appears in Dodsley's Collection of Poems. Had either lived to see how lamentably she acquits herself in Prose, it had saved her some persecution. Both were more angry at her repeated declarations that she did not love Poetry, very rarely redde it, excepting Dr. Young's Night Thoughts and some parts of Milton, &c. The poetry of De la Crusca must charm a savage.
In Mr. Monck Berkeley's benevolent vindication, in the Author's Preface to the Poems, he exhorts people to remember that the Reviewers are but MEN. If those Gentlemen condescend to review a few pages written by a feminine pen, the Editor wishes them to remember, that she is a
Woman,
a suffering OLD
Woman,
with most of the accomplishments at threescore that most females have at
"the age of man,"
ten years later—that she served an apprenticeship to
extreme
anxiety and anguish for very near seven years—seeing daily the declining state of health of the two nearest and dearest connections in life, obliged to
affect
ease, and often cheerfulness, whilst her heart bled at every vein. Unfortunately for her, both Father and Son, through their lives, declared, that if the Editor's constant, even cheerfulness, never high, never low, failed, both would give themselves up to absolute despair. The strong exertions necessary to act the part to
their
satisfaction have certainly brought on a premature old age; and the Editor, according to the witty, wise, pious, Bishop Taylor,
"is quite ready-dressed for the grave,"
whither she seems hasting apace. The Bishop, in his "Holy Dying," says,
"dim eyes, gray hairs, stiff joints,"
&c. &c. are all so many
"
dressings
for the grave."
He does not add dulled faculties;
I
am sure he might, although perhaps, HE might not feel it; his own wit being
too well
tempered to have the keenness of its edge blunted by aught but death itself. That is the lot of but very few. Perhaps the great Mr. Burke may escape it, who yet, ten years ago, complained of his tongue and his fingers. They have, however, enabled him to hold his pen to bestow
heavy,
although
very just,
chastisement where it was meet and right to do it. Long may he wield it, a terror, one should hope, to
"all who offend through MALICIOUS WICKEDNESS,"
to whom the Psalmist, speaking by the Holy Spirit, beseeches God the Father NOT to be merciful.
To attempt doing justice to the goodness of Friends (some now no longer inhabitants of earth), to Mr. Berkeley's, or to his Parent's gratitude, would require a ream of paper, now, like most other things, become a very dear commodity. Through the course of this work, written by hasty snatches, sometimes laid by for many months untouched, so as to have occasioned much disagreeable tautology, the copy was never transcribed; so that it was sent rough to the press; and much gratitude is due to the Printer, for his patience in decyphering all the interlineations in it, without the aid of the worthy Sir Francis Willes—the same person and the same action brought twice on the
tapis
when once would have done—but much fault has been found with the author of "Anecdotes of the two last and present Centuries," for not relating every thing at the same time of many of the personages; perhaps they might not come to the author's knowledge until the first part was printed off, as many things have occurred to the now treacherous memory of the Editor after it was too late to insert them in their proper place. She has therefore taken leave to insert them in a less proper one; for which she thinks she ought rather to beg her own pardon for being such a fool as to insert the mat all, than the Reader's, for inserting, perhaps at page 7, what, if method had been attended to, ought to have been placed at page 2.
The amiable, generous kindness of Mr. Monck Berkeley's relations at Eton, the Reverend John Hayes, now eldest son of James Hayes, Esquire, of Holyport, and the laborious endeavours of his brother Charles, both several years older than Mr. Berkeley, of course being excellent scholars, much higher in the school, to
make
his little kinsman as studious as himself, have been noticed above, as also the partiality of his beloved respected tutor, the learned Dr. Norbury, and the kindness of Dr. Langford whilst in the lower school, who yet once offended him most highly.
Dr. Berkeley finding fault one holyday that he was not advanced in Greek as he ought to have been, he indignantly replied,
"Ah! I wonder I am not worse; but I am sure I shall be well improved by the next holydays."
Dr. Berkeley.—
"How so, child?"
Mr. B.—
"Why, I will tell you the truth. At
such a time, so many of us were to give in an exercise; and when Dr. L
had redde them all over, he said, Berkeley, yours is a very much better exercise than Mr.
's;" (naming a nobleman's son, who, with that elegant wisdom which has ever marked Eton school, and rendered the youths, even the little boys, the best bred polite beings one can see, whilst some other great schools, as a very learned, accomplished man, always used to say, are a set of savages, a nest of hornets, are always styled Mr.
the sons of private gentlemen without that very proper distinction.) "Mr.
's exercise is not
near
so good as yours; but
he
shall gain the place, because his is as good an one as he is capable of writing, and yours is not your best by any means. Good as it is,
I
know, and you know, you could have made it a great deal better; therefore
he
shall have the place. On this declaration, I was so exceedingly angry, that I resolved not to learn a word of Greek for six months. The time is just now expired, and so I shall set to it again."
—Dr. Berkeley exclaimed,
"Good God, child, how could you be such a fool?"
—
"I cannot help it, Sir, I was angry, and
I made a vow,
and
I resolved
to keep it, come what would."
Mr. Berkeley was, as has been shewn before, steady as a rock.—Later in life he made a more important vow. One night at Brooks's he and his learned beloved Eton St. Andrew's friend, the learned T. Hobhouse, Esquire, were drawn in to play deeper than Mr. Berkeley, at least, ought to have done. The amiable, worthy Mr. Hobhouse has a very good maternal estate. Mr. Berkeley, as is usual, won a frightfully large sum, soon lost it again, and all the money in his purse, and much more than he had at his chambers to pay it. Very providentially Mrs. Frinsham happened to be in town. Early the next morning he posted off to Duke Street. Mrs. Frinsham, somewhat surprized at hearing from her servant that Mr. Berkeley was come before nine o'clock, went out to him; the case was related, and that generous friend instantly enabled him to discharge his
first,
his
last, gaming
debt; telling him,
"that she never felt such pleasure arising from having money at command."
She has, in her youth, often relieved so very largely, as to deny herself for months the elegant necessaries of young ladies, to accommodate a particular friend, or an old acquaintance. Mr. Berkeley going down soon after to his father's, on the evening of his arrival, asked his Mother,
"If she had heard what a
fool
her son had been;"
to which she replying,
"That she did not recollect having ever heard him called a fool by any one, but his
Father
and
Mother
now and then;"
he related the above-mentioned circumstance, adding,
"My dear Mother, you may set
your heart at rest
from any fear of your Son's ever becoming a gamester;
for, as soon
as
I got home to the Temple, I kneeled down, and besought God to cast out my prayer if EVER I again played for any sum more than I could well afford to lose, playing now and then with one's neighbours in the country on a winter evening."
It has, I believe, been mentioned above, that Mr. Berkeley, whenever he did play, which was very seldom, and a very indifferent whist-player he was, almost constantly won.—All his winnings went to relieve the poor.
But to return: Dr. Berkeley told his son that Dr. L
acted highly right, and that he should have esteemed it rather a compliment than a punishment. To which he replied,
"No, NO, Sir, not if you had ever been at school, and knew
what
it was to lose a place. He said aloud, 'That mine was by much the best exercise;' and he
ought,
therefore, in
justice,
to have given
me
the place."
Mr. Berkeley was then a child: he thought differently of the matter a few years afterwards.
Mr. Berkeley certainly did not inherit his wonderful daring resoluteness either from his amiable Father, or from his Mother; but, probably, as well as his fine figure, from his Mother's father, whom the Editor has frequently heard relate the following fact concerning himself:
"Mr. Frinsham lost his beautiful mother at twenty-four, just when he was five years old."
(His father lived a widower near fifty years). Some time before her death, the servant went into the room where they were at breakfast, saying, that
"Master would not eat his mess for breakfast, but wanted coffee,
like
his Mamma."
—Up sprang his Father, saying,
"
I will give him coffee!
"
went and gave him a good whipping—still the mess was refused—a second whipping, with no better success—at length a third, when his mother called out,
"Mr. Frinsham, let him alone, if he won't eat it now, he will eat it when he is hungry, don't whip him any more."
—
"I will whip him till
to-morrow morning
if he does not eat it before."
The Editor has frequently heard her father say,
"that he had resolved to endure seven or eight flagellations;"
but the declaration,
"that they should be continued until the next morning"
determined him to eat it immediately, which he accordingly did, always observing, how wise it was to break children of stubbornness in their infancy. It probably eradicated it in Mr. Frinsham; for a sweeter tempered child never lived, as the Editor has frequently heard a worthy woman declare, who went to keep his father's house, on the death of his Mother—she lived to near ninety, and always made an annual visit at Mr. and after his death at Mrs. Frinsham's—that
"he was the most amiable of children, and of youths."
When Mr. Frinsham sent his sons to Oxford, this careful servant went to take care of another, and a third set of poor motherless children; by which means, and the little bounties of her adopted children, she obtained sufficient to maintain her more than decently, genteely. She was ever a parlour guest in all the gentlemen's families whom she had brought up. She had by her father, in very early youth, been married to a gentleman who deserted her, and went to live abroad; she was therefore a
safe
housekeeper for young widowers. Her first service was Mr. Frinsham's Father's. The Editor has frequently, since she grew up, heard her say,
"that her mother, going to visit her soon after she went thither, addressed her thus: 'My dear child, this is a very heavy charge that you have taken upon yourself. If you do not take the utmost care, the
same
care of these beautiful little children (Mr. Frinsham's younger brother was a remarkably handsome man), never expect my blessing, but my curse shall surely light upon you."
Poor Mrs. Grove used to say,
"I felt horror at the thoughts of my mother's curse."
It was mentioned above, that a desperate ague obliged Mrs. Berkeley to resign the task of nursing her son to another. The person who a few years before had nursed Charles Hayes, Esquire, now Fellow of King's College, was by his dear tenderly beloved mother, of whose amiable sweetness to the rich, and godlike charity and compassion to
all
the surrounding poor, the Editor often thinks, sometimes talks, with extatic delight, when she reflects, that she is gone to Him who inspired, and is
now
rewarding those lovely tempers. May her sons, when they
venture
to marry, meet with ladies as amiable, as worthy, as their lovely mother; as sensible as their great grand-mother, not famed for sweet temper, the Editor's great aunt, eldest daughter of William Cherry, Esquire, as a reward for their kind care of their little kinsman at Eton.—The Editor says,
"
venture;
"
marriage was always a lottery,
never
resembling Mr. Pitt's—
"
not two blanks to a prize,
"
—but where there are not two prizes to two hundred WORSE than BLANKS. How can
ill
educated girls make
good
wives? But men must thank their
own
folly.—This lady was as beautiful as she was lovely, exceedingly resembling a very fine original picture of Anne Boleyn, in the collection of an hereditary friend of the Editor's, the late James Warren, Esquire, great uncle of the brave worthy Sir John Borlase Warren
This brave excellent officer some few years ago met with, it is hoped, a singular instance of ingratitude. That more than nineteen out of twenty voters at Great Marlow, Bucks, know A from B, is owing to the noble charity school, founded by the ancestors of Sir John Borlase Warren, who resided at his feat at Little Marlow, and laid out much money with them; and a very few years ago, these worse than
sea
monsters ousted him of his seat in parliament for Marlow. Sir John Borlase Warren, with proper spirit, the spirit of his very antient family, sold his great estate in Bucks, and removed from that county one of its most antient respectable families. Had the Editor time, she would relate a very curious anecdote of the
great
gratitude of Sir John Borlase Warren's great-grandsire, who married the rich heiress of Sir John Borlase, and which has been repeatedly related to her by his Son, the above named James Warren, Esquire.
. Mr. Warren meeting Mrs. Hayes sometimes at the Editor's Mother's house, always termed her
Cousin Anne.
Judge Hayes used frequently to say,
"that his son Charles and Dr. Berkeley's both owed their bold intrepid spirits to their nurse, the most courageous of females, having once nearly killed a young man, who attempted to take some improper liberties with her, when she could hardly be styled a woman."
Mr. Charles Hayes and Mr. Monck Berkeley were very generous to her when they grew up. Mr. Hayes always admired the wonderful genius of Mr. Berkeley, who sometimes passed the short holydays of Whitsuntide at Holyport, with his kind kinsmen. The Judge one day exclaimed,
"Well, I never saw such a creature in my life as Berkeley. I am persuaded, that if I were to say I am in distress how to get five hundred pounds conveyed to the Lord Mayor of York, Berkeley would instantly start up, and say, 'Dear Sir, give me leave to go and carry it for you;' not feeling any impropriety at the idea of a boy, of just then thirteen, being so employed; and, what is more, I am sure, if he undertook it, he would execute it as well at thirteen as any man of three and twenty. He is a most wonderful being."
Indeed his bright genius shone forth in a splendid manner to the last breath he drew.
Mr. Berkeley ever retained a grateful sense of kind invitations from friends at Windsor—the late Lady Colerance; his Mother's near relation, the amiable excellent Mrs. Chessyre; the Lady of his Mother's old
very intimate
friend, the late agreeable Dr. Bostock, Canon of Windsor; and his relation good Mrs. Hayes, and the very worthy Mr. Trevanian.
Any attempt to enumerate and descant on, as they merit, the innumerable, amiable, respectful attentions paid to Mr. Berkeley, even by strangers, to every thing but his name and connections in the Land of kind Hospitality, would fill almost as many pages as the learned accomplished Mr. Malone has filled in defending his favourite, the immortal Shakspeare. Had Mr. Monck Berkeley been living, it had doubtless roused the ire of that young Poet; but Mr. Malone needs no coadjutor in any business that worthy gentleman takes in hand.
The Antiquarian Society of Edinburgh did Mr. Berkeley the honour to elect him a member, when he was only nineteen years old, an honour perhaps never before confirmed on one so very young, on his sending them a most excellent account of a very curious quarry in the heart of the Highlands. Mr. Berkeley had the honour to have the freedom of Aberdeen, and some other cities, and of many towns, presented to him. He constantly delivered them to his Mother, requesting her to take great care of them.
How would Mr. Berkeley's spirit have been roused, had he lived to hear the
The throughly brave are never cruel. There are few who have not heard the bravery of Lord Balcarras at Saratoga, under General Burgoyne. His Lordship's gun
did,
his coat still
does,
remain, no doubt, at Balcarras, a proof of it.—The Editor thinks she mentioned it in the St. James's Chronicle; she has not now time to turn to the paper. She has been told, when indignantly reprobating the charge, that it was occasioned by ENVY.—The Holy Scripture asks,
"Who can stand before ENVY?"
Not even the amiable, worthy Lord Balcarras—how much less then the little insignificant Editor, who has, alas! suffered sorely from that
odious
passion, that, to her,
unnatural
disease of the mind. Having, thank God, never felt it, she conceived herself too unimportant in the scale of beings to have exited it.
gentle, pleasing, mild, Lord Balcarras ACCUSED of
hunting men
to death with
bloodhounds!
His
able
pen would instantly have been employed in vindicating his noble, respected, beloved friend. The feeble one of the Editor ventures to assert, that a few years must have wrought a
wonderful
change in that very amiable gentle nobleman, if it is not as probable that he would horsewhip his lovely-hearted Countess, (as did the late horrid Colonel D
his lady, aided by his still more horrid footman,) or of guillotining his beautiful sister, the Countess of Hardwicke. Those who have had the pleasure of living four years in his Lordship's neighbourhood
Once, when Mr. Monck Berkeley was gone to spend some happy days at Balcarras, it occurred to Lord Balcarras that Mr. Berkeley had never slept in old NOLL's bed, still standing in that beautiful mansion (always styled by the Editor
"the
Scotch Cliefden
"
—there is great similarity in the situation, &c.) and he declared he should sleep in it.—To which Mr. Berkeley replied,
"Not unless I have your Lordship's sword by my bed-side; for the old
villain,
knowing how much I detested him, will
certainly
visit me
before midnight.
"
—It was not very likely Mr. Berkeley should have been retired before that hour, from such agreeable company. At another time, when Mr. Berkeley was staying at Balcarras, a very agreeable, sensible relation of Lord Balcarras being more than a little
fou
(the elegant Scotch word for our ugly word
drunk
) there was much difficulty in conveying him to his chamber. When arrived there, all retired but Lord Balcarras and Mr. Monck Berkeley—whilst they were cajoling him to let them undress him, he prayed very earnestly to God; they smiled at his repeatedly asking them,
"What must become of his
beautiful
soul?"
At length Lord Balcarras said,
"My dear Berkeley, how devout
is,
now
that he is
OU."
This gentleman,
not famed
for devotion, had received a very pious education, and was
always devout
when dr
k, if not too far gone.
could as readily believe that the sun shone at midnight to light these hunters.
To the introduction of his friend, Mr. Lennard, Mr. Berkeley was indebted for the happiness of enjoying an intimate friendship with the excellent Sir J. Clarke of PennyCuicke, and his charming Lady, daughter of Mr. Dacre of the North, to whom Mr. Lennard was related. He admired their amiable virtues, and revered their goodness. And invitation, whenever he was in Edinburgh, and had no
more agreeable
engagement, to visit that excellent pair, it was impossible should ever be obliterated from the memory of Mr. Berkeiey, or his greateful Parents. The goodness of their very agreeable worthy countryman, Commissioner Wharton, and the excellent Lady Sophia, to Dr., Mrs., and Mr. Monck Berkeley, on their first arrival in Edinburgh, to whom they were introduced by the worthy hereditary friends of Mrs. Berkeley, Mrs. Edlins, daughters of the excellent Baron Edlin, whose pious Lady and daughters, remarkably bountiful to the poor, are still the subject of admiration and praise in Edinburgh, are still dwelt on with unfeigned gratitude and delight. Happy the poor who reside near the few still surviving ladies of that worthy family.
When at St. Andrew's in Scotland, Mr. Monck Berkeley used to say,
"Well, it is a mercy that I am not
quite so much
in love with Lady Elizabeth Lindsey as my Mother is. If I was, I must run away with her; not, as
we
say, to Scotland, but to England; and that would be a
fine
story."
The lovely, polite,
unaffected,
sweet,
real,
gentleness of that lovely Lady, are doubtless the source of much domestic felicity to her Lord. Her Ladyship is, the Editor verily believes, or nothing should cause her to write it, one of the
very
few
genuine
gentle spirits scattered here and there to be admired, and (alas! for poor unlucky simple men) to be
counterfeited.
Dr. Berkeley used always to say, there was nothing he disliked so much as
"
a mighty pretty sort of young woman.
"
Mrs. Berkeley used to reply,
"that she hoped nobody would ever style her such, when
he
was present."
He used to say,
"that he detested insipidity."
Such as she was, he had her
"
for better for worse
"
thirty-four years. One of those horrid horse leeches, ever draining her too too generous husband, having since his death told her, at her lawyer's chambers,
"That Dr. Berkeley married
her
for her money."
Wonderful assertion! as Mrs. Berkeley's fortune was only a few odd thousands; and when he was urged to take a lady, much in love with him, who had
more
than a hundred thousand pounds. The Editor feels herself obliged, after this WONDERFUL assertion from a low-lived Divine, who, educated by John Wesley, perhaps never
saw
any University until at Dr. Berkeley's expence, to say, that Dr. Berkeley has repeatedly declared to his son, in her presence,
"Have not I told you, over and over, that had I been Duke of Norfolk, or Robinson Crusoe, your Mother is the woman in the whole world that I would have chosen for a wife;"
adding what it is impossible for the Editor to write;
"* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and she could and would make matters comfortable, pleasant on that island;"
adding,
"I have always told you, I believe your Mother has the best temper to live with for happiness of any person in the world."
Not many weeks before his lamented death he said to several persons, friends, and servants,
"She is the best wife in the world."
God knows that she feels, ever did feel, how far she fell short, in most relations of life, of the resolutions she made very early in life, to labour, if ever she did marry, to make the best wife in the world, and, if God
blessed
her with children, the best mother. Alas! she repeats it, she
feels,
that she fell short; and yet, such is the frailty of our fallen nature, that, were the time to be gone over again, she fears she could not much mend her hand. As mistress of a family, she, from early youth, resolved to treat her servants just as she would wish them to treat her, were they instantly to exchange stations. Perhaps this has sometimes gone rather too far. A beloved friend of her's, nicknamed by the Editor in her youth, the Centurioness,
"
I say to my servant do this, and he doth it,
"
frequently told the Editor, she was a most incomparable governess of her children, and of dogs and cats; but that her servants did, or did
not
obey her orders,
just
as it suited their own convenience; adding,
"I think they are mighty good kind of people to do any thing; you ask them so quietly, Pray now
will
you do so?"
The Editor, as above shewn, with her children did not deal in shewing authority; with servants as well as children, when she set about any thing in good earnest, calmly saying,
"
I will have this or that done.
"
She has ever, with both, found that
her
word was a law. Servants are much to be pitied; they have often jobs to finish as well as their superiors; it is grievous to a generous mind to drag them away when half an hour later may do just as well. The Editor, perhaps, is weak, ill-judging, in that, as in many other things. She had been married more than seven years, when her amiable Partner, a little warm, as the Honourable Mrs.
says
"
ALL men are,
"
(
they
certainly are LORDS of the creation, and how much is warmth of temper to be preferred to
sullenness!
) came up into her dressing room, saying,
"
Do
go down stairs, and
try, once in your life,
if it is
possible
for you to find fault with a servant or not. Richard has done
" (or has not done
")
the Editor does not recollect which. This worthy man was sometimes a little slow in his motions; his master was very quick in his. His surname was Hyde. He was related, and as many gentlemen learned in the law supposed, heir to a vast unclaimed property in the funds, left by a General Hyde, who died in the reign of George the First. If it were duly considered by masters and mistresses of families, that they and their domestics must one day, ere long, stand
together,
at the same RIGHTEOUS bar, they would surely prepare to answer, when asked, if they had taken care to instruct them in their duty to their Master in Heaven, or spent the time that might have been so employed, in reproaching them for neglecting their duty to their Master on earth. These governors of families will be asked,
"Did you not allow them time to read some portion in the Book of God every day? If so, why did you not, at stated hours
God says,
"Shall I hide this thing that I do from Abraham"
—seeing that I
know
he will COMMAND (not gently civilly ask them)—
but
"COMMAND his children and his household,"
&c. &c.
, compel them to assemble together, and hear it redde in your own presence."
Then, whether they will hear, or whether they will forbear,
"Thou, Master, or Mistress, hast delivered thine OWN soul,"
as speaks Holy Scripture.
Where there is no learning, little logic, little time, the faculties of the mind and body both debilitated by ill-health brought on by severe afflictions, as in the Editor's case. The word
severe
ought to be expunged, if another could be substituted: it must be
heavy;
for nothing can, ought, at least, to be termed
severe,
that is inflicted in love by our heavenly Father, on, alas! a lamentably ungrateful child, whose heart is, however, perpetually quoting, from the inspired Prophet,
"Wherefore should a man complain, a
living
man for the punishment of his sins?"
By which the Editor, for very many years past, has conceived the Holy Spirit meant to imply, by a
living
man, any one on this side the grave. any one who is out of hell; for if, through Grace, MERCY is at the
latest
period sought, it will
infallibly
be found, witness the Thief on the Cross; and a
modern
Thief—alas! no; poor wretch, he was
only
a murderer; for he had not the heart to rob when he beheld the blood he had shed; converted, brought to Christ, not, alas! by one of those who rush into the priestly office
The Editor heard some time ago, when the wretched Mrs. Reed, now Mrs. Edgar, was in Gloster gaol, that the Chaplain is a worthy Divine.—The Editor always regrets, when using an Irish Common Prayer Book, given her by her beloved Partner, that the very fine office for prisoners is not bound up with our even commonest, cheapest books of Common Prayer. The very fine prayer for those under sentence of death might, being redde by the children of the poor, at least keep them from the gallows. A few years ago a fine youth at one of the great schools was so charmed with it, that he requested the Irish youth where it was, to exchange with him for a very superb English Common Prayer Book. His father was a pious, although very eminent Barrister. The large Irish Prayer Book of Bishop Berkeley was, after his death, presented by his son to the gaol of Oxford.
, that they may remain idle and ignorant, or that
"
they may eat a morsel of bread
See the First Book of Samuel.
."
This was effected by that brave excellent officer, General Rooke, who kindly, amiably offered the very old friend of the Editor, the sensible, pious T. Hughes, Esquire, when a few years ago high sheriff for Glocestershire, to rise at four in the morning, in March, to accompany him on his dreary journey of sixteen miles to attend the execution. He felt the unpleasant dreary journey Mr. Hughes must have, and amiably offered to accompany him. His sweet nature was shocked, on their arrival at Gloster, at seeing the poor wretch quite hardened, that he begged Mr. Hughes's permission to talk to the poor creature a little; to which the pious, amiable Mr. Hughes, who related the happy tale to Dr. Berkeley, and repeatedly to the Editor, repiled,
"My permission, dear Sir, aye, and my best prayers for your success."
The execution was delayed; and the blessed General, to whom the Editor regrets that she has not the honour, the happiness to be known, succeeded, so effectually succeeded, that a poor creature, who at seven in the morning said,
"he had never heard of the
Saviour of Sinners,
"
expired at noon believing in him with all his heart, asking,
"And will HE save such a WRETCH as I have been?"
—
"rejoicing with joy unspeakable and full of glory"
—to the great comfort of the Jury, as the High Sheriff told Dr. Berkeley; for he had constantly denied the murder, and, the man being not robbed, they were uneasy at having found him guilty. The preceding and succeeding context might be here with propriety inserted; they may be sought, and the whole chapter redde with advantage by those who have never murdered a man. The Editor, however, feels herself obliged to vindicate herself from the
bare
suspicion of Antinomianism by quoting No. XLIV. of "The Deep Things of God." Though a child of God glories in this, that
"
where sin hath abounded, grace doth much more abound;
"
yet no child of God can
"sin that grace may abound."
On this one of the selected numbers being redde to Mr. Monck Berkeley by his Mother, he exclaimed, with an earnestness hardly to be described,
"God forbid! Oh! God forbid!!!"
It was mentioned before, that the Editor, constantly, on quitting her Son's chamber, wrote under every number his comments, ejaculations, &c. upon it. She most carefully selected what she felt suited the
then
state of the soul.
Mr. Berkeley did not want instruction in his duty to God or his neighbour. He did not want to be awakened, to be shewn how direfully he had broken the
"Holy Law of God,"
nor to be made sensible of the penalty to be inflicted for such breach; but to be convinced that Christ had received him, which his deep humility prevented him from believing, although the
hope
of it was his
sole
support.
One night, when he supposed himself expiring at Dover, Mr. Berkeley desired his friend, Mrs. Frinsham, might be called out of bed to him: he said,
"I beseech you to pray for me. You see me going, perhaps from misery here to everlasting misery;"
adding,
"I yet feel some hope, that God hears my Mother's prayers, and that Christ will not quite cast me off."
It ought to have been mentioned in its proper place, that Mr. Berkeley wrote to his Mother from Oxford, desiring her to summon all her
fortitude
to her aid, and prepare her mind not to be shocked at seeing the
shadow
of what was
once
her Son. The original idea was, that of Mr. Berkeley's going to Gloucester to be constantly under the eye of Dr. Chestern. He therefore wrote, requesting his friends to meet him on the road; accordingly, the minute the post arrived, they, accompanied by their incomparable friend, Mrs. D. Monck, set out and reached the inn at Burford about five in the afternoon, and about seven Mr. Berkeley arrived, attended by his own servant, and a youth of about eighteen, the son of an old Irish friend of Dr. Berkeley's, then staying with Dr. Berkeley, who had been dispatched to meet Mr. Berkeley, who had done amiably, as he ever did, to warn his Mother not to be shocked, &c. It required ALL her fortitude to see her idol with difficulty get out of the chaise, and enter the room, supported, rather
difficultly
supported, by his servant, a man about his own stature.
Mrs. Berkeley had gone to town to visit her Son, and dear, excellent Mr. Grimston, whose goodness caused his remaining in town all the summer with Mr. Berkeley, until August, when they set off for Hastings. Five months of almost unabated torture had wonderfully weakened Mr. Berkeley's
"
earthly tabernacle.
"
Dr. Berkeley's great weakness apologized for his appearing dispirited; and Mrs. Berkeley forced herself to appear not to feel supreme anguish of mind at the sight of her IDOL thus debilitated.
Dr. Berkeley, rising about ten o'clock, said to his Son,
"My dear child, I am so weak, and so wearied, that I must wish you a good night; I am quite unable to sit up any longer."
Mr. Berkeley, begging his Father's benediction, wished him a good night, as he did his excellent friend Mrs. Monck. On his Mother's going to shake hands with him and retire, he said,
"Best of Mothers, you have not been ill, like my poor Father:
you can
sit up, and I greatly want a little conversation with you."
The above mentioned youth was of course making his bow, when Mr. Berkeley said,
"You need not retire, Sir;
I rather wish you to stay;
"
when Mr. Berkeley thus commenced,
"I am probably now not far from the end of my course; and I wish to say some things to my dear Mother; to bless her for having forced me to be regular and constant in my attendance at public worship and at family prayer, long before I felt or saw the necessity of it myself, I am convinced, well convinced, that it is the
only
way to train up a child, and, as my Mother, has quoted a thousand times to us, (taking in his little brother,) so convinced am I of it, that, of which there is very little probability now, should I live ever to have a family of children, or servants, I will force them to attend, I will drive them before me to the house of God, and to family prayers."
The young man stared to hear the energy with which Mr. Berkeley uttered this sentence; he turned round, and, looking stedfastly at him, said,
"Yes, Sir, so convinced am I of the wisdom of it, that if I could get them no other way, I would
kick
them before me, (driving out his foot with amazing strength;) it is the
only
way to make them wise unto salvation in their youth."
It is has been before observed, that Mr. Berkeley said,
"I have some little consolation in thinking, that if all I ever printed, and all I ever wrote, lay on the table, and a standish by me, and I knew that I had but half an hour to live, I would not erase one word of it; for, from a boy, I always resolved never to write
"A line which, dying, I would wish to blot.
"In all I have ever published or written, I have laboured to render vice odious and ridiculous, and to hold up virtue to respect and admiration
Mr. Monck Berkeley, from a boy, had it strongly inculcated on his mind, never, through life, to ridicule those who minister in things sacred, even in a false religion; his Mother constantly saying to him,
"If ever you travel in Turkey, or India, or amongst the Hottentots, always pay respect to the priests of the country, however erroneous or absurd their religion may be; for, without
some
sort of reverence for the Supreme Being, man degenerates, so lamentably, as to become WORSE
than the beasts that perish.
"
How strictly Mr. Berkeley attended to this admonition may be plainly seen in "The Generous Rustic, or Spanish Memories," and above all in his last excellent legendary tale of Heloise in "The Siege of Rhodes;" with the last edition of which is joined the "Vicar's Tale," originally published in the Oxford Olla Podrida. The village there described, is the beautiful village of Witeringham in Northumberland, of which the agreeable worthy Mr. Twentyman was many years curate. Mr. Monck Berkeley, one day speaking with extacy of the wit contained in Fielding's writings; his Mother said,
"Hold your tongue. If you talk of the wit, I will talk of the wickedness of them."
—
"Oh! my Mother, they abound with wit and humour."
—
"Well,
my dear Sir,
will you be
pleased
to tell me
what
sum would bribe you to have written Joseph Andrews, and Tom Jones; in each of which the clerical character is held up to supreme contempt in the person of
Parson Adams
and
Thwackham
—religion in youth wounded through the odious Blyfieldt—he game-keeper's wife, a
Parson's daughter,
proclaimed an harlot by her own harlot daughter—no opportunity omitted of disgracing the clergy and their poor starving families."
A
mourne silence
ensued; but his Mother continuing her harangue, he replied,
"Why I should not have chosen to have written just those parts."
—
"No, my dear Sir,
I know
that the riches of
both
the Indies would not have bribed you to do it. THANK GOD, therefore!"
. But, alas! what is that? How have I fallen! God help me! and how often have I envived my dog as he lay sleeping by my bedside, and said, 'Ah! thou dear happy brute, God will not call THEE into judgement, as he will thy
wretched
master."
Mrs. Berkeley quoted many gracious promises from Holy Scripture, and the promise of promises,
"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out;"
but all this was in some degree in vain. It was reserved for her excellent friend, Sir Richard Hill, by his incomparable book
The Editor conceived that she had before mentioned Mr. Berkeley's delight in a little book of Sir Richard Hill's, intituled, "A Present for your Neighbour;" without which he had never travelled for several years before his death, always taking it in his trunk; but, not finding it on carefully reading over the printed sheets, she mentions it here. Returning early one day from hunting, and it happening to rain, he entered the house through the servants' hall, where this little book lay open in the window. The title caught his quick eye. The servants all dispersed to their different occupations. He took it up, and went to his room. Some time after he came into the Editor's dressing-room, holding a little book in his hand, saying,
"Pray, my dear Madam, how came you not to give your Son one of these books, as well as your house-maid?"
The Editor answered in the same way,
"Why, my dear Sir, because I did not think that my
Son
wanted it."
—
"You were much mistaken:
he
wants it very much; and
I desire
you will be pleased to give him one directly,"
nodding to that end of the large book-case where he knew the books for the poor were kept. Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"Indeed, I cannot; for I gave away the last three days ago."
—
"Very well, my dear Mother, I am sure you will get a freight down soon, for I am certain you won't be
long
without
such
books as this; so I shall keep this in
pawn
till you redeem it. I know you are a very honest lady, and won't cheat your house-maid."
Mr. Berkeley used to divert his Father, by saying,
"I believe my Mother is the honestest woman living, where my Aunt and I are not concerned (being in haste to pay every one else) if she borrows of us, it seems to sit
quite easy
on her
conscience.
She certainly thinks it no fin to cheat us of a guinea now and then."
above named, to pour the balm of perfect peace—that peace of God which passeth ALL understanding—into the dear, humble, contrite, troubled spirit of her unspeakably dear Son—that peace for which the generality pray at least once a week, but which so very few labour to obtain; when obtained, they feel that
"the yoke of Christ is easy, and his burden light."
It was near two o'clock in the morning, before Mr. Berkeley, apologizing to his Mother, told her that he would detain her no longer, fearing that the want of a good night's rest might injure her health. Mr. Berkeley always knew that the loss of sleep is almost death to his Mother, whose Mother and Sister could, and the dear survivor can, pass weeks in health, with scarce any sleep at all. Mrs. Berkeley in that, as in other things, resembles her Father.—When young, her Mother used to tell the Editor, that she thought she
could
not be
her
child, because she used to wish to leave a ball-room at four o'clock—her Mother telling her often that she used to stay till
eight,
then drive home several miles, exchange her ball-dress for her morning one, and not go to rest till twelve next night, or rather morning; for her mother, Mrs. Cherry, never retired to her chamber till twelve, and constantly rose, winter and summer, at six, until within two years of her death, at sixty-eight, when she rose not until seven o'clock. It was little likely that Mrs. Berkeley should enjoy much sleep after so interesting a conversation of four hours.
Mrs. Berkeley is said, by all those who have known her most intimately from her childhood, to be of the most hopeful temper they ever knew: she preserves with tenderest care a hair ring given by her dear Son; an elegant figure of Hope leaning on her anchor, one hand pointing up to heaven, with this motto in hair,
"
Heaven's best gift to man.
"
It is very certain, that until she saw her Son the day after his happy spirit had quitted his fine form she did flatter herself, that the mercy of God would spare him to her; under the idea of having laboured from her youth to obey, oblige, delight her own excellent Mother, in order to make her feel less poignantly the loss of an almost adoring husband, that God would vouchsafe to reward her in KIND, and spare her Son. But, alas! her Son was her idol; and idols must be given up. The Editor was supposed to be idolized by
her
Mother, of whom it used to be said,
"Mrs. Frinsham loves her so much, that she never lets her walk across the room without looking at her (little insignificant figure) with pleasure in her eyes."
That delight must have arisen from thinking she bore some resemblance to her excellent Father. The Editor has the pleasure to reflect that there was nothing she would not have sacrificed to please the best of Mothers, and that she always prayed to God that he would be pleased to spare her life, if it were only for
one week
beyond her Mother's, that she might be spared the affliction of seeing her go before her. The Editor felt that she was the cause of much sad anxiety to her Mother, not having had the small pox, as her excellent sister had when a child, at Mrs. Sheeles's school, and its being lamentably fatal in Mrs. Frinsham's family, her eldest sister being one Saturday esteemed the most beautiful creature in London
The beaux of that day bestowed the following subriques on the three coheiresses of Mr. Cherry, all beauties. The eldest above mentioned, the Duke Cherry, fit for a Duke; the second, the fine Black Cherry, from her dark hair, her complexion lovely; the third, Mrs. Frinsham, the finest figure of the three, was termed the Heart Cherry. She proved her right to that pleasing subrique, by rejecting, for the sake of the Editor's father with a small fortune, but uncommon worth, numbers of brilliant splendid matches. Her ideas on that head descended to her daughter and her grandson. It is a little remarkable that there was a very strong resemblance in the faces of Dr. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinsham, so as to strike Dr. Berkeley himself the first time he saw her pictures. Neither of her daughters resembled her in the smallest degree, either in her exquisitely fine tall figure, which used to occasion her being followed in the Park, Mall, &c. where young ladies exhibited in those days, and which she retained to the last, as well as her fine red and white, and the exquisite sweetness of countenance, the distinguishing temper of her soul, as well as of the Editor's angelic delightful friend, the late Mrs. Catharine Talbot, of Lambeth Palace. These two lovely ladies' pictures hung near each other in Dr. Berkeley's eating-room. It is probable such kindred spirits are united in the realms of bliss.
, and the next the most deplorable object, mortified all over, and much blacker than an Ethiop. In the latter part the Editor has no doubt but she had resembled her lovely Aunt, had she not been inoculated by Mr. Sutton himself, who attended her at her own house at Acton, with great assiduity, Dr. Berkeley being then rector of that parish. They were sensible of the blessing of such a Preacher. Multitudes came every Sunday to Acton church, to hear one who, according to St. Paul, did not, as, he observed to the Editor in his last illness,
"preach himself, BUT CHRIST JESUS THE LORD;"
adding,
"HE knows I preached him in SINCERITY, always dreading to be a popular preacher, a pleaser of the people."
The following observations are intended solely to benefit some few unfortunate families where the small pox is worse than the plague. Mrs. Berkeley having not long weaned her second son, and duly prepared by Mr. Sutton, her friends all conceived that inoculation would be to her what, by the blessing of God, it is to thousands, to millions, not to herself;
she
conceived, if she escaped with life, that would be all; but the sufferings, her not having had that frightful disease
had
occasioned to her Mother,
did
constantly occasion to an almost adoring Husband, and the tenderest of Sisters, determined her one way or other to deliver them from their incessant anxiety; accordingly she, together with Mr. Monck Berkeley, then between four and five years old, were both inoculated on the same day, with the same matter. The latter had only three pustules, and did not lose half an hour's play through indisposition. His Mother had but few in her face, those on her nose pitted to the bone, a vast number on her head, a frightful quantity in her throat, and several on her arms, fingers, and feet; all shewed their malignity by being confluent, and not turning until three and twenty days—a plain proof, but for Mr. Sutton's method of treating the small pox, she had shared the fate of her beautiful aunt Miss Cherry. Mr. Sutton asserted to Dr. Berkeley and others, Mrs. Berkeley's friends, that he had never before had such a patient. He was much alarmed, and exceedingly attentive, saying,
"that had Mrs. Berkeley caught the small pox in the natural way, she would have mortified in a few days; that had Mr. Monck Berkeley caught it in the natural way, it had probably never have been known that he had had it."
Mrs. Berkeley's mother, Mrs. Frinsham, had only ten pustules, when a child about eight years old. A singular symptom attended Mrs. Berkeley's small pox, that of her eyes being, for more than three days, set in their sockets, so fixed that she could not move them at all, could only see in an absolutely straight direction; yet she had not one pustule in her eyes, or on her eye-lids; it was quite internal.
Mrs. Berkeley had been at first at Sutton House; but, having always a wonderful partiality for her own home, which she conceives would be the case if her home was a neat clean barn, begged Mr. Sutton's permission to return to her own house, with which he very obligingly complied, on condition of her going to him when he could not call on her, which she punctually did, her horses having nothing else to do, but drag her then wretched frame to take the air, as directed, half a dozen times in the day, she being unable to walk. Mrs. Berkeley, in her visits to Sutton House, used to enquire of the sensible well-bred Reverend Mr. Houlton, chaplain to Mr. Sutton, when her eyes would be better? his constant answer was,
"Oh! dear Madam, you will be in heaven to morrow, I assure you."
The next day Mrs. Berkeley, on entering the drawing-room, enquired of her fellow patients where Mr. Houlton was, that she might tell him,
"She did not like HIS, Mr. HOULTON's, heaven at all."
The very witty Canon Bowles, of Salisbury, being one of the patients, opened the door, and called out,
"Houlton, come down; her is Mrs. Berkeley, the lady of a Divine, that declares she does not even
wish
to go to heaven;—come down, man, and talk to the poor lady."
A lady, whose name is not at present remembered by the Editor, came down one morning, looking much distressed, saying,
"I am very ill indeed."
She sent for the sensible, clever,
consoling
housekeeper, and exhibited her chest covered over with a most tremendous erysipelas. The housekeeper said,
"Do not fear, Madam; if it please God, you will get safe through;"
the lady, turning to Mrs. Berkeley, said,
"
If I do,
I shall be the
first
of my family that ever did."
It did please Providence to bring her safely through, and spare her to a most anxious husband, who visited her with trembling tenderness perpetually.
Mrs. Berkeley suffered much from the kind persecutions of Dr. Berkeley and her Sister, to suffer Sir William Duncan and Dr. Addington
Dr. Addington used frequently to tell the Editor, that the first fee he ever received was at the house of Mr. Frinsham. A gentleman on a visit there was taken suddenly ill; Dr. Hayes was his physician, but Dr. Addington happenned to dine at White Waltham; he prescribed; and, as he said, got his handsel in Berks. He got a better treasure in Berks than gold, than rubies, the best and most sensible of wives, one of what the Editor always styles HOUSE BUILDERS. See the Proverbs of Solomon, chap. xxxi. Not
Castle,
but
House
Builders, are real treasures to sons and daughters. This M.D. narrowly escaped one of the weakest, and obtained one of the wisest of women.
to be sent for; which Mrs. Berkeley resolutely opposed, fearing it might injure the cause of inoculation, the greatest blessing surely that ever was granted to the terrestrial part of man. Mrs. Berkeley resolved to live or die, as it should please the all-wise Disposer of all events, by Mr. Sutton alone. Being at that time a little in the world, and a little known, she conceived, that calling in regular medical aid would easily be turned into,
"Mrs. George Berkeley would
certainly
have
died by Sutton's method,
if so and so had not saved her life."
Mr. Sutton felt himself so obliged by her conduct, that he, at different times, inoculated poor people
gratis,
whom she recommended to him, obligingly telling her,
"One line from her at any time, sent by a poor person, should be sufficient introduction to his care and his kitchen."
It is the fashion with persons of a certain description to disbelieve what they cannot comprehend, and to laugh at what they do not understand, and many persons explode the idea of the small pox generally proving fatal in some families.
Several years after, one night, at a large rout at Canterbury, there was universal lamentation over a family, who had lost a darling child by inoculation in the common way. Mrs. Berkeley naturally said,
"Alas! poor people! why did they not let Sutton attend it?
He is the man,
where it proves so fatal in families."
A Canterbury physician, not remarkable for his worth, now no more, meaning to turn Mrs. Berkeley to ridicule, said,
"And so, Madam, you believe the doctrine of the small pox proving more fatal in some families than in others;"
and proceeded to harangue, at a wonderful rate, against the absurdity of that doctrine, when, amongst other ladies and gentlemen, approached the elegant Mrs. P
t, saying,
"Surely, Dr.
, Mrs. Berkeley is right, at least she thinks exactly as Baron Dimsdale does; for, when he inoculated my daughter, he expressed his astonishment that a little creature so healthy, with so fine a complexion, should have it so much more severely than was the case with inoculation in his method with one in five hundred."
Mrs. P
t told him,
"She could assign no reason for it, unless it could be admitted as one, that her father (the worthy Dr. D
, Prebendary of Canterbury,) died of it, a desperate sort."
To which, she said, the Baron replied,
"You have fully accounted for it, Madam. In the few patients I have had, who have suffered much with it, I have always found that some of their families, on one side, have, for generations, died of it."
The Editor knows one family, where, for above two centuries, not one attacked by that tremendous disease ever did recover, until the introduction of inoculation; and in such unhappy families their children should be carefully kept out of the reach of infection, until old enough to take remedies to prevent being choaked, as it usually attacks the throat, and infants cannot take remedies to ward off that frightful attack; as was the case with the Editor, her throat being
quite lined
with pustules.
We have an high authority for knowing,
"He that watereth, shall himself also be watered again."
Mr. Berkeley experienced it, at least, in one very pleasing instance, his introduction to his noble, highly-honoured, respected friends, their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough
Had Mr. Berkeley been living, how sincerely, how tenderly, would he have sympathized with that illustrious pair on their late loss. The Editor rejoices that their Graces have still two sons (although she had none), a very amiable young nobleman, and a very fine youth, who, by having his late, learned, accomplished brother held up as a pattern, may be stimulated to resemble him. Before Mr. Monck Berkeley considered his health as irrecoverable. He one day said to the Editor,
"If God spares my life until next summer, I mean to step abroad, and visit my friend Lord Henry Spencer."
The Editor does not recollect where his Lordship then was. Mrs. Berkeley's constant, advice to her Son was, whilst persons of high rank or station treat you as a gentleman, a man of family, although
untitled,
always remember that they are
your
superiors; but, the instant they forget, have nothing more to do with them. Mr. Monck Berkeley never would visit, or meet, notwithstanding all her Ladyship's
submissions,
a poor silly Peeress, his near relation, who, having a
very
short memory, had
quite
forgot her kinsman, until she learned in town, that it was
ton
to be acquainted with Mr. Monck Berkeley. So much for the present of her Ladyship's WISDOM. When the Marquis of Blandford went to Eton, the then Dean of Canterbury, who went down with him, desired Mr. Monck Berkeley, about two or three years older, to take his Lordship under his protection,
i.e.
as the Editor conceives, to see that they are not
too
much buffeted by their own or an higher form; a certain
quantum
is excellent for—the Editor had almost said Kings; however,
certainly
for
"Lords and Commons."
Dr. Berkeley, having known this, and his Son's telling him that the Marquis of Blandford was at Christ Church, on Mr. Monck Berkeley's first return from Oxford to the Oaks, said,
"I suppose Lord Blandford had quite forgot you; it is so long since you left Eton, (near seven years.)
Mr. Berkeley replied,
"Indeed, my dear Sir, you are mistaken; being engaged to dine one day at the noblemen's table at Christ Church, and seeing Lord Blandford come into the hall, I determined to wait, thinking he might
really
might have forgotten me; but the instant his eye caught me, he sprang forward, and took me by the hand, saying, 'My dear Berkeley, how do you do? I am happy to see you."
This young nobleman has, as Mr. Berkeley always said he had, a very amiable heart. Every one at the time, near thirty years ago, heard the rencontre of the then very sensible, polite, agreeable
Master in Chancery.
Master P
s with Lord. B
, after his return from his travels, and his congratulating his Lordship on being a man, as he was a boy, of sense, at Eton.
, for which he was solely indebted to his very old friend, the Reverend Dr. King, now Chancellor of Lincoln. Mr. Berkeley happened to be at his father's, when Dr. King was appointed to Dr. Tanner's vacant stall in the church of Canterbury. Immediately on hearing it, he, with his wonted sweetness, when asking a favour of either of his parents, said to his Father,
"My dear Sir, I should take it as a very great favour if you would have the goodness to invite Dr. King to be your guest when he comes down hither to be installed; as I believe, although a most excellent scholar, he is entirely ignorant of all matters of this kind, and you are
au fait
in them. He was exceedingly kind and good to me when I was at Eton, and when we used to go over together to Lord Inchiquin's," (that elegant nobleman, one of the friends of Dr. Berkeley's very early youth at Cloyne, most amiably kind to Mr. Berkeley when at Eton,) "and to Sir Adam Gordon's," (a very old friend equally kind,) "and it would delight me to have it in my power to shew my gratitude to him."
Dr. Berkeley desired his Son to write immediately to Dr. King, and say,
"that, although he, Mr. Berkeley, must probably be absent, Dr. Berkeley requested the favour of his company."
Accordingly, at the proper time, Dr. King arrived at Dr. Berkeley's house in the Oaks, accompanied by his sensible brother, John King
The present worthy high-bailiff of Westminster.
, Esquire. Dr. King expressed his sense of the little attentions it was in Mrs. Berkeley's power to shew him, more highly than they merited. She requested him, if it was in his power, to do her Son the honour to introduce him at Blenheim; Mrs. Berkeley, having ever, from a young woman, before she married, declared, if ever she had a son, she would try to introduce him to that noble family, in preference to
any
other in England. His Grace's father, the late Duke, was very uncommonly amiable, and had much worth.
The Editor cannot avoid dropping a tear over the too early grave of a most amiable young gentleman, who accompanied Dr. King in his second visit to Dr. Berkeley's, his brother-in-law,
Manby, Esquire, secretary to the Duke of Leeds. Any attempt to do justice to the amiable, mild, gentle, elegant merits of this young gentleman, would require an inspired pen, instead of one dulled, blunted, by age and affliction. Probably all who knew him would be ready, with the Editor, to take up the language of Shakspeare, and say,
"I ne'er shall look upon his like again."
Good Dr. King, more learned than attentive, had brought Mr. Manby down with him to the Summer audit; and, knowing that Dr. Berkeley's house was not very large, had deposited him at one of the wretched inns at Canterbury. After being at the Oaks two days, one morning at breakfast, the good little Doctor said,
"He must go before he went into the audit room, and see after
his
young man."
Mrs. Berkeley, knowing that the Doctor had no son, enquired,
"What young man?"
Dr. King.—
"
Why, why,
he is Mrs. King's brother; I brought him down to
see
Canterbury."
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"Where is he?"
Dr. K.—
"Why, at one of your inns down in the city."
Mrs. B.—
"Who is with him?"
Dr. K.—
"Why nobody; that is the thing!"
Mrs. B.—
"How old is he? A man grown up, or a youth? Surely it is not
At Eton at the same time with Mr. Monck Berkeley; now Deputy High Bailiff of Westminster—a very polite young gentleman, as polite as an Irishman—for he is amiably attentive to
aged matrons
and
dowagers,
to prevent their breaking their bones, when in dangerous situations.
Prob. The Editor some years ago at Dover.
dear Dick, after whom I heard my Son enquire of you so kindly, and charge you so strictly to give his affectionate regards?"
Dr. K.—
"No, no; he is older than Dick; it is his eldest brother."
Mrs. B.—
"Well, who shews him the
lions
of Canterbury?"
Dr. K.—
"Why, poor fellow, nobody:
that
is the
thing.
"
Mrs. B.—
"
The
THING
indeed!!!
"
It will, by this time, be easily perceived by those who have the pleasure of knowing
intimately
the learned Doctor, that Mrs. Berkeley had taken upon herself the government of this
little
great man; Mrs. Berkeley always asserting, that although we are forbidden by the Apostle to govern our
own
husbands,
that
prohibition
does not
extend to our neighbour; and Mrs. Berkeley is, by her friends, esteemed a pretty good hand in that, often
very necessary
The Editor sometimes reflects with pleasure, that through her instrumentality
more
than
one
couple of her married friends have acknowledged, that, by her advice, always delivered in the humblest, the most secret manner, they live in good harmony, before unknown. When any of the Editor's friends marry, she always writes them a letter of advice, mixed with congratulations; if she has leisure, it is a full sheet. A gentleman, some time ago, wrote her word, that he carefully preserved her letter, and frequently redde it over, and meant to do so as long as he lived. He has been very happily married.
business. But, to quit this
folaterie,
which the Editor brought into the world with her, and which,
maugre
all her afflictions, her present exceedingly indifferent health, seldom well a whole hour together in a week, she seems to feel will never quit her, like the excellent Sir Thomas More's wit, and good old Lady Banister's humour, who, dying at an hundred and nobody knows how many more years old, told all her great grand-children,
"not to stand crying over her, for that they could not think that she was dying an
untimely
death, in the
prime
of life."
The dear lively Bishop of Norwich, one day, at dinner at Dr. Berkeley's, said,
"My dear Madam, how came you to let my brother King go to church this morning without a band?"
—
"Oh! my dear Mr. Dean, if you did but know the
trouble
it costs
me
every day, to prevent his keeping your Eminences (a title bestowed by Mrs. Berkeley many years before on the Dean and Prebendaries) waiting dinner for him, you would pity me; all
my
eloquence
cannot
inspire
him
with
due
veneration for the collected body—the CONCLAVE."
Mrs. Berkeley, feeling the unpleasantness of Mr. Manby's situation, besought Dr. King to bring him to Dr. Berkeley's. Mrs. Berkeley, her Son being in London, sent immediately to a very amiable worthy young man, who felt great gratitude for some very
essential
services rendered him by Mrs. Berkeley, repaying his attentions, when a boy, to her little boys, much younger, at the King's School, the worthy Mr. William Jackson, son of the Collector of Excise, and afterwards an Alderman of Canterbury. This grateful, well-informed young man died, after a very few days illness, universally lamented, as he was universally beloved and respected. His wonderfully low-lived parents gave rings of his hair, set with diamonds, to many of the ladies of Canterbury, who would not have known that he existed, as himself used to say, but for Mrs. Berkeley's gratitude; which when he, at nineteen, quitted the King's School, led her to invite him to play at cards at the round table with the younger ladies and gentlemen at her routs. Mrs. Berkeley introduced him to her learned friend the Reverend John Duncombe and his Lady, and requested them, when she left Canterbury, in 1777, to take to him. His mind received much cultivation from that learned, worthy, well-informed pair. To Mrs. Berkeley the old woman sent into
Berkshire,
Mrs. Berkeley being there at the time of his death, a piece of catgut worked with her son's hair, saying,
"that Mrs. Berkeley did not
want
diamonds."
Poor young man, he often, when living, felt her low absurdities, when she
insisted
on exhibiting to her son's company. He repeatedly said to numbers of people,
"But for Mrs. Berkeley's goodness, and I had been in such a set,"
(naming several aldermen's sons, &c.) some now violent Democrats, who were kept in their own line of company, whilst Jackson was in the first company in the church and county. His father, at his death, left legacies to all his son's friends, excepting to Mrs. Duncombe and to Mrs. Berkeley, to neither of whom an hundred guineas for a ring would have been unacceptable. But the new Legacy Bill will never affect Mrs. Berkeley; for, as Mrs. Frinsham says, when any of her rich relations die childless,
"Sister, to be sure they forget that you and I exist, or that we know how to
spend
a little money, for none of them ever name us even for a ten guinea ring."
But, quitting this subject for a much pleasanter, Jackson immediately presented himself in Mrs. Berkeley's dressingroom, when she introduced him to Mr. Manby, requesting him to become his guide, to conduct him to every thing worthy notice in the church or city, to repair to the Oaks every morning at breakfast, and every day at three to take their dinner with Mrs. Berkeley, and spend the afternoon; the Prebendaries dining together at each other's houses, during the audit, the tables generally being full; and taking their tea in the audit-room.
On the day when they dined at Dr. Berkeley's, on Mrs. Berkeley's entering the eating-room, the dinner served, the Bishop of Norwich, then Dean, going up to her, presented her with a pamphlet, saying,
"Madam, entirely in obedience to your commands, there is the sermon that I preached on Trinity Sunday. If it produces any good, it is entirely owing to you, for it has been often preached, and never was intended for the press. but you insisted upon its being published; and I have obeyed your orders."
Many of the Prebendaries said, the public were very much indebted to Mrs. Berkeley. The Bishop, when sitting at dinner, said,
"I must request you, my dear Madam, to give me a list of your friends whom you wish should read it, that I may send it to my bookseller."
Mrs. Berkeley felt, as it merited, this very polite attention from her most excellent old friend, and said,
"She would request a few to send to some of her friends in Scotland; that her English friends could provide themselves:"
then said,
"
I must pull this incomparable discourse all to pieces;
and get some of my pocket M.P.'s;" (so Mrs. Berkeley always styled two amiable Baronets, who used at all times to convey her simple chitchat to her friends;)
adding,
"I do wish to convey one
entire
to dear Lord Leven. What method can I take, my dear Mr. Dean? Can you advise me?"
Sweet Mr. Manby, with pleasure in his eyes, replied,
"My dear Madam,
I
can render you that little service, and shall be most unfeignedly happy to do it. You know we can send any thing from the Secretary of State's Office."
When the audit was ended, and the good little Doctor
The next time Mrs. Berkeley saw her Son, after his good friend, Dr. King's visit at the Oaks, he enquired,
"how she liked his old friend?"
She replied, as all
will
reply who know him intimately, at the same time asking Mr. Monck Berkeley,
"What is Mrs. King like?"
—
"Like, my dear Madam, why, like a QUEEN. YOU never saw such a woman, I promise you, in
your
whole life."
Those who have seen Mrs. King will be apt to think that Mr. Berkeley had improved in his knowledge of beauty, since his dear friend Miss M
used to style a very plain woman one of Berkeley's beauties. Mr. Berkeley was
then
only seventeen, and ever such an admirer of a superior understanding that, provided he heard wisdom, he regarded not the mouth.
and his brother going to quit Canterbury, this most amiable of young gentlemen thus addressed Mrs. Berkeley:
"My dear Madam, what can I do? what can I say to you, for your throughly polite attentions, for your wonderful goodness to me? I am utterly unable to express in
any
degree, the sense I must ever retain of it. If at
any
time, in
any
way, I can render you
any
service, you will delight my spirit by only pointing it out to me."
Mrs. Berkeley conjured him not to distress her, by saying a syllable more to her, for having
only
done just what every other person, not a savage, had they known his situation,
would
have done.
The Editor cannot here forbear relating a little anecdote of her Son's lovely amiability, of which she was only very lately informed, he never having mentioned it. A lady, who was a stranger, visiting at Mrs. Berkeley's, happened to sit opposite the fine portrait of Mr. Berkeley, painted by his amiable accomplished friend, Mr. Peters; she, in a low voice, said to the lady who sat next to her,
"I never saw so like a picture in my life."
Mrs. Berkeley, although she cannot see, yet hears remarkably quick, (thanks to God's blessing on the skill of Mr. Maull in Piccadilly, exerted about twenty years ago,) said,
"I did not know, Madam, that my Son had the honour to be known to you."
To which the good old lady very politely replied,
"Madam,
I
had the honour to be known to Mr. Berkeley. One year returning from Margate, we wished to see the cathedral of Canterbury; we walked up, and could not see any one to tell us where to find the person who showed it. We saw a great many gentlemen walking backwards and forwards by the side of the church. After some time one of them, detaching himself from the rest, came up to us, and, in the politest manner, said, 'Ladies, are you in any distress, in which I can assist you? The ladies told their wish to see the cathedral, and their utter inability to find out how to do it. Mr. Berkeley said, 'If you will have the goodness to wait two minutes, I will get the verger to attend you.' He stepped into a shop, sent off a lad for the verger, and again joined the ladies. On the arrival of the verger, Mr. Berkeley escorted them into the church, pointed out to them some particular beauties of that glorious temple of God, charged the verger not to omit shewing them some things as he named; then, saying 'he had an engagement,' made an elegant bow, wished them a pleasant journey, and took his leave."
The ladies enquired of the verger who that young gentleman was to whose politeness they were so much indebted. He replied,
"that it was Mr. Berkeley, son to one of the Prebends."
The ladies expressing gratitude, the verger said,
"Yes, Madam, every body loves Mr. Berkeley exceedingly, he is so kind and condescending to every one."
Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley both had been for some time wishing to obtain for their worthy old servant, Mr. Wrightson, when he should marry and quit service, the place of one of his Majesty's messengers, he having repeatedly flown, with incredible velocity, over this kingdom, and to and from Ireland, on Dr. Berkeley's business; and probably, had it not pleased the ALL-WISE Director of ALL things,
small
as well as
great,
to remove to the society he so strongly resembled on earth the angelic Mr. Manby, the poor of Canterbury had not been blessed with quite so excellent, so judicious, and so kind a governor, as successor to their former very worthy master, Mr. Nott. It is surely a delight to every feeling heart, to see the aged poor made happy, the young instructed and brought up industriously, the way to be happy here and hereafter.
The Editor is much addicted, wherever she resides or stays, any little time at a place, to visit the
work-houses,
feeling tender pity for those who have not a penny to buy tobacco, snuff, or a little
two
shilling tea, and
sweetened sand,
called sugar, to season it. Her feelings suffered much whilst at Oxford; as she really conceives, from what she
herself
saw. The relation of two of her old servants, whom she frequently sent thither, that most well-regulated Bridewells are Paradises compared to the Oxford Work-house; in short, nothing out of the infernal regions can be worse, or worse conducted. Mrs. Berkeley's maid, sent thither one day to see after a poor sick woman, was obliged to take shelter in a room some poor creature opened to her; an audacious harlot flying through the house with a great knife to murder the then poor, stupid, ignorant mistress. They have no poundage from earnings:
once
in the year, at the
Races,
they have, some two-pence, some six-pence, given them, as one of the guardians told Mrs.
, to
figure away
with on the Course.
Mrs. Berkeley, one day, on going out, gave a poor woman, who had called the mistress to her, and shewn her the
uncultivated
wretched garden, a shilling. The poor woman's gratitude and extacies were sorely distressing, adding,
"I have not seen a shilling before for two years."
This poor creature had lived comfortably in London, her husband a mason, killed by the breaking of a scaffold, when alas! she was wretched enough to belong to some parish in Oxford. Mrs. Berkeley enquired whom among the guardians were tenderly disposed towards the poor, and was told, Mr. Slatter the baker, and Mr. Ayton the grocer. Mr. Slatter serving Dr. Berkeley's family with bread, she instantly set off to call on him, and never recollects to have seen a more sensible, well-behaved, humane person in humble station; he would make a better figure in an higher, than many who have scrambled up to it. He assured her, that, unable to combat with the
majority
of the guardians in defence of the poor, he had in despair relinquished it entirely.
She then went to Mr. Ayton, and received a similar answer. She exhorted both, but, she fears, in vain. However unpleasant it might be to continue to fight the battles of the poor, she assured them there would come a time when they would rejoice that they had done it. Their answer was, that the lowest and most mercenary of the tradesmen were appointed guardians, and there was no opposing them. How different from Canterbury! two most respectable tradesmen out of each of the sixteen parishes are annually chosen; sometimes, she conceives, rechosen; as, when she wished to get a poor creature going in comfortably deposited, she constantly went to Dr. Berkeley's baker, the very worthy, sensible well-bred Mr. Johnson, educated at the university of Cambridge. On the death of his father he most dutifully and affectionately went home, to assist his worthy mother in carrying on her business. Mr. Johnson, if not in office himself, constantly took care to apply to some worthy man who was. The Editor is no Democrat; feels horrors at the vile idea of Equality—but such direful
inequality
as a rich
bon-vivant
Oxford tradesman—and the poor, almost poisoned poor creatures in that vile workhouse, must hurt every heart who has ever redde in the Bible,
"Who maketh thee to differ from another?"
&c.
The Editor, after delivering her sentiments very freely on one class of people in Oxford, cannot quit the place without taking notice of a very different class, whom she once had it in contemplation to address in the Oxford Mercury, as she did not feel happy to quit Oxford without offering her very grateful acknowledgements to them—the young gentlemen of the University. It is a general, an almost universal complaint amongst the Fair Sex. The Editor begs pardon for a misnomer; she ought to have written the RED SEX; for almost all now resemble
Rouge Dragon
in Heraldry; to be sure, the present dress makes them resembles Heraldic animals, and Swift's yahoos. The Editor, famous amongst her friends for never wearing any cap or hat that did not become her sort of face, nor any colour that did not become her complexion, and was perpetually consulted on that subject by her friends, cannot help thinking, that the Father of Mischief has been the inventor of the present mode of dressing, particularly the vile, scooped out hats, or rather straw caps; she therefore styles them
Diabolls.
It is no wonder that husbands go astray from wives so odiously disfigured.
That all polite attentions from gentlemen to ladies is at an end, is a charge perhaps too well founded. An excellent exaltedly pious friend of the Editor's, but lately gone to glory, the lady of the late very worthy amiable Thomas Baber, Esquire, of Sunninghill Park, and who had the happiness to be the mother of Edward Baber, Esquire, well known to all in the East for his
inflexible
honesty. He had the happiness of throughly pious, as well as accomplished parents. This lady, once a most celebrated beauty, used to say,
"The young men of this day are quite Hottentots; all I expect of them is, that, if I happen to fall down, they will be so good as to kick me aside, and not walk over me."
The Editor fears the charge may be too true; but she feels it a duty incumbent on her to say,
"that if politeness to females is banished from every other place, it has taken up its residence amongst the
young
gentlemen of the university of Oxford—
true
politeness extending ever to
aged
females."
The Editor, as has been mentioned before, has at sixty every accomplishment that some are without at eighty; frequently, if walking alone, stepping into a
grey
puddle, mistaking it for a nice clean broad stone. The polite attentions from young gentlemen in assisting her to cross the street, sometimes accompanying her half a street's length to direct her to a shop, opening the door for her, always giving her the wall, not driving her off the pavement, as two officers did a few years ago at Newcastle, she leaning on her husband's arm—he being dressed in a short cassock, they supposed him a bishop, as they said
en passant,
and knew
(worthy wights!)
he could not
challenge
them, but he severely reproved their
brutality.
The Editor happened to hear that the wife of one of them
amply
revenged her quarrel. He almost deserved it.
The Editor certainly owes her life to the polite humanity of one gentleman, whose name, although she took much pains to learn it, she never could find out, until the evening before she quitted Magdalene Lodge, at the close of November 1795, or every grateful, respectful attention would have been rendered to the Reverend Mr. Williams, Sub-warden of Wadham College.
A Lady of fashion, well known in the polite circles, now of an age, as well as the Editor, to dress for
comfort,
not for shew, having an house in the neigbourhood of Oxford, often walking in the street with the Editor, said,
"Your remark is very just, that the young men here are
certainly very well-bred;
if they were not, they would laugh at us—for, to be sure, you with your black beaver gypsey hat, tied down and hiding half your little (politeness prevented her adding, withered) face, and your rusty black cloak; and
I
in my
old
hat and
old
great coat, are two curious enough figures."
The Editor's excellent relation and herself are both old-fashioned, in making it a point to pay their butcher and baker every Monday morning. And the Editor used always to tell Dr. Berkeley, and her Son, when she got a lecture for walking out in a morning without a servant, that she did not like a footman attending her, when she did not appear as if she could pay him his wages.
The Editor never met with any impertinence, but twice, during her
sejour
in Oxford.—One day walking by Baliol College, a poor creature in
(she supposes)
a servitor's gown, expressing his dislike of her hat, and after she was passed, said,
"
he would give a crown to know who she was,
"
the Editor languished to have turned on her heel, and have said,
"Young man, save your crown to buy Trusler's edition of 'Lord Chesterfield's Advice to the amiable Phil. Stanhope.'—I will tell you, without reward, that I am the wife of Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury;"
but, having with her a lady who always returns pertness by
silent disdain
(which affects not fools, it may wise persons) the Editor's
generosity
in gratifying the poor low-lived creatures curiosity
gratis
would have hurt her dignity. The other was, one very hot evening, the Editor had taken in her hand a
para-sol;
a shower coming on, she held it over her head, to protect a very good hat. Not far from Christchurch she met a number of gentlemen, pushing home from the shower, who all passed her with their usual politeness, stepping off the very narrow pavement, to avoid incommoding her; the rear was brought up by a
little
insignificant looking animal in a gown, who in a voice, resembling any thing but that of a young man, squeaked out,
"Look, look, here is a lady holding a
para-sol
over her in this violent shower—what a fool she must be!!!"
The Editor heard two or three of the gentlemen say,
"Not at all—it did not rain (she supposes they added) when she set out."
The name of this wise
little miss,
in a black gown, is concealed in pity to his
poor
parents—it is enough to be
burthened
with
such
a poor little creature, without seeing him held up to public contempt.
A very worthy friend of the Editor's, whom she has not had the
delight
of seeing for many years, Mrs. M. Jeffries, of Richmond, used formerly to say,
"One has
no pleasure
in hearing scandal from Mrs. George Berkeley, for the little d
l will never tell one the name, until all the town rings with it."
The exquisitely kind attentions of this wonderfully agreeable, worthy lady, to the Editor's angelic friend, the late Mrs. Catharine Talbot (when her excellent friend, the Marchioness de Grey, lent her house at Richmond to Mrs. Talbot), during her lingering illness, must ever endear her to the Editor, although it is little likely she should every see her again, until they meet in the region of spirits, as both are much attached to their own abode.
Quiting these two curious beings, the Servitor and squeaking Miss, to thank themselves for these animadversions, the Editor returns her best thanks to all, and every sensible polite young gentleman of the University. They resemble, in some respects, holy Job, who says,
"
Eyes was I to the blind, feet was I to the lame,
"
&c. The Editor sincerely hopes, that they may never be afflicted as he was; and that those of her polite assisters, who choose to marry, may meet with wiser and more pious wives than
at first
fell to the lot of, certainly a
favourite
of the ALMIGHTY's; HE naming him one of the three with Noah and Daniel, who should deliver their own souls. This is mentioned to shew, to those who believe the inspiration of Scripture, the folly of supposing the history of Job a
pious fable,
and that holy man an
ideal
person. See poor Dr. Durell's simple book; and, in all other respects, the accomplished Mrs. Chapone's wise one, on this subject.
Since writing the above, the Editor has had the distress to hear of the almost sudden death of a throughly amiable man, who accidentally meeting her at tea at a neighbouring gentleman's house, and learning, not from the Editor, who is not addicted to entertain her friends or visitors with lamentations, that she had much intricate
It is impossible for her to omit offering her public acknowledgements to Mr. Wilberforce.
The
Mr. Wilberforce, the friend of all the distressed, whether their complexions are black or white, perhaps in this instance, might, with more propriety, be said
brown.
Having found it is impracticable to assist her in getting the Lords of the Treasury to remit the very heavy duty on the foreign books of Bishop Berkeley's library, removed from Ireland for sale in England, most generously wrote her a very polite letter, offering to lend her the money. He had never seen, or perhaps heard of her, until applied to, to use his interest with Mr. Pitt. It was most gratefully accepted, and will be most thankfully repaid. The Editor wishes she could get her income from Ireland, as easily as her Books (which, alas! have been so ill kept, that they have not defrayed the expence of carriage and duty. But, that many of them being wanted to complete sets in England, it had been wiser to have permitted the Irish worms to have finished them in their native country); the Custom-house Officers would not seize that. A widow in one kingdom, and her jointure in another, is rather unpleasant, is, sometimes, sorely distressing.
, unpleasant business to struggle through; visited her the next day, saying,
"he was going to town in a few days. and if it was possible for him to render her any service, in any way, he should esteem himself very happy if she would, as he politely said, honour him with her commands."
The Editor accepted most gratefully his kind offer, and took leave to employ him in a very fatiguing matter, in which his amiability led him to be indefatigable. That it is not yet accomplished, nor probably ever will, was not to be attributed to want of every exertion of the amiable Dr. Sergrove, master of Pembroke College. This produced a degree of intimacy. Mrs. Berkeley, ever wishing, with little ability, to benefit all her friends children, took the liberty to recommend to his attention and protection, a very sensible, fine youth of his College, a son of the very worthy Mr. Andrews, surgeon at Stanmore in Middlesex, one of fourteen olive-branches to whom this throughly amiable hearted, benevolent man was exceedingly attentive and kind, and told the Editor,
"that it had pleased him, and he dared say would please her, that young Andrews had, on Dr. Johnson's rooms becoming vacant, earnestly solicited to have them assigned to him."
Young Andrews and his whole family, have as strong understandings as Dr. Johnson. They are famed for it. May he make as good use of it as did his predecessor in the rooms! This agreable friend visited at Magdalene Lodge three days before he went to town—to return, alas! no more—requesting Mrs. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinsham earnestly to honour him, as he politely termed it, by drinking tea, and spending the evening at the Master's lodgings, saying, he would invite some ladies, whom he named, the rector of Lincoln, and some other sensible, agreable friends to meet them. The very tender state of Mrs. Berkeley's health forced her to decline it, which she now regrets. He promised to visit Datchet; alas! may his obliged friend meet him in a
still
pleasanter place.
Mrs. Berkeley, on her revisiting Oxford for a few days, offered for the Reverend Mr. Williams's acceptance, and which she hopes he received, one of the copies on royal paper, gilt, &c. (so decorated for some Lords Spiritual and Temporal,) of Dr. Berkeley's famous
long smothered
sermon, preached at Lambeth Palace Chapel, at the consecration of his beloved old friend Bishop Horne, which she solemnly promised Dr. Berkeley on his death bed, at his
earnest
injunction, should be published.
The Editor, as perhaps she may have before mentioned, never had any
very great
dread of the disapprobation of sinful mortals like herself; and, as she one day said to her beloved partner,
"the removal of her dear Son had annihilated that little fear."
If she can approve her conduct to what Dr. Young, with his wonted energy, terms
"the God within us, and to God in heaven;"
she little regards the censures of any Prelates or Potentates on earth. This
non chalance
of the opinion of, what is called, the WORLD, she by no means recommends to young persons of either sex, or to mothers who have daughters that they wish to marry off;
tout au contraire,
she dehorts them from it. A proper respect for the
then
WORLD, she is persuaded, did, in the last century, prevent some of our great-grandmothers being exhibited at Doctors Commons, and before the House of Peers. To be sure,
they
had also a
little
fear of a
great
PERSONAGE, that our modern belles and beaux, many of them, never even heard of from their wise, prudent parents.
The late excellent Lady
once said to the Editor,
"My father and mother were what the world called
mighty good sort of people;
and yet I do declare, neither of them ever mentioned any thing of religion to me, nor ever even told me that I had a soul to be saved."
Upon the Editor's saying,
"they must have done it, but you have forgotten it;"
she reddened with anger, and answered,
"No, no;
you
are the only human being that ever talked to me on the subject of religion."
Her father lived till she was twenty-three, her mother until she had a grandchild of this daughter marriageable. The minister of her father's parish was what the world termed a
very good
clergyman; probably he had not
studied,
he must have
redde,
as it is a Sunday lesson, the thirty-third chapter of the prophet Ezekiel.
The once gay (as vicious is too frequently termed) Lord Holland, in his account of himself, written a little before his execution, praises the wonderful mercy of God in the following words:
"Oh! the astonishingly gracious mercy of God, that
I
should owe my salvation to a child
The incomparable angelically pious lovely Countess of Suffolk. This heavenly creature was, in mercy to her wretched Father's soul, snatched from the brink of the grave, just before his afflictions commenced. She attended him in prison every day; and, the night preceding his execution, sat up in an outer room, and entered with his gentleman in the morning. She was certainly spared from death temporal on purpose to rescue her father from death eternal. She went a very few months after to join her penitent parent in the realms of bliss.
of my OWN—
I
who have so sadly neglected the instruction of my children and servants in piety and the knowledge of God. I always did take care to have a
good
chaplain in the house to read prayers daily, and instruct my children and my servants in religion; BUT I OUGHT also to have done it myself, as ehildren attend much more to what comes from a parent, than from others not so interested for them,"
&c. &c.
The Editor, some years ago, returning from Scotland to Canterbury, amused herself with visiting every nobleman's house
in
her road, or that did not take her
too far
out of her road, to view the fine pictures, &c. She saw a chapel at every one, and constantly said to the attending servant,
"I suppose that you have prayers here every day."
—
"No, Madam, never."
Here must be excepted the chapel at Alnwick Castle. The question asked, was answered by the sensible obliging Mrs. Carr, the housekeeper:
"O yes, Madam, every day, excepting Sundays, when his Grace (the late Duke of Northumberland) always goes, attended by all the family, to the parish church."
His Grace's children and servants will not rise in judgement against
him
at the LAST GREAT DAY, when every PEER, as well as every PEDLAR, must meet every
Servant
they have ever had under their roof. May they do it with joy, and not with grief!
The reason assigned by God for his regard of an holy Patriarch was,
"For I know Abraham, that he will
command
(not civilly desire) his children, and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the LORD,"
&c. The LORD printed in capitals always implies
—
"It is great pity, as sweet Dr. Watts observes, that our translators have not
always
translated it, as in some few places, Jehovah."
It would have prevented the writing of many volumes and much cavilling. Let them
divert
themselves with cavilling as long as they
can
—there are no Socinians or Arians in HELL. Let the honest ones among them read Mr. Hawtry, and the astonishingly curious treatise of the late very learned Reverend Meredith Jones, chaplain to the present father of the Bench, the Reverend Sir William Ashburnham, Lord Bishop of Chichester, whose exquisitely polite, amiable attentions to the late Dr. Berkeley were were ever so gratefully felt by him, that he constantly brought his Lordship's letters to the Editor to preserve carefully.
After an absence of some months from England, on his return, Mrs. Berkeley said to her Son,
"Oh! my dear Berkeley,
I can
introduce
you
to the most delightful of women."
Mr. B.—
"Pray, my dear Madam, do it then; for you know how much I admire a woman of superior understanding; and I am sure, if she was not such, although you never despise those who have not,
you
would not style her
delightful.
"
Mrs. B.—
"She has indeed; and it is
so
cultivated, and
so wonderfully
well informed, by much travelling; so
highly
polished, and withal '
bears her faculties so meekly,
' as your idol Shakspeare speaks, that you will be in raptures with her."
Mr. B.—
"Well, my dear Mother, who is she?"
Dr. B.—
"Why she is a
Jewess.
You know I often tell your Mother, that
she
has friends amongst '
Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Heretics.
'
(See one of the Good Friday Collects—alluding to Mrs. Berkeley's having one beloved friend, alas! who believes not in God, some Roman Catholic, and some Presbyterian friends.)
"She has
really
now a
Jew
friend, and a most pleasing woman she is."
Mr. B.—
"Well, but her name, my dear Sir. Who knows but I may make up to her, convert her to Christianity, and marry her; for, to be sure, she is
rich,
being a
Jewess.
"
Mrs. B.—
"Marry her; why, although the Levitical Law allows of polygamy, much as you and I have both studied it, I do not find that it allows the ladies to have a plurality of husbands. That is only allowed to one cast in the East Indies, where the woman is allowed
four,
who all, like
wise
men, vie with each other, who shall be most assiduous, most agreeable, present her the best gifts; whilst we European women, that is, some
few old fashioned
creatures, are studying perpetually how to please our husbands, as that
horrid
old fashioned writer, St. Paul, directs, 'The woman that is married careth for the things of the world, how she may
please her husband.
"
The wonderfully witty sister of the Editor often says,
"Aye, aye, it
might be so
in St. Paul's time; but their care
now,
seems to be to please every man
but
their
husband;
and he, poor soul, is left to please himself as well as he can. Well, well; there
must
be a
reckoning
for it
some time hence,
poor silly creatures!"
Mrs. Berkeley told her Son, that if he was
ambitious
of uniting himself with a descendant of the Father of the Faithful, the FRIEND OF GOD,—delightful title which all should strive to merit—all who do strive in earnest may attain—he must look out for himself; for that her lovely friend had been many years the happy wife of the sensible, learned, highly accomplished, throughly polite Raphael Brandon, Esquire.
Mr. Brandon writes English as correctly, and very much more elegantly, than many eminent English scholars. The Editor has letters of this gentleman's carefully preserved, that prove the truth of this assertion; she expressing some surprize at it, was told by Mr. Brandon, that on his coming from Portugal to England, at about seventeen, the master appointed to teach himself and brother English, recommended it to them to study diligently Bishop Lowth's English Grammar, which he has done to excellent effect. The Editor advises all youths, sons of her friends, who are going into navy, army, or the East, unable to enjoy that
great, solid
blessing of an
English
university education, to purchase, and study it. Many have followed the advice, and blessed her for it. It distresses one to hear a brave Admiral, or valiant General, speaking as incorrectly as an Abigail.
The writing the word
Jew,
brings to the Editor's recollection, and she
cannot
deny herself the
pleasure of writing,
and, she hopes, some few feeling hearts the
pleasure of reading,
a little anecdote of Mr. Monck Berkeley, and some Canterbury Jews. About the year 1785, the shop of a very respectable woollen-draper and master-tailor was broke open, and robbed of goods and money to a large amount. Every one was at a loss to guess who had done the deed, excepting the worthy sufferer. A gentleman of large fortune, of strict integrity, on whom the Editor bestowed the title of RHADAMANTHUS, as apt to say unpleasant things, as his sweetly amiable son is to utter pleasing ones, thought proper to say,
"Mr.
(the name not recollected by the Editor)
had robbed himself.
"
This naturally rouzed the honest man, who said,
"he
must now
find out the burglarian at any rate."
He immediately procured a warrant to apprehend his journeyman, who had served a seven years' apprenticeship to him, and behaved himself in the most exemplary manner. He immediately accused his accomplice, a journeyman hair-dresser. They were both examined by the Mayor, and committed to prison. Mr. Berkeley coming home, the Editor at dinner asked him
"if he knew this young Jew who had committed the robbery;"
to which he replied,
"Poor creature, he had never committed this, nor probably any other robbery, if he had not been drawn in by a vile rascal of a Christian, as he is by courtesy styled, a villain. It was moving to hear how excellent a character his worthy master gave of him, until, he said, within these last few months, that he became acquainted with this
Christian
rascal, when he became idle, and, of course, vicious."
No human being, surely, ever had a greater dread of idleness than Mr. Monck Berkeley; and often, during the latter part of his illness, used to exclaim,
"What an idle life I lead! Surely God will, I fear, call me into judgement for it. I do nothing; I write nothing."
Mr. Berkeley lamented, that, through the stupidity of the
then
town clerk, the poor creature had not been admitted to bail. After dinner he retired to his own apartment, and consulted his law books. He was to leave Canterbury very early the next morning, in company with his very amiable neighbour, William Deedes, Junior, Esquire, of St. Stephen's, Canterbury, both being obliged to keep term that day at the Temple—Mr. Deedes, that he might not idle away a large estate, which he now possesses and spends most worthily; Mr. Berkeley, that he might get one, as he probably would have done, had it pleased God to have blessed him with health.
About eleven o'clock at night Mr. Berkeley came home, and thus accosted his Mother:
"My dear Madam, you must be pleased to
promise me,
that you will go to-morrow morning, the minute you have breakfasted,
before
you go to church,
to this poor creature's parents, and tell them, that if they do not retain Garrow to plead for their son, he will certainly be sentenced to death—that Garrow can and will get him off. I know he has a cause this assize at Maidstone, and if they will give him sixty guineas he will come on to Canterbury. Don't let them
hackle
with him; for he will not come for a less fee, and I know he will come for that; and
I
repeat it, and I desire you to say, that
nothing else can
save their son—poor fellow!"
Mrs. B.—
"I know not even where they live."
Mr. B.—
"Oh! John will find that out for you."
Mrs. B.—
"I do not know them; and they would think it very odd in me, an ignorant woman"
—
Mr. B.—
"
Odd
or
even,
best of Mothers, if you don't this minute
promise me solemnly
that you will go, and say what I have desired you, I will take my hat, and knock them up, and tell it them myself."
To prevent her Son's going, Mrs. Berkeley, though with but an indifferent grace, made the promise, and after prayers the family retired. In the morning, a little before five, the hour the chaise was ordered, Mr. Berkeley crept into the chamber like a zephyr, that he might not disturb his Father, a very bad sleeper, and repeated in his Mother's ear all she was to say. The promise once obtained, he had no uneasiness on that score. The Editor, after breakfast, set off for Best's Lane, where she witnessed
such
a scene, as (her dear compassionate Son being removed) she trusts, and thinks, no one can
ever again
compel her to witness.
On entering the house, she saw affliction personified in the figure of a decent middle-aged woman. Mrs. Berkeley, conceiving her the mother of the unfortunate young man, began condoling with her. Soon coming to the point, telling her who she was, and delivering her Son's message, the poor woman exclaimed,
"My God, what goodness! that
such
a gentleman should condescend to think about such a
poor wretch
as I am. Oh! may God reward him!!! Well! to be sure, somebody
did
tell me that a fine young gentleman, one of the Prebendary's Sons, did say, walking on the Parade with other gentlemen, that my
poor boy need not
have been committed to gaol."
She instantly rose, and called her husband. On his entering the room, she repeated Mr. Berkeley's message with delight—when, horrid to relate,—what can one call him? not a descendant of Abraham by Sarah, not a
Saracen,
as the descendants of Esau style themselves, that they be not mistaken for the descendants of Abraham by Hagar. he must have been an
Ishmaelite,
worse than an Ishmaelite; for not only his hand, but his HORRID tongue, was against his
own
child; for, in an hoarse surly voice, he said,
"
No, no; I shall do not such thing; let him take his chance; if he can't get off, he must be hanged.
"
Mrs. Berkeley, on seeing the agonies of the poor distracted mother, longed to have said to him,
"
You will be damned.
"
She did, however, restrain her indignation a little, and joined the supplications of the wretched Mother, elevated with Mr. Berkeley's message into confidence of her poor son's life, now thrown into the deepest despair. Never did the Editor so much wish for a large fortune as at that moment, to have given the mother the fee for the counsel that Mr. Monck Berkeley so earnestly recommended. After finding all soothing utterly in vain, she gave a loose to her indignation, saying every thing that it suggested to her. At length, bidding farewel to this wretched mourning mother, she returned home, without deigning to look at the old father. Much it may be supposed
he
felt this. Not so his kind adviser, Mr. Monck Berkeley. One of the Editor's
minor
punishments for her children, when young, until ten or twelve years old, was,
"You have not behaved well, in so, or so; I will not look at you until to-morrow dinner time."
This was so keenly felt by her eldest Son, Mr. Monck Berkeley, that he would often, in the sweetest voice, supplicate,
"Now do forget it, and look at me a little."
A proof this, of what the Editor frequently asserts,
"That a little common sense, and great steadiness, may rescue children from
much
corporal punishment, and make a more lasting impression on their minds."
Compassion carried her, sometimes, when taking her morning walk, to visit this
"
House of moarning.
"
This melancholy affair happened several weeks before the assizes. The wretch remained inflexible, and the poor mother in such a state of despair, as never to wash her hands or face, put on or take off her cloaths, sitting the whole day without uttering a word. At length, just before the trial was to come on, some more powerful orator than Mrs. Berkeley; probably some modern TERTULLUS, prevailed on the old wretch to send and retain Mr. Garrow, who came on from Maidstone to Canterbury; and, as Mr. Berkeley had foretold, got the poor young Jew off for transportation for life. Some kind Christian neighbour (for she and her children were esteemed by all, as the poor soul justly said, for more than twenty years past) flew out of the Guildhall, and told her the
"
joyful tidings.
"
—She started up, fell on her knees, thanked God, went up stairs, dressed herself neatly as formerly, went out to the fish-market, and ordered hom her matters for her family as usual.
Dr. Berkeley, on hearing it, as all the city was talking of it, expressed his astonishment, that the mind could so soon, after such length of time, recover its wanted energy. The Editor, it may be supposed, did not fail to call in Bests Lane, and obey the delightfully pleasing injunction of the Apostle—
"Rejoice with them that do rejoice."
The worthy woman's gratitude, ascribing the
temporal
salvation of her son to Mr. Monck Berkeley's judicious, amiably kind advice, in which all agreed, was very delightful to the fond heart of his happy mother.
It is impossible to omit mentioning here, that, in the year 1793, Dr. Berkeley had with him, at Canterbury, Mr. Patrick Satterley, eldest son of the skilful, successful, humane Mr. Satterley, surgeon and apothecary, of Hastings, for whom Dr. Berkeley had taken a lodging, accidentally, at a silversmith's in Palace Street, whose worthy wife was sister to the young man rescued from the gallows by Mr. Berkeley. Mr. Satterley getting a violent fever, and Dr. Berkeley going to him, they discovered that he was the father of their brother's benefactor, and immediately declared that no nurse was necessary, for that they esteemed it their duty to render every possibly attention to any friend of that dear good Mr. Berkeley, who had been the means of rescuing their poor brother from an ignominious death.
Mr. Berkeley, on going to Hastings, was told by his surgeon in town, Mr. Blicke, that he would find a most skilful, attentive, medical man in Mr. Satterley. This gentleman is famous for rescuing persons from
"the house appointed, at length, for all the descendant of Adam,"
"
Apostate
Adam,"
as good Dr. Joshua Smith styles him, in his "Hickes's Psalms." The aged, he, by God's blessing, on his great medical skill, preserves, in
comfortable
health, to extreme old age—the
dreadfully rash
young, who presume to rush, uncalled, into the presence of
"the
great Judge
of quick and dead,"
by his great chirurgical skill. The Editor
knows
two thus happily rescued by him; and she knows of several others—one old wretch, the late ***********, the murderer of her amiable accomplished friend, the late Judge Advocate of *******.
Mr. Satterley,
presuming
to give himself a few holydays, to make a visit to his eldest son, a very elegant amiable young man, at Oxford, of whom he said to Mr. Monck Berkeley,
"That young man, from a child, has never done
that thing
that I wished him not to do;"
this horrid old monster dismissed Mr. Satterley, and called in other medical aid, who, in one short fortnight, dismissed HIM—to a place whence he will never return, until called to meet the amiable, throughly Honourable Mr. *******. This old monster had prefixed to his name (by birth) that pretty elegant word, which should remind all who possess it, not to disgrace it,
Honourable
*****.
The Editor is sometimes, by one or two of her
gnatstraining,
although not
camel-swallowing
friends, accused of
want of charity,
in
guessing
at the place of abode of some departed spirits; to which she replies, from her old-fashioned book,
"The HOLY SPIRIT declares, that
without
HOLINESS
no
man, or woman either, however beautiful, &c. shall see the LORD."
Do you think that General
, or Mrs.
, were HOLY persons? The Editor has no doubt, but that many very
One of our witty, as well as pious,
antient
Divines, says,
"Hell will be paved with
good resolutions,
filled with
good sort
of people."
good
sort
of people will declare, that the Editor's Preface deserves to be
burnt
by the hands of the common hangman; but, if it benefits or consoles one
single
soul, she will esteem herself happy.
The last time the Editor visited Canterbury, alas! she called on the worthy Israelites, to thank them for their kind gratitude shewn to Mr. Patrick Satterley; when they repeated to her what they had, as above related, said to Dr. Berkeley. There are certainly some
"
double distilled superfine elegant
"
CHRISTIANS in Canterbury, who might have learned gratitude from these Jews in humble station.
When Mr. Monck Berkeley was a very little boy, the very respectable
Henchman, Esquire, of the India House, losing his worthy father before he was fourteen, was sent off to India. On bidding adieu to his elegant mother, he threw his arms about her; saying,
"Farewel, my dear mother; God only knows whether we shall ever meet again in this world. But comfort yourself with this, that as I leave you an
honest
boy, whether I live or die, by God's blessing, you shall never hear of me but as an
honest
man."
So saying, he quitted the house; and, from what the Editor gathers from her news-paper, Mr. Henchman seems to keep his charming early promise. The Editor has not the pleasure of being at all acquainted with him, having never seen him since his return from India, The above little anecdote is related
verbatim,
as it was told to Dr. Berkeley and herself at the time, by their sensible agreeable friend, the late Reverend Humphrey Henchman, Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford. Both these gentlemen were grand and great-grandsons of Bishop Henchman of London. This story was very frequently told to Mr. Monck Berkeley by his Mother, during his childhood and youth, with exhortations to make the same resolution. Mr. Berkeley used frequently to say,
"Whatever faults I have, I thank God, and my dear Mother, that I am an
honest
man."
He was in truth so; and, it may with equal truth be asserted, a man of the strictest honour
When Mr. Monck Berkeley was a very little boy, his mother made him get in memory the lines of Mr. Pope;
a little altered for his particular
use:
"Reflect that lessen'd fame is ne'er regain'd,
"And
boyish
honour
once
is always stain'd."
When about six years old, he came one day to his mother, with Pope in his hand, saying,
"My dear mama—here is a man that has got your verses, and printed them, but not
quite write,
for he says
virgin
honour."
Mr. Monck Berkeley, when grown up, used to say,
"What a little fool I must have been, not to find out that my mother was the alterer, not Mr. Pope."
Mrs. George Berkeley incurred some ridicule for thus early instilling into her little boy a sense of honour; but, where
conscience
is concerned, she ever did, by GOD's grace ever will, defy
ridicule;
which, let the wretched Lord Shaftesbury say what he will, is
"
not the test of
TRUTH;
for such a genius as his Lordship may ridicule the whole life of the Saviour of the World. His Lordship's death
merited
ridicule. Bishop Berkeley has frequently told his son,
"that so lamentably ill-tempered was he in the latter stage of his life, that his poor lady used, when any company arrived, to post out of the room, and conjure them, for
her
sake, to assent to
every
thing her Lord asserted or said, or it would put him into such a passion as might kill him."
Happy philosophy for one on the brink of the grave!!!
.
The Editor has to return her most grateful heartfelt acknowledgements for the wonderfully kind, amiable attentions of the Reverend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury, for his incessant unwearied exertions in
endeavouring
to lighten her
heavy
business at Canterbury. It was
her
misfortune,
not his
fault, that he happened to pitch upon the last man in England whom she would have appointed her surveyor, and more particularly as he owed very great obligations to Dr. Berkeley. The Editor, some weeks ago, being advised by a printer to apply to a paper-maker, a very rich man, for paper to print off the second volume of Literary Relics prepared by Mr. Monck Berkeley; the supplying it was
civilly
declined. The Editor remarked, that she was sure, before she wrote, that it would, because he was under very important obligations to Dr. Berkeley. The very worthy bookseller, the obliging Mr. Cook, of Oxford, said,
"Do I understand you right, Madam?"
—
"Yes, Sir, I have, in repeated instances, since my loss of Dr. Berkeley, experienced it; as, through the goodness of God, I have met with numerous instances of
real
friendship, where neither on Dr. Berkeley's or my own account I had
any
right to expect
any
attention but civility."
It is impossible for the Editor to pass on without inserting here the name of the witty, worthy William Hey, Esquire, Commissioner of the Customs, for his unwearied exertions to serve her: the noble, the angelic conduct of the worthy Mrs. Taylor, of Clarges Street, Piccadilly, an
eléve
of the lovely Mrs. Catharine Talbot, who had the happiness to live with her many years; who, hearing that the Editor (not caring to
coin
) was in some difficulties, most generously wrote to her, offering to sell out her
whole
fortune to lend to Mrs. Berkeley, the stocks then at sixty-five. It may easily be
guessed
what answer the Editor returned to this
wonderful
offer—may HE who seeth in secret, reward her openly!—Indeed she has as many
friends
as acquaintances. Yes, may HE who rewardeth every man
according
to his works, reward these worthy compasionate friends—compassionate I repeat; for an aged matron, without a son, although not quite a beggar,
may
be, very often is, a great object of compassion.
The Editor's thanks are particularly due, her prayers are daily offered at the throne of Grace—may they be heard, and answered an hundred, a thousand fold, on them and theirs—to her excellent old friend, Sir Richard Hill, for the trouble he has taken, is perpetually still taking, concerning her affairs, English and Irish. To the amiable Dr. Lynch, as above mentioned, to the very learned, grateful Mr. Sawkins, student of Christ Church, for literally
forcing
money upon her, when she could not procure a guinea from Ireland, enabling her to pay a quarter's salary to one of Dr. Berkeley's Curates, who wrote
twice
before Dr. Berkeley had been dead three weeks. The salary became due on the 21st of December, 1794. Mrs. Berkeley lost her beloved Partner on the 6th of January, 1795, exactly sixteen days after. Dr. Berkeley, whether he received money or not from Ireland, was always most scrupulously,
conscientiously,
careful to pay his Curates' salary, from the time that he had the happiness at twenty-six of having his beloved, respected friend, the very learned Mr. John Whitaker
This worthy gentleman is a lineal descendant of the spirited Walworth, Lord Mayor of London. His uncle, the late Major Walworth, was the last male descendant of that NOBLE magistrate of the City of London.
, the able, the unanswerable Vindicator of Mary Queen of Scots, in that relation to him, as also the excellently pious Philip Gurdon
This excellent gentleman is now residing on the large estate on which the Conqueror
found
his grand-sire—long may he and his descendants enjoy it! They owe it to the most wonderful instance of true friendship, perhaps, ever performed by any
meerly
human being. The Editor here sets down the story, as it has often been related to her by the excellent Mr. Gurdon, when curate to Dr. Berkeley, at Cookham.
In the year 1647,
Gourdon (as it was then spelt), Esquire, was nominated one of the Judges to try the unfortunate King Charles—he determined to attend—the minister of his parish used many arguments to dissuade him, but all in vain. The night before he was to commence his journey to London, he stayed with him till eleven o'clock (a late hour in the those wiser times), telling him, that, setting aside the
indignity
of the business, it would be the destruction of his
antient
family and
large
estate: at length, the excellent pastor, unable to prevail on his
steady
patron, took his leave. Early the next morning Mr. Gurdon set out for London; a long narrow lane lay between his house and the high road—on a sudden the coach stopped, with a violent jerk, in the narrowest part of the lane. The coachman called out to the postillion, to know why he dared to stop so suddenly. He replied,
"The horses won't go on."
—
" Whip them then."
—
"I can't, for Dr.
(name forgotten by the Editor) lies across the road, all in the mud."
—Mr. Gurdon, putting his head out of the coach, enquired the cause; when his heavenly pastor spoke as follows:
"My dear friend, you are going on a most iniquitous business. I have said
all
I am capable of
saying;
I am now doing all that
I
am capable of
doing.
If you
will
go, you shall; drive over
my body.
"
Mr. Gurdon, struck, (the Editor can never relate it without her eyes filled with tears), fell back in his coach; then, recovering himself, said,
"Thou best of men, I will go back; come into the coach to me."
—
"No, not unless you swear to me that you will give up the matter;"
which Mr. Gurdon did; and, by so doing, preserved his estate for the present excellent amiable possessor of it. On the King's return, Mr. Gurdon was attained, as one of the King's Judges; his name is in the list, the Editor thinks, in Nalson's "Life of Charles the First;" but it was happily proved that Mr. Gurdon
did not attend.
of Assenwick Hall, in Suffolk, both gentlemen of fortune; but the idea of detaining a Curate's salary, however rich he might be, always hurt him. It is supposed the worthy man who applied so expeditiously to his relict, conceived that she could not be hurt, but by a pair of red hot pincers.—A young Sprig of Divinity also, too old to have acted thus, whose worthy father ever gratefully acknowledged himself under high obliations to Dr. Berkeley on many accounts,
pecuniary
as well as other, employed a LAWYER to write to the Editor, before the interment of her beloved Partner, demanding the payment of—a not very large sum, borrowed by Dr. Berkeley of his father during Dr. Berkeley's Chancery suit in Ireland. The Editor is indebted to the goodness of Dr. Berkeley's worthy old friend, the Reverened the Dean of Hereford, for answering the
Lawyer's Letter,
and adjusting matters with this
grateful Divine,
who, in his early youth was one of the
many quarterers
on Dr. Berkeley's wonderful hospitality. Pity to the FATHER of the Divinity Sprig prevents his name from appearing in these pages. The Editor involuntarily exclaimed, with the antient Sage,
"Thrifty, careful of the MAIN chance, as this young man is, I had rather have my dead son, than two such living ones."
He wrote a very fine letter
apologetic
to the Editor for his
prudence;
to which, as she was not by her friends
permitted
to answer in her own style, when wounded,
she
never returned any answer at all; and, only laments, that his zeal to recover so
speedily
a sum, considerably under two hundred pounds, should have reduced him to the
meanness
of falsifying; as the attorney, however clever, could not by inspiration have dictated the carefully preserved epistle to the Editor, without orders from his employer. Indeed he therein says he had orders, &c—Should this Preface happen to be redde by the Curate, or the
Sprig
of Divinity; if they keep their
own
counsel, the Editor means not to publish their names, nor to make them known to more persons than their own
wonderful
conduct naturally introduced them to.—Quitting these
prudent
persons, the Editor turns to more pleasant ones.
The worthy friends of Mrs. Berkeley, who in that very early period of her affliction visited
"the house of mourning,"
laboured to heal, not to tear open, her
deep
wounds. They thought not, they acted not, like these two
Divines;
but, as was most elegantly expressed in a polite kind letter of enquiry to a friend, from Mrs. Trenchard of Hendon's House:
"My heart bleeds for those two
ladies;
before
their
deep
wounds for the loss of Mr. Berkeley are healed, to have them
thus
torn open afresh
There subsisted between Dr. Berkeley and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Frinsham, the sincerest tender friendship.
."
Mrs. Trenchard cannot, probably, translate Greek, nor write Latin, quite so well as these Divines; but she has a highly cultivated mind, and a most feeling heart.
The names, as above mentioned, are not communicated, because the Editor believes the
hasty
Curate a
really worthy
man, although not blessed with
quite
so much delicacy as the worthy daughter of farmer Strange, of Heddington near Oxford, who, about five months after the death of Dr. Berkeley, presented a bill to the Editor for corn and hay. On her coming into the room to receive her money, a pretty considerable sum, Mrs. Berkeley, enquiring of her why she had not applied before, as she might probably have been glad of it; with the spirit of a princess, of an angel, she replied,
"Good Madam, how could I think of
troubling you
for a
few
pounds in
your deep affliction?
I wonder I could do it now; but I heard you were about to leave Oxford, and I thought perhaps you might not know of this bill; but, if it is any inconvenience to you to pay it now, I am perfectly willing to wait for it."
May this worthy woman never experience the loss of her good husband, and an only child!
The forming this kind wish for this amiable-hearted woman brings to the Editor's mind what occurred many years ago. Walking out one evening, she called at a farm-house, to enquire for some pigeons. The mistress presented herself. Mrs. Berkeley, wishing to shorten her walk home requested the good woman to direct her the nearer way in crossing the fields. Mrs. Berkeley, not to appear proud, began enquiring what family she had? The reply made, she added,
"Ah! Madam, I have
thrice
known the
sorrows of widowhood.
"
It had not
much
injured her health. She was remarkably plump and
"well favoured;"
perhaps she may have suffered the same sorrows again. She might, perhaps, be as great a philosopher as her daughter, who kept a shop in the next parish, where Dr. Berkeley's family bought many odd things, whose daughter, a fine girl of seventeen, was dying of a consumption. Mrs. Berkeley, one Sunday, at church, enquired after the young woman. On hearing there were no hopes of her recovery, she condoled with the mother, who made the following reply: it is set down
verbatim.
"Good lack-a-day, Madam, why
she
and
I did not come into the world
at the
same time;
and why should we think to
go out
at the
same time?
"
Probably these good women mourned the loss of relatives, as did a tenant's wife of the late worthy agreeable Capt. Bartlam of Moore Hall. The day after the death of her husband Mrs. Bartlam called to see her, and began condoling with her, to whom she replied,
"O good lack-a-daisy, Madam, 'tis a
sad thing, to be sure.
I have been CRYING
all
the morning
long;
and as soon as ever I have ate this bit of bread and cheese, and drank this
drap
of ale, (a pint,) I must go to it again as hard as I can for my life."
How often has the Editor seen a table full of company, at Dr. Berkeley's, laugh until
unforced
tears bedewed their cheeks, when this story was related, and acted by that best of story-tellers, the late delightfully witty Reverend James Hamilton, grandson of Lord Abercorn, formerly named in this Preface. As also, that he spent the whole of the summer at Dr. Berkeley's, his curate constantly going to Mr. Hamilton's house in Warwickshire, in May, and remaining there until November, in order that Mr. Hamilton might, as Dr. Berkeley used to say,
"give
him
all the time he could spare from his
friends,
the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, and the fishes of the river."
Mr. Hamilton, although an excellent scholar, was wonderfully fond of hunting, shooting, and fishing. Dr. Berkeley, living on the banks of the Thames, had always a large pleasure-boat of his own, in which Mr. Hamilton, an excellent sailor and rower, was perpetually on the water, alone, early in the morning, but frequently took Mr. Monck Berkeley with him. Mrs. Berkeley, dreading his too volatile agility, feared that, in
attempting
to ASSIST Mr. Hamilton in sailing or rowing, he might be drowned; notwithstanding her strong opinion, still retained by the Editor, although often laughed at by Mr. Hamilton, that infants, if put into the water, would swim naturally, as well as puppies, kittens, calves, &c. He often urged her to
try the experiment
on her own little boy. Mrs. Berkeley told him she was not an
experimental
philosopher, and was terribly afraid he might be drowned, with his garments,
not
provided by nature like kittens, &c
During Mr. Berkeley's stay at the King's school, nothing could prevail upon him to swim out of his depth; to the great discontent of his mother. One day, after having been some time at Eton, a young gentleman from Eton came over to see him; and, happening to relate something, said to Mrs. Berkeley,
"You know he swims as well as you do."
—To which the Editor replied,
"That is not at all I suppose."
—
O yes, Madam, Berkeley is, I really think, the best swimmer in the school. I don't suppose
any
thing could drown him, but the boat fastening him in the mud—he swims like a duck."
Mrs. Berkeley asked her son, how this came to pass? he replied,
"Why, they found what a fool I was, so a party of them took me out in a boat, and when we were got into deep water, contrived to throw me overboard, then rowed away; they kindly waited to see whether I could swim, in order to take me up if I could not. I, horridly frighted, instantly swam after them, and have swum, as he says, 'like a duck,' ever since. I am sure I was much obliged by them;
adding,
"Eton for ever, say I!"
The Editor had frequently, before her Son was born, heard Lady
relate this practice of the Etonians to a new comer; and it actually occasioned her worrying her Lord out of his
determination
of sending his son to Eton. Folly, thy name is
Woman.
Accordingly
Lordy,
as they style the Peers' eldest son in Scotland, had NOTHING of Eton about him when he came out into life. The Editor's kindred had always been Etonians and Oxonians. She does not remember to have heard that any of them turned out foolish
vaut-riens.
Mr. Berkeley, like most Eton men, was a very excellent rower, as was most happily experienced by a party of ladies and gentlemen in his father's boat. Dr. Berkeley, &c. had gone up the river, to dine at Medenham Abbey—soon after they had entered the boat to return, a most dreadful storm of thunder, lightning, and rain came on. Some of the ladies were much terrified; which Mr. Berkeley perceiving, said to Mr. Wrightson,
"Come, John, give me your oar;"
and the Editor fears to set down in how short a time Mr. Berkeley, and his father's gardener, formerly a most excellent waterman, now an helpless aged almshouse-man at Maidenhead, rowed eleven miles—the boat seemed to fly. But Mr. Berkeley exerted himself so violently, (happily for the party, for, within ten minutes after their landing, the storm became frightfully tremendous indeed,) that he could scarce use his elegant, astonishingly strong fingers for three days after.—Mr. Monck Berkeley, and several of the Monck family, have that sort of fingers which seem as if they have neither sinews or bone in them, but, when called into action, feel like iron. The Editor used frequently to request her son, when he had given her his hand, feeling like peeling sattin, to
stiffen
it, which he would instantly do; and she conceives that no two men, without he chose it, could have unbent it. Neither his father nor his brother had their fingers so wonderfully formed by nature.
. begged Mr. Hamilton to reject his suit, and leave him on the terrass. One day, seeing Mr. Hamilton preparing to sail, he screamed,
"Oh! dear Jemmy, pray take me with you."
—
"No, I must not; your Mamma is afraid you will be drowned."
Mr. Berkeley immediately walked into the Thames in his petticoats, being then little more than three years old, and pursued the boat. Mr. Hamilton, instantly putting back, asked him, if he was not afraid of being drowned, as he must have been if he had not put back. The spirited little creature replied,
"Aye, aye;
but I considered,
before I walked in, that you would
certainly
come back and take me before the water got up to my chin, because Mamma would have been
so
grieved if I had been drowned."
The same sound judgement and resolute spirit accompanied him through life.
A Scotch gentleman of consequence one day, at St. Andrews, said to Dr. Berkeley,
"Sir, I last night saw your agreeable Son as
fou
with water as most of the company were with wine."
Dr. Berkeley, who himself drank nothing but water, expressed his wonder at it. Mrs. Berkeley, supposing the gentleman was a dealer in the marvellous, mentioned it to her Son in that way; to which he replied,
"Yes, my dear Madam, it is very true; I am often as drunk with water as others are with wine; with this, however very material difference, that when it is proposed to break bottles, glasses, and burn chairs, tables, &c. I instantly become as sober as a judge, and have sometimes prevented much mischief."
When Mr. Berkeley entered at the university of St. Andrews, one of the college officers called upon him to deposit a crown to pay for the windows he might break. Mr. Berkeley said, that
"as he should reside in his Father's house, it was little likely he should break any windows, having never, that he remembered, broke one in his whole life."
He was assured that he
would
do it at St. Andrews. He therefore made the deposit; the cause of which he some time after learned. On the rising of the session, several of the students said,
"Now for the windows. Come, it is time to set off; let us sally forth."
Mr. Berkeley, being called upon, enquired what was to be done? They, with one voice, replied,
"Why, to break every window in college."
—
"For what reason?"
—
"Oh! no reason; but that it has always been done from time immemorial."
Mr. Berkeley sedately replied, that he begged to be excused joining the party: having never, when a
boy
at Eton, and sometimes with more wine in his head than was good for him, performed such a
valiant
feat, he should feel himself exceedingly ashamed to be guilty of it as a
young man.
He spoke so sensibly on the subject, that the practice was from that time entirely given up, and has probably never been revived. The money continued to be collected, as the following little aneodote will shew. A very good kind of man, formerly coachman at Lord Balcarras's, the College Porter, was the collector. He one day told a very intimate friend of Mr. Berkeley's, the young Laird of Kincaldrum,
"I am just come from a poor student indeed. I went for the window
croon;
he cried, begged, and prayed not to pay it, saying, 'he brought but a croon to keep him all the session, and he had spent six-pence of it; so I have got only four and six-pence.' How he is to live I can't tell, for they are very poor."
Away flew the amiable young Laird, saying,
"I must make a collection for him."
Amongst the students he first met Mr. Halket, eldest son of Sir J. Halket, a beloved Scotch friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley. This charming youth said,
"Here, take these few shillings; it is
all
I have till I hear from home again."
The young Laird said,
"Such an one will give a shilling, and such an one half a crown; and
I
will
make
my dear Berkeley give a crown."
The idea of his saying
make,
diverted the whole university, who all knew Mr. Berkeley's wonderful liberality to the poor. He soon met Mr. Berkeley, who not only tossed out the crown, but said,
"We will make a
good
collection; go you, Bower, (the young Laird's name,) to the Scotch, and I to the English."
Mr. Berkeley posted home, and made his Father, Mother, and Aunt subscribe largely, as also all the English gentlemen students. The subscription, when closed, was a very noble one. This poor youth was the son of a labourer, who, having
two
fields, about eight miles from St. Andrews, kept
three
cows; one cow was sold to dress him for the University, and put the
lamented
croon in his pocket, to purchase coals. All the lower students study by fire light. He brought with him a large tub of oatmeal, and a pot of salted butter, on which he was to subsist from the 20th of October until the 20th of May, the space of five months, but for this lucky affair of the
croon,
and the lovely nature of the young Laird of Kincaldrum, as accomplished as amiable. In what is called in Scotland an
high dance,
this young gentleman could keep himself more than half a minute—near a minute—in air. No one, who has not seen a company of Highland soldiers dance, can form
any
idea of it, more than our great-grandsires could of electricity before Dr. Franklin's time.
The very humane worthy college cook agreed with the young Laird and Mr. Berkeley to provide him a good dinner of flesh or fish through the session. The Editor is sorry to say, some of his countrymen said,
"that it was not
quite roight
of these young gentlemen to make this subscription—they might be made every day."
This brings to the Editor's mind the
indignation
of, she is very sorry to say,
a Divine,
against her Son at Hastings, for a similar offence. On the arrival of the three hundred French clergy, within two days, at Hastings, Mr. Berkeley said to his friend Mr. Grimston,
"It is impossible to let these poor persecuted strangers starve in a foreign country; we must try and make a subscription for them."
Mr. Grimston,
jelon son coutume,
tossed down his guinea. Mr. Monck Berkeley cried,
"Stop, stop, my dear friend, not
so
fast, you will ruin all! No, I will draw up their case, and you and I will set down against our names halfa-crown each; half-a-crown cannot distress any one who has any thing to give. We may give as much more as we please, but set down only two shillings and six-pence."
They accordingly did so, and amongst their acquaintance got many subscribers. The paper was left at one of the circulating libraries. The following account was related to the Editor by a gentleman who was an eye-witness of the transaction. The door opened, and a stout man entered, saying,
"Who is
this
MR. BERKELEY, that makes himself of
such
consequence,
picking people's pockets
for these
French
ragamuffins? who is he? what is he?"
Mr. Berkeley, happening to be in a corner of the library, reading, rose, and, advancing with a very graceful bow, in the mildest voice replied;
"Sir, Mr. Berkeley is a man of no sort of consequence, nor pretends to be of any; but, (quoting the Latin line, '
as a man I must feel,
' &c.) he felt it impossible not to
try
to alleviate the sufferings of these poor unfortunate servants of our Blessed Master; and, as by your
habit,
Sir, you appear to be of the
clerical function,
I should have hoped
you
would
rather
have forwarded than abused the attempt to relieve their
real
necessities: no one is
compelled
For this reason, the Editor always wishes the Prime Minister to make
plenty
of Lotteries, because then persons of small incomes may
choose
whether they will be half beggared by taxes, or not. The Editor used generally to get share of a twenty or fifty pounds prize; but lately the
blind
Goddess has deserted her, which is
rather
unkind, as she is now
half
blind.
in cases of subscription. Mr.
(name not at present recollected) the Librarian kindly permitted it to lie here."
Mr. Berkeley then bowed, and retired to his book again, leaving the
oratorical
PARSON (the Editor always styles an unworthy clergyman a PARSON) ready to faint with shame. One day, after Mr. Berkeley's arrival at Cheltenham, his family all in the drawing-room, he asked,
"Pray, my dear friends, do any of you know Mr.
, of
?"
—
"No,"
was the unanimous voice.
"Well, you have
no great
loss: I am
sorry
to add, that he is a Divine."
Mr. Berkeley then related as above.
Had these poor people applied to this
Divine,
as they did to Mr. Berkeley, on the death of a French Marquis (whose title the Editor forgets), they had not, perhaps, been as much consoled as they were by a young
Lawyer.
They came to Mr. Berkeley in great anxiety, to know whether it was
possible
for
him
to get the Marquis buried in
consecrated
ground. He assured them it would be impossible for
him
or any one else to prevent it; adding,
"We Protestants are
certainly better Christians
than you Papists; for, had
I
died in France, you would have buried me in a cabbage-garden, or on the ramparts."
This point settled; the next,
"would
le pauvre cher Marquis
have
aucune office
said over
The Editor cannot omit mentioning here a ludicrous occurrence on her first arrival in Scotland, sleeping at the
neat pleasant
town of Kelso, let Swift say what he will of
Hell-so.
As soon as she was up in the morning she walked out, and seeing a funeral she joined it, wishing to hear the
Scottish
funeral service: She enquired whether it was a young or an aged person, to proportion her sorrow—ever lamenting the young—and, where hope is not precluded, rejoicing that the aged
"are delivered from the
burdens
of the flesh, &c."
The answer was,
"a very aged woman, near
ninety.
"
—On her arrival in the kirk-yard, the civility of every the lower Scotch to strangers, where there are
no bawbies in
the case, made way for her to approach close to
"the house appointed for all living."
The Editor did not endeavour to find out a minister robed in a surplice, well knowing the horror in which that innocent white robe is held by
all
diffenters from the Church of England and of Rome—but for a
black goon:
no such could her, then tolerable, eyes espy. The corpse was soon let down into the grave, which was filled up, when every man took off his hat, bowed at the grave, and the crowd began to disperse. Mrs. Berkeley, exceedingly shocked at what she had witnessed, asked a very sensible intelligentlooking gentleman,
"if he could tell her what
could
have
induced so very aged
a person to have been her own executioner,"
(not, as the newspapers phrase it,
"
put a period
to their
existence.
"
—
"Alas! alas! that
they
cannot do.)"
—The gentleman replied,
"did she? poor woman! I never heard that; I should think she died of old age, quite worn out."
—
"But, Sir, if she had not
destroyed herself,
she must certainly have received
christian burial?
"
—The gentleman, smiling, said,
"Madam, I presume you are an English lady?"
—
"I arrived in Scotland only yesterday evening, Sir."
—
"I supposed so, Madam: we have
no
burial office in Scotland."
—
"Were you ever in England?"
—
"Oh! yes."
"Ever at a funeral?"
—
"At many."
—
"Do you not think our burial service very fine?"
—
"Exquisitely so, indeed. And surely there is neither superstition or
Poppery,
as the Scotch speak Popery, in praying for
ourselves,
when God removes our friends or neighbours."
This gentleman, the Editor learned, was a worthy physician of Kelso. At her return to the inn, relating her anxiety on account of the poor good old Scotch woman, and her dialogue at the grave, Doctor and Mr. Berkeley laughed immoderately. Dr. Berkeley used frequently to relate it to his Scotch friends at St. Andrew's. Mr. Berkeley used to say, it was treating their dead friends just as we treat favourite dead dogs. Mr. Monck Berkeley always made his father's gardener dig an handsome grave in one of the kitchen gardens, at Cookham, for his dogs; and himself used to plant two rosetrees of different sorts, one at the head, and one at the foot, of their graves, which were always kept nicely turfed; he had wonderful tenderness, and loveliness in his
nature.
Dr. Berkeley's carriage, on their journey to Scotland, frequently overtook, and was overtaken by, the hearse, containing the corpse of the sensible, amiable, well-judging, Lord Robert Kerr, who died at Newberry, in Berkshire, at the age of twenty-eight. His regiment had been quartered at Canterbury six years before. His unassuming manners, a colonel at
twenty-two,
his attachment to the worthy old grey-headed major, always consulting him in every thing relating to the regiment, endeared him to all who knew him. The Editor used to tell several worthy Scotch ministers, that she grieved to think sweet Lord Robert should be dragged so many miles to be buried like an
English
dog.
Had Mr. Monck Berkeley retained in full force the ideas of his childhood, they could not have applied to any one
more
likely to assist them. When under four years old, playing one morning in the dressing-room, he, on a sudden, flew to his Mother, saying,
"Oh! Mamma, lay down your work, and
see about it.
For there is Dick States, the famous old sexton of Bray, burying a
poor
little child by
himself,
without either my Papa, or Mr. Harmer, to pray over it, or Mr. Wells, the clerk, to say Amen."
This pious accomplished Curate of Dr. Berkeley has an exquisitely accomplished son, educated at Oxford, who is, the Editor fears,
since
Dr. Berkeley's death, a
distressed
Divine in London. His skill in music and French, were he not a Divine, must have procured him a large salary. His father was a wonderfully fine performer on many instruments; and had the finest voice also in preaching and reading, as well as in singing, that the Editor ever heard. Mrs. Berkeley told the young
zealot,
that it was some poor little infant, that, having died very soon after its birth, had not been baptized. The Editor took care to have all her own babes baptized
within
the hour after their birth, lest a fit should carry them off. Mrs. Berkeley used to express her astonishment to her mother, that she permitted
her
to remain unbaptized ten days after her entrance into this
"
vale of tears.
"
It could for the first part of her life, hardly, with propriety, be styled such to her; as, after pushing forth one short cry, to
notisy,
as the Scotch phrase it, that
"
she was in life;
"
as an infant, she
never did cry at all;
which occasioned a learned
honest
physician's being consulted, to know whether she had not
some inward
disorder, that prevented her crying, as infants usually do. He replied,
"Not she. She is a pure healthy good-humoured little Puss; so does not plague you, or herself, by squaliing."
—Mr. Berkeley said,
"Why, Mamma,
you
tell me, that God knows
every
thing
before
it happens. Now, if he
knew
that he
intended
this little child should stay such a
very
short time upon earth,
I
think it was
hardly
worth his while to give himself the
trouble
to send it down here
at all.
"
It is needless to add here, the Editor's comments to her
little
inquisitive
sceptie,
who, if the expression may be permitted, watched GOD's dealings with man with a most jealous eye, hoping to espy a
flaw.
His
comments
on the twenty-seventh chapter of Genesis, which he stumbled on, rather than searched out for himself, finding he had been made to miss it in his course of reading, cost the Editor
much
trouble to rectify, although she retained an accurate remembrance of
every
word of a sermon preached on
that whole chapter
by the late very learned Archdeacon of Berks, Dr. Dodwell, when she was about sixteen years old.
him?"
—
Oui certainement.
—
"
Ah grace, au bon Dieu; quoi, Monsieur, quoi?
"
—Mr. Berkeley said he would shew it them. But he went too far, there was not a French Common Prayer Book to be procured in Hastings. He therefore most amiably took his pen, and translated the whole of our delightful burial-service into French for them, excepting the Lesson and Psalms, which he shewed them in his Greek Testament and Latin Bible. They were in extacies with it. They wished to attend the Marquis to the grave; but feared, as the French
ever
did, being knocked down by the
English.
Mr. Berkeley assured them, the English were not
such
savages. But all in vain was his rhetoric, unless Monsieur
Berquelée
would
"
avoir la bontée
"
to walk at their head, as
chief
mourner for
le cher Marquis;
which, by the undertaker's omitting to bring a cloak, he did in his
Royal Archer's coat.
In a letter to his mother, he says,
"Do think of
your
son, marching in procession at the head of three hundred French Priests, as chief mourner to a poor persecuted French Noble!"
The elegant accomplished Bishop of (the Editor thinks) Avranches, on quitting the house of a very respectable clergyman, who kindly received and entertained him, and requested Mr. Monck Berkeley to visit and converse with him, the gentlemen not speaking French, his gratitude to Mr. Berkeley, for what his Lordship termed his
etonante bonté
to his poor brethren, and exquisitely polite attentions to himself, he declared himself at a loss for words to express. He conjured Mr. Berkeley, when things were again settled in France, that he would visit him at his palace. Alas! thou elegant amiable Prelate—thou wilt probably visit Paradise before thou doest Paris,
Mr. Berkeley often mentioned with pleasure the worthiness and propriety of many of the three hundred clergy. Not a man would receive a shilling who had brought any money with him: others, who had friends in town, would only take barely enough to defray the expence of their journey to London.
Had the Editor time to look over her Son's letters, she would give his account of the landing of the good old Curate of Dieppe, aged 84; the farewel between him and his flock of sailors. The Editor remembers, Mr. Berkeley says,
"There was not, I believe,
one
dry eye, English or French, on the shore. The good old Pastor is now gone to London. I have the delight of thinking, that GOD will go with him
wherever
he goes."
But to return to the subject of dancing, in which the young Laird of Kincaldrum has been already noticed. How delightfully do the Scotch dance every thing but a minuet! The first time the Editor saw her Son (esteemed a very good dancer, having learned in England and in France for ten years
de suite
) dance a country-dance and cotillon in Scotland, it turned her quite sick. She thought he danced like a ploughman, until some minuets were attempted between the country-dances; which a little consoled her. The next morning she requested Mr. Berkeley to let her treat him with a master, that he might learn to dance like a Scotchman. The offer was gratefully accepted; and the very able Mr. Jenkins attended Mr. Berkeley every day, greatly to the improvement of Mr. Berkeley, as has been above mentioned, and exceedingly through his kindness, to the finances of Mr. Jenkins, who, just before, or soon after, Mr. Berkeley quitted St. Andrews, by his wise advise, migrated to London, where he attended, by Mr. Berkeley's recommendation, many young persons of high rank and fashion.
Mr. Berkeley made it a point, when at Oxford, and the Temple, to spend every Christmas vacation with his Parents. They, although the house in the Oaks was not
peculiarly
calculated for a ball
Yet, by the clever contrivance of Mr. Monck Berkeley, ever fruitful in expedients, twenty couple used to dance, get negus and cakes in the eatingroom, and eat their soup, and
petit soupé,
in Mr. Monck Berkeley's sittingroom up stairs; which occasioned Lady D
one day asking Dr. Berkeley, when in town,
"Has Mrs. Berkeley any room, in her house at the Oaks, that
I
have never seen?"
By removing all the furniture, side-board, &c. ten couple danced two dances—then ten more.
, could not bear the idea of Mr. Berkeley's dancing at many of their neighbours' houses, and not seeing them in return. The house could not hold all their numerous acquaintance in and about Canterbury; so of
Dames d'une certaine age,
as the French speak of a middleaged lady, none were invited to cards but the mothers, and of course the fathers, of dancing-young-ladies; Mrs. Berkeley, saying, like the old father mentioned by Mr. Addison in the Spectator, that
she
did not feel it right to invite young ladies to be made WHIRLYGIGS, without inviting their natural, their
best chaperons,
their mothers, to attend them. One year a most throughly respectable lady
The late amiable, throughly pious Mrs. Wadham Knatchbull—excellent woman! She has
now
met Mr. Berkeley in a gayer place than a ball-room. May those who loved them here, strive to join them in the realms of bliss!
said to the Editor,
"Madam, I have a great favour to request of you."
—
"You may command me, Madam."
—
"It is, that you will permit me to come to your house next Tuesday, for one hour. I do not wish you to invite me to the ball, or the card-party; I know you
cannot
do it; but I hear so much from every body of Mr. Berkeley's wonderfully fine dancing, that I do long to
see
him dance; and I never go to any assembly, so that I have no chance but your admitting me for one hour. I will
not
stay any longer, say what you will, I am resolved."
The very worthy Dr. Lambe, Prebendary of Worcester, became Principal of Magdalene Hall not long after Mr. Berkeley's entering there. He happened to be in the hall when Dr. Lambe arrived; and most of the other members were absent. Mr. Berkeley instantly waited on his new superior, and with his usual polite benignity offered his services in every way in which they could be useful. The Editor recollects to have heard her Son say, that, after certain necessary things performed, and dinner ended, the new Principal asked Mr. Berkeley,
"if they ought not to go to chapel?"
to which Mr. Berkeley replied in the affirmative,
if
they could get a reader, and muster a congregation. The Editor thinks it was either the commencement or the end of the term, and that there was only one member in the Hall besides Mr. Berkeley, who, she thinks, was the very worthy amiable, now Reverend, Mr. Sloman, a beloved, respected friend of Mr. Berkeley's, who has frequently delighted the Editor by saying,
"that he conceived he owed his life to Mr. Berkeley, as did many other gentlemen at the same time."
A party of gentlemen, many of them members of the Hall, had agreed, that on the first fine day they would sail down the river some miles—the Editor does not recollect to what place, but thinks it was to Godstow Abbey. The party consisted of eleven; and Mr. Berkeley, ever delighting to give pleasure to young and old, begged to take with him a lad, son to a lady, a relation of his Mother's, at home for the holydays. Accordingly, on Easter Monday they set out; when they had sailed two or three miles, some accident happened to the boat; the waterman saw it coming, and threw himself out; for which Mr. Berkeley always, when mentioning it, styled him a sad villain, adding,
"He left the whole number to perish, for
he
did not know that any of us could swim."
The boat instantly overset; only two of the party could swim, Mr. Pearce, nephew to the late Bishop of Rochester; and Mr. Monck Berkeley; being both Eton men, they were good swimmers, and soon escaped to shore, when Mr. Pearce humanely said,
"Berkeley, we must try to save them all. Let us go in instantly."
To which Mr. Berkeley replied,
"If we do, we are dead men, Pearce. No, we must wait till they are more spent, or they will infallibly cling so fast, that they will sink us."
This wise advice was followed. Mr. Berkeley first rescued his little kinsman, as considering himself in some sort responsible for him, as a lad of eleven years old, of whom he had taken the charge. After some little time, Mr. Pearce and Mr. Berkeley plunged in, and, by the blessing of God, brought every one safe on shore. They sent to Oxford for coaches, and on their arrival getting rid of their drenched cloaths, Mr. Berkeley immediately wrote to his Mother, assuring her, that whatever lamentable history the newspaper might happen to make of it, by the mercy of God, he had still the happiness to be able to subscribe himself her dutiful Son, &c. His attentions to the feelings of his Mother,
"for an only Son,"
were incessant. The Editor had, from his youth, told Mr. Berkeley, that, if he should be expelled from Eton, or get his name entered in the Black Book at Oxford, she was very sure that she should lie down and die of grief, as she and he verily believed she would have done. He would frequently through life say,
"If I do so, or so, I shall kill my Mother."
He is receiving his blessed reward. It may perhaps be said, by those who were intimate in the family, that Mrs. Berkeley was a kind, obliging Mother
The Editor bred up by her mother with an aversion to affectation of
every
sort or kind, and instilling the same aversion into her son; they never complimented each other, by the poor humble, now
humbled
title of
Mr.
and
Mrs. Berkeley,
when speaking to each other, or of each other, or to those who were acquainted with them; the Editor always telling her Son, that, until
his Father
had
stood
behind a
counter,
she should never call him any thing but Berkeley, or Monck; for, were she to live to see him Lord Chancellor, his
name
would be Berkeley. If, in a large company of friends, Mr. Berkeley spoke two or three times to his Mother, and she did not attend to answer him; he used to say,
"Well Madam, if you do not listen to me, I protest, I will call you
Mrs. Berkeley;
and that,
I am sure,
will make you mind me."
The Editor's sensible, agreeable friend, and
quondam
neighbour, Admiral Sir G
Y
, pursues the same plan with his throughly worthy Lady; frequently saying,
"Aye, she wont mind me, I may call Nanny till I am hoarse; I'll say Lady Y
, and you'll see she'll listen to me in a minute."
. She laboured to be such after the time ceased when she was to be held up to Mr. Berkeley
in terrorem,
that is, when he grew up to be a fine sensible youth, when, Solomon tells us,
"a
word
enters more into a
wise
man, than a thousand stripes into a
fool.
"
A
very tight
rein in early youth,
no
rein at all after a certain period;
no
influence but what arises from friendship. The Editor never could conceive, that if a young man, or young woman, chose to live single till thirty years old, or till twenty-five, or under, that God, speaking by MOSES, or by St. PAUL,
meant
they should be treated as at thirteen or fourteen. The Editor has repeatedly observed that
Irish
parents are
very
apt to suppose, that their authority is to continue to the
end of life.
The Editor, in early youth, admired and revered the conduct of that wise, worthy Lady, the Duchess of St. Alban's, who, on her amiable daughter, that humblest, sweetest of women, Lady Diana Barrington, first Lady of the very amiable Bishop Barrington, completing her twentieth year, thus addressed her,
"My dear Lady Dy, from this day we cease to be
mother
and
daughter.
We commence beloved friends. When you wish to go into public, if I am able, I shall be happy to attend you; if not, you have many friends who will."
Her
wise
(very early wise) Grace, as the Editor has frequently heard her mother relate, and Lady Dy, ever after lived as most affectionate sisters.
One of the Magdalene Hall gentlemen, of the party who had escaped, being congratulated by the Principal, some of them said,
"We meant to have gone yesterday, but Berkeley would not be of the party,
because it was Sunday,
"
meaning to divert the Principal at Mr. Berkeley's expence. That worthy gentleman replied,
"
I honour
Mr. Berkeley exceedingly for it.
I
wish
all
paid the same reverence to the Lord's Day; it would be well for them; and
they
will wish it some time hence."
The dear excellent Bishop of Norwich used to say to Dr. Berkeley,
"We all say, that Mr. Berkeley is Principal of Magdalene Hall; and
a very good Principal
he is. Dr. Lambe's own good sense makes him admire Mr. Berkeley's good judgement and propriety, so much, that we all tell him he may do whatever he pleases."
Mr. Berkeley certainly used this delegated power most respectfully to his excellent governor, and wisely, at least, in
one
instance. At the time of his entering, every Gentleman-Commoner's dinner cost him every day
three shillings and six pence.
Mr. Berkeley, although generous as a prince, was a very good oeconomist; he enquired, and found, that at no other Hall or College any thing like that sum was paid, he immediately set himself to rectify it, made all the necessary proper enquiries, then applied to the worthy Principal, who felt the force of Mr. Berkeley's reasonings, and summoned the Provider of these costly slices of beef and mutton before him, who declared, (meat not then at the frightful price it is now, on Holy Thursday, the 5th of May, 1796, seven pence
per
pound
The great rich butcher of this place one day sent the Editor four pounds of beef steaks, off the
neck
of the ox, instead of its rump or rib, as ordered by the Editor herself, walking by his shop. The youngest servants in her family, when broiled, could not make their teeth penetrate them; but, on paying the bill, he would not abate of
eight
pence
per
pound. This great Man is King of the place, and once a week makes a pompous feast to all his numerous dependents. Another butcher
attempted
setting up; but the poor people say,
"Ah! but Muster ******* would not suffer it."
Most villages have a Tyrant; it is generally the
baking
Meal-man. The Editor entirely approves of
one
King in a Kingdom; but not of
petty
Kings; for, as a very sensible
sille de chambre,
who waited on her the last time she visited France, said,
"
Pour moi, Madame, moi, j'aime d'être gouverners par mes supérieurs, pas par le canaille.
"
The Editor and Madamoiselle Therese are quite
de même avis.
—No Wat Tyler, no Jack Cade, says she!!!
,) it was quite impossible to furnish the dinners in the Hall cheaper, without
ruining himself.
Mr. Berkeley, being present, said,
"
That
would be a
cruelty,
which he was sure the gentlemen of the Hall would be exceedingly sorry for."
Then turning to the Principal, he told him,
"that, apprehending Mr.
(name forgotten by the Editor) might object to the reduction, he had applied to a person, who would be very glad to supply the gentlemen every day with a good dinner at one shilling
per
head."
On hearing this, the
honest
Provider begged
some time
to
consider
of it, whether it would be
possible
for him to do it or not. Mr. Berkeley, a pretty tolerable accomptant, said,
"The calculation would be easily made;"
and requested the worthy Principal, that it might not be long delayed, as, notwithstanding his father's generosity in giving him a large allowance, he knew there were several gentlemen who felt the pressure of this heavy daily
sconce
very inconvenient to them, as well as himself. The
honest
man returned at the time appointed, to the Principal's lodging Mr. Berkeley, by appointment being present; when he said,
"That, although he should
lose
much by it, yet, as he
had
served the Hall, (he might have added
so well,
) he did not care to give it up, and would accept the terms offered."
For this service every gentleman of the Hall acknowledged that they were indebted solely to the wisdom, spirit, and activity of Mr. Berkeley—all complained
aloud;
but he
alone
attempted to redress the grievance.
The good Bishop of Norwich, then Dean of Canterbury, always coming at the two audits, towards the end of June and November, Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley used of course to enquire when their Son talked of visiting Canterbury; to which that facetious, witty, as well as wise, amiable man once replied,
"Come hither! I don't know that he can
come at all.
"
Mrs. B.—
"Not come at all! What do you mean, my dear Mr. Dean?"
Bp. of Norwich.—
"Why I don't know how Magdalene Hall could go on without him. The good Principal loves and admires him more, I think, than you do: he talks more of him, however; and they have a poor unhappy gentleman
This sensible, very accomplished gentleman was one of those mentioned as owing the preservation of his life to the great skill of Mr. Satterley, after every other surgeon had pronounced his wound incurable. He recovered, to bless God's great mercy, and Mr. Satterley's great skill. He died a natural death a few months ago. The Editor found, amongst her Son's papers, a most charming letter of this gentleman's to his kind friend Mr. Berkeley.
there, who is more than a little deranged at times, and nobody can do
any thing at all with him,
as a gentleman of the Hall told me some time ago, but Mr. Berkeley—he has a method of his
own,
of soothing and quieting him, and persuading him to do just as he wishes, to the no small comfort of the Hall."
This accomplished gentleman, of an ancient family, had very nearly run through a large fortune in dissipation, and, alas! vice. He felt
too
pungently his
then
situation; and, contrasting it with what it might, but for his own fault,
have been,
and the having involved in misery a very worthy lady, it frequently dethroned his reason.
The Editor, when listening to the melancholy accounts sometimes related to her, by her compassionate Son, of this gentleman, has thought of what the wits of that day said of the Bishop of Peterborough's
The very learned Dr. White Kennet, grandfather of the Reverend John and Thomas Newman, both residing on their respective livings in Essex, and of her excellent, kind, unwearied friend White Newman, Esquire, of Newgate Street. The Editor wishes it were possible for her to do justice to the gratitude she feels for the incessant unwearied assistance she receives from that throughly worthy friend, and his two obliging amiable sons, Messrs. White and Thomas Newman. The very grateful father of Mr. Newman, knowing that his father-in-law, the Bishop, owed all his preferment to Mr. Cherry, and feeling himself under personal obligations to that excellent man; from their youth, charged his sons,
"as they valued a father's blessing, never to omit any opportunity that presented itself of rendering every possible service in their power, to the descendants of Mr. Cherry."
The Editor has frequent occasion to tell her amiable friends in Newgate Street, that they are resolved to ensure their father and grandfather's blessing. Were the Editor a Duchess instead of a poor disconsolate Widow, or their Sister or Mother, the attentions of the whole family could not be more polite, amiable, unremitting; for which that God may reward them here and hereafter, prays daily, earnestly, their obliged grateful friend. It was formerly an invariable rule with all the Bishops to deal with Mr. Newman's father—
l'esprit de corps.
Funeral Sermon on the Duke of Devonshire,
"That a man of sense could repent
more
in half an hour, than a fool could in seven years."
In that sermon the Bishop says,
"that the sensations of a man of superior understanding, on seeing the error of his ways, would be so much more pungently felt, that it is an evil and
bitter
thing to depart from the LORD, than one of less naturally strong, less refined understanding could possibly do."
Some of Mr. Berkeley's intimate friends used to say,
"He knew how to manage
every
person of
every
description."
A very intimate, beloved, and respected friend of Mr. Berkeley, a very brilliant genius, whose Elegy on the Death of Dr. Johnson was universally allowed by all the great judges of poetry to be superior to any published on that occasion—this gentleman, apt sometimes to be hipped, had been some time a close prisoner in his chambers, declaring to all his friends that he was
extremely ill,
and in a
very bad way.
On Mr. Berkeley's arrival in town, every common friend began lamenting the unpleasant situation of Mr.
; Mr. Berkeley replied,
"I suppose
he is
really very ill."
—
"No; he ails nothing at all."
—
"Oh! very well, then; I will cure him, I promise you, in a few minutes."
Off set Mr. Berkeley, from Harcourt Buildings, to the King's Bench Walks. On entering, the usual enquiries of health being made, a
numerous
list of
ideal
maladies were mentioned, Mr. Berkeley, assuming a very solemn countenance, said,
"My dear friend, I am exceedingly grieved to find you so
very ill.
To be sure, you have sent for a lawyer, and made your will, as I know you do not mean your heir at law should enjoy your fine estate."
—
"
Made my
WILL! my dear Berkeley,
what do you mean?
Made my will! Why then,
you
really think me
very ill.
"
—
"To be sure I do,
very dangerously ill.
"
—
"God bless my soul,
I am not ill.
"
—
"Let you and I go to the Opera directly."
Up he sprang, rang his bell, told his servant that he must dress that minute, for that he was going with Mr. Berkeley to the Opera. Accordingly Mr. Berkeley escorted him thither in triumph, to the great joy, and no small diversion, of his
numerous
friends; for he is exceedingly amiable. The next day, in the Hall, Mr. Berkeley was complimented on his skill as a
physician.
Another very ludicrous anecdote of Mr. Berkeley's extricating the same friend from a disagreeable situation, some time after this, might be related. It is certain, that Mr. Berkeley, after he grew up a man, never undertook the management of any difficult affair, that he did not accomplish it to the satisfaction of all the parties concerned. Not long after Mr. Monck Berkeley's arrival at St. Andrew's, he went one afternoon to the shop of the (to St. Andrew's students) well-known Mungo Dick. To his no small surprize, it was shut up. He knocked repeatedly; at length a neighbour appeared; and Mr. Berkeley enquired, whether Mungo was broke and run-away.—
"No Sir, he has locked himself in, he is
bating his gewd weef.
"
—
"A villian, how dare he lock the door?"
—
"He must, Sir, or the neighbours would
see
it
Mr. Monck Berkeley used to be diverted by his Mother's saying,
"She would have an
Irish lover,
an
English husband,
and a
Scotch cousin.
"
The Irishmen of high fashion are exquisitely elegantly polite, which is mighty pleasing during courtship; the English in general (if their wives comport themselves as they
ought
to do, when under the
yoke,
the
irrecoverable
words uttered at the altar) in general good kind husbands, with a
little
humouring and a
little
winking at. The Editor often says,
"To suppose that our grandfires were all angels on earth, is a folly too great to be believed for a moment."
They were, probably, the best of them, sometimes fractious, sometimes drank too much, and sometimes played them false, as in
these
days: but
here
lies the difference;
our grandmothers
in
their
affliction applied for consolation and direction to some
reverend,
pious AGED Divine, who poured balm into their poor fretted spirits, from God's Word, applied by
their
wisdom; in
our times,
it is the fashion to apply to a smart Captain of the Guards, or to some silly, ignorant, young Peer. It were surely wise to
try
the old Doctor. One
Scotch
cousin is worth fifty
English
ones, as we see every day. Dr. Berkeley was very urgent with the late Lord Camden to obtain an appointment for a Scotchman, for whom he had the goodness to be interested. Lord Camden, very politely and honestly,
flatly
refused it in the following words:
"I should rejoice to pay attention to Dr. Berkeley; and for any
Englishman I will do it.
But I have many years ago sworn that I
never
will introduce a Scotchman into any office; for, if
you
introduce
one, he
will contrive some way or other to introduce
forty
more cousins or friends."
Would James the First have acted by a
Scot,
as good Queen Mary and Queen Anne did by a very worthy relation of theirs, a Mr. Holden, who was many years clerk to old Mr. Cherry, the Counsellor? He always dined at the second table, died at Shottesbrooke House, and lies interred in the church. Queen Anne allowed his aged mother twenty pounds
per annum;
and she went to Court once in the year in her new grey gown, (she was a widow;) and her Majesty always
spoke
kindly to her, and called her Cousin HOLDEN. The Queen was
not
a SCOT.
"
—
"To be sure they would, and prevent it, a rascal to beat a woman."
—
"Aye, Sir, so men always lock their doors, that nobody may ever
say
they have
seen
them
do it.
"
Mr. Berkeley called aloud, and vowed vengeance if he did not leave off beating her. Mr. Berkeley went the next day, and gave him
such
a
lecture,
as prevented his chastizing her again during Mr. Berkeley's
séjour
at St. Andrew's. On the Editor's asking her Son, if he thought he would mind what such a youth as he could say? Mr. Berkeley replied, very seriously,
"I
hope he
will, for I made him heartily ashamed of himself."
At the age of nineteen, Mr. Berkeley had the honour of being elected a corresponding member of the Society of Antiquaries in Edinburgh, in consequence of a very accurate, sensible account, transmitted to that Society, of a curious quarry of marble, discovered some years ago in the heart of the Highlands. It had some curious particularities, but of what nature they were the Editor does not recollect: probably they were not understood by
her,
although so excellently investigated and described by her Son. She, however, means to present that Society with a valuable antique in her Son's collection.
Mr. Berkeley was a member of the Royal Archers; and during the war in 1783 a number of Scotch gentlemen of rank and fashion formed themselves into a corps. The Editor thinks they were styled The Royal Edinburgh Volunteers. Mr. Berkeley accepted a commission. They were summoned once, if not more, to assist in quelling a riot, the mob being employed in demolishing some mills, when flour was little more than half its present price. This occasioned a gentleman's asking Mr. Berkeley if he had thoughts of going into the army; on which he replied,
"No, Sir; I am much indebted to the wisdom of my Father, who would not suffer me to enter on a military or naval life, when I was a boy leaving Eton. There is but one thing
now
that can ever make a military man of me, his Majesty's erecting his standard, when I should feel it my bounden duty to repair to repair to it."
Mr. Berkeley, in the year 1789, visited the, accidentally, native country
Bp. Berkeley's father was, as well as all his ancestors, born in England. His grandfather, as before mentioned, expended a large fortune in the service of King Charles the First, and in remitting money to King Charles the Second and his brothers. The only return was making his son, the Bishop's father, collector of the port of
in Ireland, a more respectable post than in England, noblemen's sons often accepting it. This occasioned the old gentleman's leaving his
malediction
on any descendant of his, who should ever, in
any way,
assist
any
Monarch.
of his renowned grandfather. The attentions Mr. Berkeley received in that kingdom from all ranks and degrees must have been exceedingly flattering to any man less humble than Mr. Berkeley, who, in a letter to his Mother, speaks thus,
"I am indebted to my grandfather for this honour
The Provost and Fellows of Dublin College did him the honour of conferring on him the degree of LL.B. an honour never before conferred on so young a man, not educated in that University; of which
great
favour Mr. Berkeley and his Parents ever retained a most grateful sense. The Survivor means to shew her sense of it in something more solid than words.
. I have little merit of my own;
but I
am the grandson of Bishop
erkeley, the representative of Archbishop Usher
Bp. Berkeley was nephew to Archbishop Usher, as was his cousin-german General Wolfe. Mr. Monck Berkeley, when a very little child, one day flew up stairs to his aunt, burst into her room, crying,
"Oh! Madam, Miss Frinsham if you
will
have the goodness to lend me a shilling; here is a man below, with a
box at his back,
that
says
he will shew
me
the death of
my own poor dear
cousin
Cardinal Wolsey,
killed at Quebec fighting for
this
country."
—When the fit of laughter brought on by this
philippic
ceased, the purse was produced, and the little man flew off in extacies.
. I hope I feel as I ought the honour conferred upon me, and trust, that although I cannot
equal,
I shall
never disgrace,
my famous ancestors."
That Mr. Berkeley should meet with much attention in the hospitable polite kingdom of Ireland, celebrated, as well as her sister kingdom, for pleasing conduct to strangers, is not to be much wondered at, his Father having the honour to be related to many of the noblesse of Ireland. His gratitude was great for the throughly amiable polite attentions of the excellent Marquis and Marchioness of Waterford. His Parents felt it as it merited. The survivor still feels it, as she does the very worthy Lord John Beresford's amiability, for so condescendingly interesting himself in her intricate affairs in Ireland. She must ever retain the most grateful sense of the exquisitely polite condescension of the excellent Lady Isabella Monck, the highly respected mother of the Marchioness, ever since she had the honour of being connected with her Ladyship by her union with Dr. Berkeley. That excellent lady once taking leave of the Editor, on her quitting England, spoke as follows:
"As I fear, Madam, that there is little chance of my ever having it in my power to pay you the respect that I wish to do in Ireland, and that your very great attention to
all
Dr. Berkeley's relations I am sure demands; I beg that, if ever you have any relation or friend that visits Dublin, you will be pleased to let me know, that I may at least have the pleasure of paying them the attentions, that I should be happy to pay
you
there."
The Editor trusts that she felt this amiable conduct as it merited. She availed herself of this goodness but once (it is not to be supposed that she would introduce every country gentleman's daughter of her acquaintance, who, being smitten with a red coat, followed the camp to Ireland) when the sensible, elegant Miss D'Oyley, daughter of the late Sir Thomas D'Oyley, married Dr. Newcombe, then Bishop of Ossory: the Editor wrote to her Ladyship, requesting permission to introduce Mrs. Newcombe, who, added to her great personal merits, was descended from one of the most antient families in England. On Mrs. Newcombe's arrival in Dublin, to the amazement of all the
ton
world of Dublin, her Ladyship visiting very few persons but of her own family and connections, and making
no new
acquaintances at all of any rank she immediately honoured Mrs. Newcombe with a visit
The sensible Lady of the learned Bishop of Ossory soon learned enough of Dublin to know, that to be visited by Lady Bell Monck was a greater honour than to be visited by the Viceroy's Lady, a
rarer
honour than to be visited by the Lady she represents.
.
The Editor had the pleasure of adding much
So much, that Mrs. Berkeley almost dreaded to see any of their common friends, they being reiteratedly
charged
to repeat and re-repeat good Lady D'Oyley's most grateful acknowledgments.
to the happiness of that excellent incomparable woman, the late Lady D'Oyley, whose whole life, from the age of seventeen, when she married the worthy Sir Thomas D'Oyley, was one continued uninterrupted journey in the path of duty
On Miss D'Oyley's marrying into another Kingdom, she said to an intimate friend of hers and the Editor's,
"I have never lived for myself at all since I was seventeen years old,"
the time of her marriage.
. She lived, alas! to lose the only child she ever had.
The Editor, visiting her not long before her death, found her, as ever, resigned and cheerful, much wishing Mrs. Berkeley to see, what
she wished,
a strong resemblance between her fine little grand-daughter, about seven years old, and her departed mother. There certainly was a resemblance. Miss Newcombe was handsomer than her elegant mother. This young lady is lately married in Ireland, and, it is said, means to prove her claim to what the Editor has always heard from her youth, that her mother, of course herself, had an undoubted right to, after the death of her two uncles, Sir John and Sir William, both dead childless—the barony of Hook Norton in Oxfordshire; as, the late Lord Dacre used to say, a clergyman on a small living in the vale of Berkshire, whose name the Editor does not recollect, had to that of Berners. How much wiser are the Scots, in many instances, than the English; every almanac has the list of dormant titles, with this wise addition,
"The representative of this family is
."
Surely this is very wise; for an ancient hereditary title is certainly no
unpleasant
thing for
any
family to possess, however Nabobs, Slave-merchants, and upstarts, may AFFECT to deride it in
words,
for in actions they do not, being very fond of uniting their plebeian blood with noble. The Editor will not say, as Sir
said on a match made some time ago,
"Oh! he has, I find, taken a
Rag of Quality.
"
The excellent Lady D'Oyley took great pains to make a very happy match for her eldest brother, a very worthy gentleman of large fortune in the West of England, with a very sensible, most highly accomplished young Lady, without any fortune. This noble, disinterested Lady lived to see the lovely, the only offspring of that marriage, the first lady of
Cresswell, Esquire, Member of Parliament for Cirencester, left an orphan by the death of both parents before she was two years old, a beloved friend of the Editor, grow up; adorned with every thing that could render an uncommonly fine, wonderfully strong understanding cultivated to the height by her maternal aunt, her
more
than mother—she had in fact been a more than mother to her half-sister, the young lady's mother, ten years younger than herself—the excellent Mrs. Woodford; who died in April 1795, in very advanced age, at the seat of her other niece, the amiable worthy Lady Guise, at Highnam Court, in Gloucestershire, full of days and full of piety. The Editor laments that it is not in the power of her
feeble
pen to do justice to the very rare merits of this wonderfully wise accomplished, excellent friend, nor to her own great gratitude to her, and to God, for having put it into the heart of this excellent lady to attach herself to the Editor (fifteen years younger than herself) when a girl of ten years old. She had, however, then sense enough to listen to the
wise
advice of this extraordinary lady, as to an oracle of wisdom and prudence, and continued to do so, until she bade her adieu for the last time, in 1792, at Highnam Court; trusting to meet again, when the Editor hopes to be as wise as her ever respected beloved friend. Her powers, with regard to the education of young women, were so highly esteemed by the Editor, that she had conjured Dr. Berkeley to promise her, that, should she die leaving a young daughter, her highly respected friend, Mrs. Woodford might have the direction of her education, rather than her own excellent Sister, whose exquisite compassion for a motherless child would have caused her to humour such an one in every thing she wished, and have
so
ensured a
miserable
life, a
melancholy
death for her
The Editor is to this day sometimes reproached by her too tender-hearted Sister, of not having
sufficiently humoured
her children. She always delighted to gratify them in every thing proper, and not injurious, ever wishing to make her dog and cats happy. Another female friend used to accuse the Editor of not treating her children like
rational
creatures,
her
word being a
law,
without assigning to
them
any reason, why they were to go, or not to go,—to stay, or not to stay, &c. to which the Editor's reply was,
"ARE children of three to thirteen years old rational creatures?"
That they have reason, often
fine
strong reason—but that does not imply that they are always rational creatures—
vide
half the grown up children that one sees in the world. She has, however, the delight of having
both
her children bear testimony to her
wisdom
in that instance, her eldest particularly, as has been mentioned elsewhere in this Preface. The Editor's
horrors
of deceit and cunning made her always resolve, that, if ever she was blessed with children, they should not be taught to tell lies, as children are, when bid to say,
"
they do not know which they love best, Papa or Mamma.
"
Unless they are fools, they must, and do,
very early know;
and the Editor always ordered them to tell the truth boldly. The youngest almost adored his dear Father, who never contradicted him, but humoured him as much as might be, without destroying
"the
authority
of the Mother over the sons,"
as speaks the Scripture, which says,
"God has confirmed the authority,"
&c. He loved his Mother exceedingly. One evening, coming in from play, he sprung into her lap, threw his arms round her neck, and began caressing her; she said,
"Robert, tell me whom you love best in the world."
"Why,
you.
—Stop, Mamma; as a child, whilst one
is
a
child,
it is
natural
to love those best that humour one and spoil one a
little;
so I love Papa best.
But,
if I should live to be a
man,
I shall then love you a
vast
deal the best, for having never humoured me, or spoiled me at all."
This is set down
verbatim,
as if delivered upon oath.
.
Last year, a very short time before the death of this revered friend, the Editor had the real pleasure to become acquainted, under the throughly hospitable roof of her very excellent, amiable, kind, old friends, the very learned, sensible Recorder of Canterbury and his sensible worthy Lady, with the amiable, very highly cultivated, and accomplished Miss G
l
d, neice of Mrs. Robinson, to whom the Editor has been much indebted, for introducing her to the knowledge of a very worthy man, who has been of great service to her in some of her difficult, unpleasant busineses. This young lady one day asked Mrs. Berkeley,
"if
she
was not acquainted with Mrs. Woodford?"
The Editor replied, that
"she had that felicity very early in life, and esteemed it one of the numberless gracious vouchsafements of PROVIDENCE, having owed to that dear friend's wise, pious advice, that, together with many other things, she had frequently escaped, the most unpleasing of
all
reproach,
self-reproach,
by having, early in life, left entirely to the All-wise Disposer of events every concern of
real
importance,
never to pray or wish anxiously that events might turn out to one's own wish.
"
This excellent lady would frequently say,
"Behold me a monument of the
folly
of anxiously wishing, praying, for any thing, of presuming to carve for ourselves. I besought God, at different times, when young, to vouchsafe to grant me three requests."
All were granted—and they have every one brought on me such distress, as I hope all my young friends, taking warning by me, may escape
Perhaps the greatest fortune in England never had more lovers, more offers of marriage, than this excellent Lady. The Editor knew some of the gentlemen wise enough to persevere
very
long; but all in vain. The lady of the late Mr. Granger of Shiplake, author of the Biographical History, the Editor has heard her Mother say,
"it was supposed, for very many years of her life, she never passed a
whole month
without receiving an offer of marriage."
She was an exquisite beauty: not so dear Mrs. Woodford; hers were chiefly
mental
charms.
.
Miss G
l
d, by some accidental meeting, had the happiness, such she professed to esteem it, to become acquainted with Mrs. Woodford, late in her journey towards the realms of bliss. Her wonderful powers of mind appeared as strong as ever, the last time the Editor saw her; but her earthly tabernacle was debilitated most lamentably indeed. For the present, adieu, thou beloved, thou revered, thou excellent Friend. May at least one bright jewel be added to thy crown of glory, for the benefits received from thee by thy throughly grateful, affectionate friend, &c. ELIZA BERKELEY.
On Dean Swift's introducing Mr. (afterwards Bp.) Berkeley to the then Earl of Berkeley, it was in this singular way:
"My Lord, here is a fine young gentleman of your family. I can assure your Lordship, it is a much greater honour to
you
to be related to him, than it is to him to be related to you."
The Earl of Berkeley was then Lord High Admiral of England, the last nobleman who had that honour, which some of his descendants pleaded as the cause of their great pride—some of the uncommonly sensible grandsons of the Honourable Colonel Berkeley. A person, whose name was not originally Berkeley, one day talking to one of the most amiable of those brothers, said,
"My dear C
, what is the cause that
you
BERKELEYS are so
diabolically
proud? Is it because, for its great antiquity, no noble family in
England
has had quite so many h
ts and s
ls in it?"
—
"No, my dear Madam, no; it is because we are so horridly poor. We are afraid of being trampled upon."
—
"Never fear that, my dear C
; no man of so ancient, so noble a family as yours has cause for such apprehension from persons of sense, if it is not
his own
fault."
St. Paul, speaking by the Holy Spirit to Timothy, says,
"
Let no man despise thee.
"
It is therefore
absolutely
in our own power to prevent our being
despised.
It is one thing to dislike to
hate,
and another to
despise.
The inspired Writer therefore does not say,
"let no man hate thee, or persecute;"
but
"let no man
despise
thee,"
is a command given from an aged to a young Bishop. There are countries where, perhaps, the younger Prelates might so admonish the elders to their profit. To the admonisher of Mr. C. Berkeley, when saying, that no persons of
sense
would despise him, &c. might, had he known it, have retorted the famous Dr. Rock's answer to Sir Edward Holse, Physician to his late Majesty, who, driving one day down the Strand, was stopped by the mob, listening to the oratory of Dr. Rock in his gaudy equipage. Seeing Sir Edward Hulse look out at his chariot window, he instantly took a quantity of boxes and vials, gave them to one of his
belaced
lacqueys, saying,
"Give my compliments to Sir Edward; tell him, these are all I have with me, but I will send him ten dozen more to-morrow."
Sir Edward, astonished at the message, and effrontery of the man, actually took them into his chariot; on which the mob, with one consent, all cried out,
"See, see, all the Doctors, even the King's,
buy
their medicines of him."
In their youth, they had somewhere been fellow students; Rock, not succeeding in a regular way, metamorphosed himself into a
Quack.
In the afternoon he waited on Sir Edward, to beg his pardon for having played him such a trick: to which Sir Edward replied,
"My old friend, how can a man of your understanding condescend to harangue the populace with such nonsense as you talked to-day. Why, none but fools listen to you."
—
"Ah! my good friend,
that
is the
very thing.
Do you give
me
the FOOLS for
my
patients, and you shall have
my free leave
to
keep
the people of SENSE for
your own.
"
This anecdote of these two different Doctors was related to the Editor by a medical friend of great eminence, who had often heard Sir Edward Hulse relate it to divert his friends, adding,
"I never felt so like a fool in my life, as when I received the bottles and boxes from Rock."
Mr. Berkeley felt himself much indebted for numberless polite amiable attentions from Lord Durraghmore; for which he was probably indebted entirely to his
own personal
merit, and the great good sense of that young Nobleman, to whom, should he chance to read this, it may not perhaps be unpleasant to observe, what Mr. Berkeley's Father once said to the Editor, on her saying,
"How very lucky Berkeley is, in becoming acquainted with so many learned men, so much his superiors in years and knowledge!"
—
"Lucky; to be sure he is
lucky
if you
call it so,
in having an understanding that
must
make him admired by those who have very superior understandings themselves;
that
is the
luck
of it."
They did not, perhaps, as Mr. Berkeley; who, having dined out in a large company, at his return asked his Mother, if she was acquainted with a young Baronet, whom he named; she replied,
"Yes, that she had known his mother very well."
Mr. B.—
"
I
am resolved to become acquainted with him."
Mrs. B.—
"Why?"
Mr. B.—
"Because two of the most empty fox-hunting coxcombs I ever met with have been laughing at, and abusing him to the company all the afternoon; so
I conclude
he is a man of sense and worth."
Mr. Berkeley also felt himself much obliged, as the Editor does, by the very polite friendly attentions of his Father's Honourable relation Sackville Hamilton, Esquire, of Dublin Castle. He felt himself flattered by the attentions of the learned Reverend William Hamilton, B.D. who presented to him his very curious entertaining work, printed during Mr. Berkeley's residence in Ireland. In his return from Ireland, by the way of Scotland, he made some little stay with his amiable old intimate friend, Sir William Morres, at his seat in the county of
(name forgotten). He could not contrive to reach the house of his learned friend, Mr. Taylor of Noan. Several translations from the Greek Poets of this gentleman's were published when he was about nineteen.
In a letter to his Father, whilst in Ireland, he says,
"My Grandfather and Swift are still remembered with gratitude in this kingdom; by some their memory is venerated as they merited."
Mr. Berkeley having been always told by his Father, that Dean Swift was the introducer of his Grandfather when he came young into England, to the learned and the great, occasioned his, from a boy, being a great admirer of that wonderful man, and his so zealously labouring to vindicate his fame in the Preface to his Literary Relics from some horridly false aspersions, and palliating his
sad
conduct to Stella and Vanessa
Unless it is allowed, what the Editor herself
firmly
believes, from what she learned from Dr. Berkeley's very old beloved friend, Dean Delany—that both Dean Swift and Mrs. Johnson were actually the children of Sir William Temple, and the heavy tidings arrived not until the day on which the indissoluble knot was tied. Surely a
Spiritual
Court ought to have power to set such unfortunate persons at liberty. Some years ago the eldest son of a gentleman of great estate was exceedingly in love with an heiress of large fortune: the father threw cold water on it—the old gentleman persisted in refusing to give his consent—at length, violently urged by his son to find an objection to an accomplished, beautiful, rich heiress, he replied,
"You d
d fool, the world is wide enough for you to find a wife, without marrying your own sister: that young lady is my daughter; therefore give up all thoughts of her."
He did so, and married another lady. The beloved object for ever gone, Miss
married the first man of large fortune that her parents recommended to her; but the loss of her first accomplished lover gave an unfortunate shock to her fine understanding. She early in life became a widow. The last time the Editor saw her, there appeared a sort of melancholy restlessness, that could not fail to distress every feeling heart that knew the cause. This lady had every thing
this
world could furnish, to produce happiness; two fine children, a son and daughter, both magnificently provided for. But she had not the society of the only man on earth whom she could love. She saw him happy with another. Had she learned to
feel,
as well as say,
"Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven,"
it had been happy for her; had she humbly, patiently submitted, instead of sadly murmuring, and sadly cavilling, as she used alass! to do at some parts of Scripture. But what piety was it likely should be instilled into her mind by her
direfully
ADULTEROUS MOTHER, who was not suspected until this affair of the match.
. Mr. Berkeley was not in England when that book was published; but a copy, by his order to his bookseller, was sent to every member of his family. On his arrival in England, he immediately paid his duty at his Father's; and, after dinner one day, said to his Mother, that he hoped she had received the Literary Relics, which he had ordered to be sent to her before they were published.
She replied,
"that she was much obliged by his attention."
Mr. B.—
"Have you redde them, my dear Madam?"
Mrs. B.—
"To be sure I have, my dear Child."
Mr. B.—
"Well, and what do you think of my account of Swift?"
Mrs. Berkeley, with what her Son used to term
"one of
my Mother's wicked
looks,"
replied,
"My dear Son, it has
determined me,
if ever I should have a
desperately bad
cause to plead, to retain
you
for my Prime Counsel."
To which Mr. Berkeley, in a sweet melancholy voice, replied,
"Ah, my dear Mother, don't say so! I have not defended his wrong conduct: I have only said all that my conscience would suffer me to say in extenuation of it. You know his kindness to my Grandfather in his youth, when he came first to England. It grieves me that you say that
I
should be your Prime Counsel."
Mr. Berkeley shewed his gratitude in another instance to Dean Swift. During his short
séjour
in Dublin, he discovered that the old servant, Mr. Richard Brinan, in whose arms Dean Swift expired, was poor as well as aged: he relieved him, and ordered his Father's agent to pay him a small sum every month, to lighten the
unavoidable
sufferings of old age; which
needs
not the aid of POVERTY, to render it unpleasant. Dr. Berkeley continued this annuity, as does the Editor; at least, she trusts, that the poor man receives it, as she sees it constantly in her accounts; she hopes, for his sake, it is not as difficult to get a small sum paid
in
Ireland, as it is to get
any
sum out of it.
It has, perhaps, been before mentioned, that Mr. Berkeley resembled his unworthy
Mother
in never forgetting a favour received, and his lovely
self
in
never
remembering an injury done to himself. Any done to his Father he would not pardon, as too plainly appeared in his "Siege of Rhodes," which the Editor never saw until it was printed, or she had certainly made it a point with her obedient Son; as in another instance, where only themselves were concerned, not many months before his death, saying,
"Here I stand, my dear Madam, ready to obey whatever you shall be pleased to command."
The
of
had certainly treated Dr. Berkeley like a
; and Mr. Berkeley ever now and then threatened him. Dr. Berkeley used to say,
"The man that can act as he has done, is beneath your notice; do not soil your paper with such a
."
Mrs. Berkeley begged him off, on account of his worthy family, with whom in her youth she had been acquainted. Mr. Berkeley used to say,
"No man shall maltreat my Father whilst I can hold a pen, any more than asperse my Mother's fame whilst I wear a sword."
Mr. Berkeley used laughingly to tell a very intimate friend of his,
"You are so apt to boast of being
will with the ladies of all ages and all descriptions,
that I am sure the
only
thing that prevents your hinting that
my Mother is partial to you is, that you know
I would run you through the body immediately."
Had Mr. Berkeley lived to read the grateful mention of his Father in the
curious
life of Bishop Horne, he had certainly resented it as it merits to be resented. Dr. Berkeley was a too generous friend to numbers, whose present pride and covetousness has quite obliterated from their minds the poverty from which the amiable generosity of Dr. Berkeley long since rescued them. HE is gone to receive his reward: THEY must in due time follow to receive theirs.
It has been mentioned, that Mr. Berkeley, in his first nove, "The Generous Rustic," has shewn his love and gratitude to the French friends of his early youth. In his second, "The Spanish Memoirs," many of the characters are the real ones of English and Scotch friends and acquaintance. In that of Father Alberto, the reader is made acquainted with the very sensible, highly accomplished, wonderfully entertaining, polite, pious, Bishop Geddes, who had spent many years as a Bishop in New Spain, and has often delighted the Editor, when visiting at Dr. Berkeley's, with accounts of the wonderfully affectionate, respectful attachment the amiable Peruvians still retain for their Inca and his royal progeny, supplying him with fish, venison, game, &c.; and the stratagems the Spaniards were obliged to employ to convey the then Inca from New to Old Spain, where he is a grandee. His two sons hold considerable rank in the King of Spain's guards; they are fine young men, although one draws a sigh over their reversed fortune. They are, perhaps, happier to
guard,
than to be
guarded.
The Editor has often listened with delight to accounts of conversations related to have passed between the Inca and himself
tête à tête
in old Spain, al hough the Inca is not a man of very shining abilities, perhaps, for politic reasons, very little cultivated. He was not dead to what he was, nor to what he ought to have been.
This excellently wise, mild Prelate, by the great wisdom of the then Pontiff, replaced the
flaming
Popish Bishop, who presided over the Roman Catholics of Edinburgh, when the zeal of John Knox's disciples burned down the chapel, to the great distress of the amiable liberal Dr. Robertson, the worthy witty Dr. Webster, father of the excellent Colonel Webster, the agreeable Dr. Carlyle, and many other worthy Scottish ministers of Edinburgh. On that occasion the zealots of the party exhibited a caricature print, of which the Editor has a copy, of Dr. Johnson's beloved "
Willy Robertson,
" with the triple crown on his head, a label, &c. &c. May that sensible, agreeable head be now more suitably crowned!
Mr. Berkeley's superiority of understanding led him to feel great gratitude for Bishop Goddes's devoting so much of his time to Mr. Berkeley when in Edinburgh in vacation time. He felt that it was condescension in a very learned man of between fifty and sixty, to say to a youth of nineteen,
"Whenever you please, Sir, visit me at all times; I shall be most happy to see you, to give you any information you may wish that I am capable of affording."
The Editor is aware, that persons may say,
"Oh! that was to make a Papist of him
Mr. Berkeley was, early in life, made by his mother to read most of what has been well written,
pro
and
con,
in that controversy between the Church of England and the Church of Rome. At before ninetten Mr. Berkeley was a zealous Protestant, not because his grandmother was one—to be sure he had, like Timothy,
"from a child
known
the Scriptures;"
which
poor old-fashioned
St. Paul thought, and said,
"were able to make him wise unto salvation."
—See St. Paul's Third Epistle to Timothy, chap. iii. verse 15.
."
Bishop Geddes very soon discovered, before he had ever seen Mr. Berkeley, only an anonymous piece of his, without the least clue to find out the Writer—
"This is written by a
very uncommon
genius indeed, be he whom he may."
—The Duke D'Arundina, Mr. Berkeley told the Editor, was the late Earl of
; whom Mr. Berkeley never forgave for turning his own unfortunate nephew, his brother's son, from his door. The amiable Miss
, daughter of Lord
, told Mr. Monck Berkeley, that the poor unfortunate young gentleman's father was at Lord
's, when his
only
son was chased from the door. The Editor hopes that the young Lady had been misinformed, as he was an highly respected friend of Dr. Berkeley and the Editor. Alas! alas! that parents would consider, in their anger against their perhaps ill-educated offspring, how will this action appear to me when I come to lie on my death-bed. God himself says,
"Oh! that they were wise, that they would consider their latter end."
—But most, so far from considering it, banish it from their mind, lest it should make them melancholy. This ill-fated young gentleman reached a wretched ale-house in Northumberland, and there ended his miserable mortal pilgrimage. There is a day coming ere long, when the Editor thinks she would, of the two, rather choose to be the poor, very weak, shatter-brained nephew, than the sensible, solemn, pompous uncle, who is well characterized in the person of the Spanish
Don
(Duke). Oh! that parents and near relatives, whom God has blessed with understanding, had some compassion on those to whom he has not been so gracious, and consider that there are very many who want guardians through life; and the father and mother of a shatter-brained man, or simple daughter, should look out for a proper guardian in a wise husband or wife, like the late Mrs.
of
, who soon after the death of her excellent husband, said to her very uncommonly sensible daughter, a very old friend of the Editor,
"We must now cast our thoughts about for some very sensible young lady of small fortune, who will take your brother; or else, before we have left
six weeks, either the cook or the dairy maid, whichever has most cunning, will marry him."
The plan was pursued. He lived some years a very happy respectable life, with one of the sensible daughters of the worthy Sir
, Bart. His son does not squander the
six thousand pounds per annum,
which the wisdom of his grandmother (esteemed a stingy woman, because she paid her bills regularly,) rescued from
Molly Dairy,
and entrusted to the wise management of Miss
.
The unfortunate young man, driven from the door, was once very desirous to have married the daughter of a clergyman, a Dignitary of the Church of
, well educated, but no great fortune. The joy of his mother on its being prevented was so great, as to occasion Dr. Berkeley's calling her FOOL, and saying she would live to repent it. It is hoped she did, for she must meet her injured son at the last great day.
Mention has been made before, of Mr. Berkeley's being sent, when he was little more than six years old, to town, to get a tooth inspected by that very honest dentist, the late Mr. Hemmet, who happened to be out of town. The amiable friend who took the charge of him said,
"Well, we will go to Mr. Beardmore, or some other eminent man."
To which Mr. Berkeley replied,
"No, Sir; if you please, I will go to no other; for I heard my Mamma tell you, that Hemmet was the best;
and I am sure
SHE knows; and I will go to him."
This occasioned his being detained a few days longer in town; and his wise kind host, fearing that a child, who lived all day in the open air, might suffer in town, sent him every day to walk in the Park with his own worthy careful valet de chambre. This man, happening to be intimate with the gentleman of the late excellent Lord Berkeley of Stratton, one day, in returning from the Park, called in Berkeley Square with Mr. Berkeley in his hand, who, of course, went into the steward's or housekeeper's room, where his sweetly engaging manners soon so won the hearts of all present, that they asked his kind guardian permission to lead him up, to shew him to Lord Berkeley and the excellent Mrs. Anne Egerton. He was introduced as the little grandson of the great Bishop Berkeley. His noble relation was charmed with the great good sense and propriety of the little man; and, after he had been there a short time, his sensible guardian telling him it was time to go home, he rose, made a very graceful bow
Dr. Berkeley followed the example of his learned Father, who, from the time that his Sons put on the habits of men, used, after dinner, to make them practise, over and over, coming in and going out of a room gracefully, saying,
"Every man and woman you see is a judge of those things; therefore learn to do it like gentlemen."
Dr. Berkeley and his son were both very apt scholars; and it has been repeatedly remarked to the Editor, how very gracefully both Dr. and Mr. Berkeley came into a room, as if they had both learned of the same dancing-master. They had, in fact, learnt of the same master, the learned Prelate, who was remarkably attentive to the
minutiae
with his Sons, as well as to their Latin, Greek, and letter-writing; always saying,
"Learn to write letters properly on all occasions. Many people may hear your letters redde, that will never hear you speak
vivâ voce.
"
When Dr. Berkeley was a boy, about eight years old, he worried his Father to let him go out with him to some Visitation, for three or four days. The good Prelate not understanding, with all his learning, the management of boys as well as his Grandson's Mother, and having no mind his little Boy should accompany him, said,
"Well, if in these two days you can make me eight Latin verses (the Editor thinks it was) you shall go with me"
—be it what it might, the Prelate knew, or thought he knew, that the poor child
could not
do it. Dr. Berkeley has often told the Editor, that it was what he had never done, had never been taught to do; but, wild to go this journey, he set his astonishingly quick wits to work, and produced the eight lines, or verses, in due time. On his presenting them, the Bishop exclaimed,
"Well, George, you have been too many for me; I did not think it possible you could have done it; but, as you have done it, I must keep my word, and so you must go."
The Editor used to tell Dr. Berkeley, that "
she
was angry with the Bishop for being such an Aegyptian taskmaster to a
poor
little creature; for no mortal in the house could assist him but his father. Why could he not have at once taken the beautiful little creature, or told him that he
"
must not go?
"
Dr. Berkeley was esteemed the most elegant writer of Latin of any of his contemporaries at the University, as the Editor has repeatedly heard Messrs. Hamilton, Whitaker, Bishop Horne, say. Some excellent, aged scholar, (name not recollected,) said to every one, that Dr. Berkeley's Latin speech, when he was Collector, was the best he had ever heard during his twenty years residence at the University.
to the Lady, and then to my Lord, who, untying his purse, was presenting him with five guineas, to buy him a fine horse, saddle, &c. at the toy-shop; Mr. Berkeley having told him, that he had a
live
horse at Cookham. His worthy guardian stepped up, saying,
"I must beg your Lordship to excuse Master Berkeley. He must not take it. His Mamma never suffers him to take a guinea, or a six-pence, from
my
Master, when staying there for months, not even from his Grandmother or his Aunt, telling him how
shamefully mean
it is to accept money from any one but his
own
Parents, when they are at hand."
This injunction was withdrawn when Mr. Berkeley went to Eton, near an hundred miles from his Father's house; that then, if any old friend of his family called, and
tipped
him a guinea or two, he might accept it; as his Father and Mother had often
tipped
the sons of their friends. He then declined it, telling his Mother,
"I don't like it
somehow,
not having been used to it; and John Hayes (his amiable relation) is a good-natured fellow, and will always lend me a guinea whenever I ask him, till I see my Father or John."
A Gentleman once expressed his astonishment to Dr. Berkeley, that, calling at Eton, to see Mr. Berkeley, he could not persuade him to accept money.
Mrs. Berkeley, having always a dread of her children's being led to practise
any
meanness, of
any
kind, never suffered either of them to receive
any
sum, small or great, from
any
one but Dr. Berkeley or herself: from either Parent they were at
full
liberty to receive as much as ever their
eloquence
could
extract.
The Editor, from early youth, always declared,
"However well she might like a
smart
cap, or elegant gown, that she would much rather wear an old gown, and a rusty cloak, as she does at present, than not pay the butcher, baker, &c. every Monday morning."
The doing that, in these
blessed times
of
plenty,
is hardly sufficient; and such is the shameful selfish covetousness of most English traders in that class, that they make those pay to the full as much for their commodities, who pay every
seventh
day, as those who do or do
not
pay after
seven
years credit. In Scotland, the traders, although in general the rudest in the world, excepting the Dutch; if you pay ready money, twenty pounds or thirty pence, they always throw you back a considerable discount, as did always the late Mr. Goodchild, the great linen-draper at Charing Cross. The Editor, when buying, at St. Andrews, even a common chequered apron, for
"a
pure auld gewd weef,
"
value half a crown, has repeatedly had three halfpenny worth of white silk, nicely folded in paper, presented to her by the very worthy, really respectable Dean of Guild Kaye, the first shop in St. Andrews, saying,
"Be pleased, Madam, to take your discount; I will not burden you with halfpence."
He had been long enough in England to learn the civility of our traders, not long enough to learn their cunning, of making those who do pay, pay for those who do not. Whilst Dr. Berkeley's family was at St. Andrews, they were told by several of their neighbours, that a certain Earl, who has a mansion near Perth, one day walked in, and purchased half a guinea's worth of tea and sugar, laid down the money on the counter, which the grocer took, and put into the till. The Earl asked,
"
Where is my discount?
"
—
" Oh! my Lord, I thought your Lordship had lived so much in England that you would not take it."
—
"NOT TAKE IT! I have not lived long enough in England to learn their FOOLISH customs."
This nobleman is remarkable for a strong understanding; was educated at Westminster and Christ Church College, Oxford; and, being a most able speaker in the House, would do the
honest
part of English gentry and traders an essential service, if he could introduce this wise Scottish custom South of the Tweed. The Editor has one Scottish friend, who resides much in England, who constantly, when he purchases any thing, puts the cash or notes in a paper, writes on it what it is to pay, and constantly keeps it in his desk twelve months, because the English traders will not allow him discount, saying,
"that they are a set of rascals for not doing it."
After Mr. Berkeley grew up, some one, speaking highly, and justly, as he deserved, of Lord Berkeley of Stratton, Mr. Monck Berkeley said,
"I am sure he was a good-natured man; he would once have made me the
happiest of mortals, but for my Mother.
"
—
"How so?"
Mr. Berkeley then mentioned what has been related above.
On which Mrs. Berkeley said,
"Bless me, my dear child, do
you
remember that?"
Mr. B.—
"
Remember
it, my dear Madam; why, I never felt such happiness before, nor ever expect it again on
earth,
as the
half
minute that the five guineas were
chinking in my paw,
until Mr.
(the name of Mr. Johnson's valet forgotten) told me that I must give them back to my Lord, for that you never suffered me, &c."
as before mentioned.
"I had, in
idea,
purchased half the globe with those five guineas. Lord Berkeley said, I was the grandson of a great good man
Lord Berkeley of Stratton, and Bishop Berkeley, were extremely intimate in their youth. Doctor Berkeley had vast numbers of Lord Berkeley's letters to his father. A very unhappy event in Lord Berkeley's life, when a young man, occasioned
all
his
own
relations breaking all intercourse,
all
connection with him, whilst, wonderful to relate, those of his unfortunate ill-fated lady pardoned it. One of her near relations resided entirely with him for many years before his death, the very worthy Mrs. A. Egerton, to whom he shewed his gratitude at his death. This lady resided some years at Frogmore-House, where Mr. Monck Berkeley, whilst an Etonian, and his very
wonderfully
sensible, clever, acute friend Mr. Kirk, nephew of Colonel Egerton's Lady, always found a most cordial reception, of which Mr. Berkeley often spoke with gratitude. Lord Berkeley's life, very many years before his death, had been not only exemplary, but exaltedly pious. The Editor will take leave to relate an anecdote of his Lordship and the Princess Amelia. Mrs. Berkeley happening to be staying at Lambeth Palace when Archbishop Secker related it to the late amiable Bishop Trevor, of Durham, it made so deep an impression that she can set it down verbatim.—Bishop of Durham:
"I cannot conceive what is come to Princess Emely lately: people don't usually grow
better
tempered as they grow old; but, from having been all her life the
(the blanks must be filled up by those who read) she is become so humble, so affable, so condescending, so kind and charitable (her Royal Highness used frequently to send Dr. Berkeley ten guineas, with a request that he would distribute it, as he thought best, amongst the poor of his parish of Acton) that it delights one to hear it; every body wonders, but nobody can tell what has caused this astonishing change."
Every one at the table professed themselves glad, and contrasted it with her Royal Highness's conduct when Ranger of Richmond Park, and the odious stiles erected to deter persons from crossing it. The Archbishop, in his usual deliberate manner, and in his wonted deliberate tone of voice, said,
"I can inform your Lordship what it is that has wrought this wonderful, this
very happy
change in her Royal Highness's manners and conduct. You know that my Lord Berkeley of Stratton is always one of her Royal Highness's select party.—One day she told him, she found that she grew old, and she wished his Lordship would recommend some good book to her to read, to make her better. His Lordship bowed, and said, 'he would endeavour to find one to suit her Royal Highness.' According the next time he went to Gunnersbury House, he took a large folio in his coach, and, carrying it in under his arm, presented it to her Royal Highness, saying, 'that he had obeyed her Royal Highness's commands, and had brought her a book that he hoped and believed she would like.' Her Royal Highness
did like it,
has redde it, and studied it; and that, my
good
Lord, is the cause of this
happy
change in her Royal Highness that
every body
is so wondering at."
The Princess soon fell in love with the Prelate; which may many that are neither Princesses nor Peeresses do, who may chance, on running their eye over this Preface, to read and study that
divine
writer (the delight of the Editor's spirit), that
true Church of England
Prelate, is ardently wished by the writer of these poor pages;who, if she is the humble instrument in the hand of Providence of consoling
one
poor, humble, contrite penitent, male or female, or benefiting
one
soul, is content to be derided as
"an old fool"
—a most MONSTROUS
ridiculous
creature! The Editor inserts
female,
as they (never were
formerly
forgiven by the world, although now we see some much caressed) seldom think of applying to HIM who forgives and upbraids not.
; but that delighted me not, like the guineas chinking in my hand."
Mr. Berkeley, as well as his parents, had a most affectionate regard for his eminently worthy, agreeable, respectable, and it may, with the strictest truth, be asserted, universally
respected
relation, Major James Berkeley, one of the grandsons of the Honourable Colonel Berkeley; whom, on his
dreary
journey from Dover to Cheltenham, he was sadly disappointed at not finding at Rochester, he being then in barracks at Chatham, now, alas! abroad, in a situation of great danger. May God, in mercy, spare that best of sons and brothers to his worthy mother, elegant sister, and to his idolizing, beautiful, accomplished lady! May their son, if he lives to grow up, be,
if an officer,
as wise and worthy as his father, and as valiant as his mother's illustrious ancestor,
"
valiant John Talbot
Mrs. James Berkeley is a sister of
Talbot, Esquire, of Stone Castle, an old intimate friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley's. This worthy young gentleman is also indebted for an appointment under Government to the gratititude of Lord Thurlow. Oh! that
all
grateful persons were compassionate! But they would then be Angels, and soon removed to the Celestial Choir.
."
Proceeding on the road between Rochester and Dartford, a post-chaise drove most furiously by the coach. Mr. Berkeley's quick eye saw it, and said to Mrs. Frinsham,
"There goes dear James and his lovely lady; I wish to speak to him."
His servant, on horseback, endeavoured to overtake and stop them; but in vain, for they out-stripped the wind. He was affected, as he wished exceedingly to bid a
last
adieu to his sincerely beloved, respected kinsman.
Major Berkeley has a younger brother, a very uncommonly sensible man; in mind, not person, a genuine Berkeley. On the famous 27th of July every man between himself and the Earldom of Berkeley were engaged in
actual
service. The Honourable George Berkeley, only brother of Lord Berkeley; Captain Velters Cornwall Berkeley, of the Navy; Major Lionel Berkeley; and Major James, above named. Should Mr. George Berkeley marry a Lady with a mind like his own, their offspring may discover what is
transacting
in the stars discovered by Dr. Herschel. Mr. George Berkeley has, as the Editor used to tell Dr. Berkeley and her Son—they had eyes that could see an insect a mile off. A learned friend of the Editor, not short-sighted, used to say of his Lady,
"
She
can see a
crow
upon a church-steeple when I cannot see the
steeple.
"
It must, surely, be very pleasant to be blessed with such eyes. The Editor was always anxious to find out, when infants, whether her children had their dear Father's fine eyes, or their mother's. Both could, like Mr. George Berkeley and their Father, see the mountains in the moon.
This very sensible young Divine once, when staying at Dr. Berkeley's; the Editor, seeing him very careless of his health, said to him,
"If you don't take more care of yourself, Berkeley will come to the title at
last.
"
He briskly replied,
"Surely, I think, there are enough of
us
to keep your son from it."
The Editor well remembers to have frequently heard her very sensible, agreeable, intimate friend, Mrs. Jones, sister to the present highly worthy, excellent Marquis of Winchester, say, that
"When he was a little boy of five or six years old, and intimate friend of his mother, used to say, stroking his head, 'Aye, my dear George, this little white head of thine will one day wear a coronet: I am old, and shall not live to see it; but,
I promise thee,
thou wilt one day be Marquis of Winchester."
The present HONOUR to that very ancient title was then the
seventh
from it. The manner in which his Lady's
wise
father recommended it to her, with her vast fortune, to marry Mr. George Pawlett, then a younger brother, does him more honour than even his very ancient title promised to him by the old lady. In this instance it can hardly be urged that prescience is unpleasant; for a coronet, if honourably obtained, is no
unpleasant
prediction. Yet, how merciful is God! in hiding from his creatures the FUTURE, unless
by foreseeing
we could
prevent.
How gracious was God, in the year 1760, and several subsequent years, in concealing from the unworthy writer of these pages, she then spending from the beginning of May to the end of September at Cheltenham, on account of her dear sister's health, by no means in a dangerous state, which must have prevented her enjoying balls, parties, &c.—had it been made known to her, that in the year 1792 and 1793 she should pass as many months of
extreme
anguish of spirit, and at length lose an
only
child, one of the finest young men in England, it
would, it must,
have totally destroyed her innocent mirth and
gaieté de coeur
enjoyed there above thirty years before.—The Honourable Mr. Finch, great uncle to the present Lord Aylesford, being told by a fortune-teller, that he would die by means of a grey horse, occasioned his living
twenty-five
years in
miserable anxiety;
but did
not
prevent his being killed the twenty-sixth
by a grey horse,
in a very remarkably odd way, as some West Kent gentlemen have related it to the Editor.
Mrs. Berkeley takes this opportunity of returning her grateful acknowledgements to many amiable acquaintances at Cheltenham, at the time of Dr. Berkeley's long confinement, after the extreme danger of his illness before mentioned was over; who used obligingly to give up the rooms, and afford him the pleasure of their pleasing society; the very agreeable Miss Nevilles; the worthy Mrs. André, mother of the amiable unfortunate Major André, and the delightfully sensible, highly cultivated Miss Andrés; the wonderfully well-informed, pious Mrs. Wells of Cheltenham; the Editor's old friend, the very amiable, worthy Mr. De la Bere; the worthy Mr. Llewelwyn; Mr. Fitzgerald, the sensible, agreeable son of an old friend of Dr. Berkeley's; and his very learned brotherin-law's old friend Mrs. Boswell, sister of Lord Bellamont, and the highly accomplished agreeable Miss Boswells.
After Mr. Monck Berkeley's arrival at Cheltenham, little society could be kept up; but the attentions of the worthy Captain Abbot and his Lady at the next door, to prevent extraordinary noise in the house or court, are gratefully remembered; and the unwearied, polite, tender attentions during Mr. Berkeley's short life, and the polite, tender, attentions after his lamented decease, of the very learned accomplished Mr. Dunster, and his elegant lady, were most gratefully felt by Dr. Berkeley, and will be for ever registered in the retentive memory of the Editor.
It has been mentioned, that Mr. Berkeley never went out but twice at Cheltenham: he had therefore never the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Dunster; which he lamented, for he was a great admirer of his writings
Some days after Mr. Berkeley's arrival at Cheltenham, he one day said,
"Who is this Mr. Dunster, that you all seem to like so much?"
On being told, he exclaimed,
"Mercy on me! is it
that
Mr. Dunster indeed, that you have
got here?
"
So saying, he rang his bell, took out his key, and ordered his servant to bring down his poems, all then written out fair for the press. When the book came down, he desired the Editor to carry it
immediately
to Mr. Dunster, with the following message:
"His compliments that he had sent the manuscript volume for Mr. Dunster to peruse, on this
sole
condition, that he would,
sans cérémonie,
mark whatever he thought might be amended."
Mrs. Berkeley saying she would get her hat and cloak, he said,
"Best of mothers, pray go as you are;
you know very well
that you
race
all over the garden at Cookham, and down the Southcote Walk, to give your orders to the gardener, and do not catch cold; and this is only three doors."
—
"But the people
here will think me mad.
"
—
"If they do, it will be
because
they are fools. Best of mothers, go
for fear
Mr. Dunster should be gone out."
The Editor
obeyed,
apologizing to her polite friend, pleading her son's
carnestness
to learn
his
strictures. They were redde—were much admired—and Mr. Dunster declared that there was not
any
thing that could be altered for the better.
.
de la Bere, Esquire, father of Mr. De la Bere, died only a very few days before Mr. Berkeley, who felt very sensibly the amiable delicacy of Mr. De la Bere, in ordering only a few strokes of the knell, lest it should affect Mr. Berkeley. Alas! it affected his relations more than himself. He constantly enquired every day what account had been received of Mr. De la Bere; and one day said,
"I wonder which of us God will call first."
He was, through Redeeming Mercy, as before mentioned, prepared for that journey that ALL must sooner or later take. May ALL who read take the advice of our adored REDEEMER,
"
Be ye therefore ready,
"
&c. The invalids in the elegant houses in St. George's Place are considerably incommoded by the ringing of bells a considerable time before service begins on Sunday morning.
When Mr. Berkeley passed a bad night, and could have slept in the morning, the noise so very near prevented it. Dr. Berkeley sent to the exceedingly obliging Mr. Edwards, one of the churchwardens, to request that they might ring less time. He most politely sent word, that he would take care that no bell should move through the week, only just one bell toll five minutes before service began.
Mr. Berkeley felt so much gratitude for this favour so amiably conferred, that he desired Mrs. Berkeley would call on Mr. Edwards, and return him his best thanks.
Dr. Berkeley.—
"I have sent a message of thanks to Mr. Edwards."
Mr. B.—
"A message, my dear Sir? No; I beg that my dear Mother will go herself. She will say what a message or card cannot say.
She
will express what
I feel.
I therefore intreat that she will go."
Accordingly, to gratify the amiable heart of her dear Son, Mrs. Berkeley went immediately, and endeavoured to express to the worthy Mr. Edwards how sensibly Mr. Berkeley and his parents felt his kind amiability.
Mr. Edwards, the wine-merchant, had been many years gentleman to Bishop Johnson of Worcester; whose angelic gratitude to the relict and daughter of his earliest friend, when reduced to poverty, can never be forgotten by any who have heard it, and to which he, by God's appointment, owed his wonderful rise in the Church.
The excellent Lady Heskett's delightful society and improving pious conversation assisted the Editor much, in drawing off her mind from
incessant
meditation on the sufferings of her dearest relatives. Her Ladyship was a COWPER. She is worthy to be nicee of the Editor's Mother's excellent neighbour in Berkshire, the excellent Mrs. Madan, mother of the present Bishop of Peterborough.
The poor unhappy female, the
infamous
Lady Vane, in her latter days, after she had lost the use of all her limbs, took a house in her native Country of Berks, in order to be near a very eminent German apothecary. So extremely was her Ladyship afraid of
culinary
fire, that she had a machine made to
twirl
her
instantly
out at her window, in case of any such accident in the night.
The Editor has been twice awakened out of a very sound sleep to escape from fire: the last time when Wrigglesworth's, the great Inn at York, was on fire. She has no machine; but her garments are regularly every night
so
placed, by herself and her maid (with her at York), as to be ready for instant flight.
From dread of culinary fire, as Lady Vane travelled down the vale of years towards the
cold
mansion appointed, sooner or later, for all the
daughters
of Adam, however beautiful in youth, however
strongly varnished
in age; her poor Ladyship began to apprehend, that one
part
of her might soon be in danger of A FIRE from which NO machine could possibly
twirl
her. The very worthy, witty, agreeable Mr. Henchman, Fellow of All Souls, used frequently to ride over to Cookham, and take a family dinner at Dr. Berkeley's. Some time after Lady Vane had taken her house in Bray church-yard, he diverted all the company present by relating a dialogue that had the day before passed between her Ladyship and his worthy neighbour, the German medical man, who had just told Mr. Henchman how much her Ladyship had distressed him the day before by asking him if
he
thought it possible
she
should be saved. The worthy man, in broken English, said,
"Upon my vord, my Lady,
I
cannot tell—should hope
that—that—that—
God
voud
not—
voud
not—I did not know
vat
to say to her,
p
ir Lady;
she seemed
so troubled, so frighted
—so I said, Your Ladyship had better ask somebody that understands such tings better dan I do. I was quite ashamed I did not know vat answer to make to her
at all.
"
Mr. Henchman said,
I
told my good neighbour, that he should have said,
"To be sure it was
impossible
that the Almighty should
think
of d
g so
public
spirited a Lady."
The Editor greatly wished her Ladyship's Parish Minister, or some wellinstructed Divine, to have visited her, and have shewn her, that one gracious promise of the Saviour of
great,
as well as of LITTLE sinners—
"Him (or
her
) that cometh unto ME, I will no wise cast out—come unto me ALL ye, &c. &c."
She was once going to take the high house at Cookham; but, being an
absolute
cripple, the structure of the stair-case would not admit of her men carrying her chair up and down. If she had taken it, the Editor, having no daughter, and thereby feeling herself at
full
liberty
to
visit,
or not
visit, whom she pleases, declared, to the no small amusement of many of her friends, that
"
she
should infallibly visit Lady Vane."
Alas, poor soul! she, like most of the children of Adam, was a self-deceiver, always declaring, that,
"had her dear Lord William Hamilton lived, she had remained as chaste as Diana."
The Editor
knows,
from too good authority, that, for some time before the death of that singularly amiable, worthy, young Nobleman, her Ladyship's conduct had made him often very wretched. He was removed
hardly
in time for his
own
peace of mind.
His
stay would not have prevented
her
sad fall. She had run away from her
proscribed
father (South Sea Hawes) with Lord William Hamilton; and the Editor has, from her youth, delivered it as one of
her
maxims, that the lady who will run away
with
a man, will generally run away
from
him; perhaps it may be said,
tant mieux.
There are, to be sure, some few exceptions to all general rules; but, a girl of fifteen or sixteen must be a bold little wretch, to quit a parent's house, and set off with
"
that persidious creature man.
"
It requires
some
courage to set off to the Altar, led by a tender Parent or kind Guardian—at least so thinks the Editor.
Mr. Monck Berkeley, descended from two men so famous in their generation as Bishop Berkeley and Francis Cherry, Esquire, in whose person all that was mortal of those excellent men ended; neither having now any
lineal
descendant that can carry their eminent amiable virtues to posterity. Should the Editor at any time have it in her power to erect a monument, as Dr. Berkeley intended to do, in Cheltenham church, by the wonderfully powerful chissel of her worthy old acquaintance, J. Nollekins, Esquire, the
broken pillar
must, alas! compose a part. It cannot, however, be recorded that the light of those two great men was extinguished in smoke. Blessed, for ever praised by the mercy of God, the
blaze
was brighter in death than even in life. And those two excellent spirits must have hailed with pleasure, on his arrival in the region of happy spirits, the lovely spirit of their
last
descendant, who, in one respect, a very unimportant one
Our Blessed Redeemer does not appear to have thought decent funerals, and monuments to hand persons down to posterity,
things wrong,
when he tells his covetous Disciples, that the
lovely
penitent Mary Magdalen's gratitude in anointing him to his funeral should be rewarded, by being recorded in the Gospel, and so she be remembered to the
end
of TIME. In Isaiah God threatens a king of Judah, that he shall be buried with the burial of an ass, cast out, &c. Much might be said very different from what is usually said by very pious persons on both these subjects; but time, and place, and health, are all wanting.
many may say, excelled themselves—the having had, at least, a faithful sketch of his life given to those of the publick who may choose to spend an hour in reading it. Of every
attempt
of a life of Bishop Berkeley yet published, his Son used to say,
"they are lamentably imperfect;"
when Mr. Monck Berkeley, as above-mentioned, used to regret Dr. Berkeley had not permitted Dr. Johnson to write the Life of Bishop Berkeley.
There are a thousand very curious, very diverting, some very ludicrous ancedotes
Bishop Berkeley retained the famous Pasquilino four years in the palace at Cloyne, to teach his children music; giving him £200
per annum,
and keeping him a little chaise and pair of tolerable horses. The following ludicrous anecdote was some time ago related to the Editor by the very worthy Mr. Angello of Eton: Dr. Berkeley was esteemed the finest gentleman-performer on the violincello in England; as his brother, who died at sixteen, was a wonderfully fine performer on the violin. Bishop Berkeley had a fine concert at his own house every evening in winter when he did not dine from home. Signior Pasquilino was to have a very fine concert at Cork. One day at dinner the Bishop said,
"Well, Pasquilino, I have got
rid
of a great many tickets for you among my neighbours, to Lord Inchiquin, Lord Shannon, Mr. Lumley, &c."
To which Pasquilino bowing, said,
"
May God
PICKLE
your Lordship, I pray him.
"
All the company laughed immoderately. The poor Italian said,
"Vell, in de grammar that my Lord give me to teach me Inglish, it is printed,
Pickle,
to keep from decay."
Bishop Berkeley most kindly invited his brother the Reverend Doctor Robert Berkeley, father of the Dean of Tuam, and Mrs. Hamilton, Lady of Sackville Hamilton, Esq. to send his seven children, one fixed day in every week, to learn music, dancing, &c. of
his
childrens masters.
of that great and good Prelate, that Dr. Berkeley and his Mother used to relate of the good Bishop even from his childhood throughly diverting. The Editor is much addicted to watching children, before either the masque is
fitted on
to hide, or grace infused to suppress to rectify—the lamentable
dose
of
Original Sin.
The Editor has more than once heard the late Lord
say,
"that he often pressed a beloved friend of his to marry."
He at length said,
"I have long resolved
not
to marry, that I may not be the means of propagating a race of Devils."
—
"Of Devils, my dear Friend! Is it probable, that any thing sprung from such an angelic being as yourself should be Devils?"
—
"Yes, my dear Friend, to be sure I do, for I am one myself. All that you and many others so much admire in me is
God's Grace;
for I am by nature (and it bloomed most direfully in early youth before you knew me) the most ill-humoured, badtempered, malicious, diabolical being, I believe,
ever born into the world.
I think I must have sprung from the insernal regions. Now, as I am sure, if I should have children, they will, at least some of them, inherit my horrible temper; and as I am by no means sure that the same measure of Grace may be granted to
them,
as has, through the great mercy of God, been vouchsafed to
me;
I am resolved to let my vast estate, about which you are so anxious, go to my uncle's family; they may
perhaps
be better than, I am
sure,
mine would be. Nothing can ever shake my resolution; it has been long unalterably fixed. Examine the lines of my face attentively, and you will be convinced of the truth of what I tell you."
His Lordship said,
"there appeared some lines subdued of what the excellent man asserted to be in his spirit."
Every one knows how honourably Socrates justified the skill of a famous physiognomist, who, on coming to Athens, and pronouncing Socrates almost every thing that was bad, was treated as an impostor, until that noble philosopher declared him an excellent judge, &c.
On the commencement of the hard frost in 1739-40, the Bishop went down to breakfast the first Sunday without a grain of powder in his wig; Mrs. Berkeley, the Chaplain, and some company staying in the house on a visit, all called out at once, to enquire
"what ailed his Lordship?"
Bp. Berkeley.—
"A great deal ails me; for our poor are all about to be starved. We shall have a famine. We shall have a very long frost; and I am sure it has already killed all the potatoes in this kingdom; therefore the poor must depend upon flour; so no powder will I, or shall any individual of my family wear, until next harvest."
They assured him that it disfigured him exceedingly, and that the men would look dirty. All persuasion was vain. He, during the frost, and until the summer, gave, either in gold or in a bank note, every Monday morning, twenty pounds to proper persons, to distribute amongst the poor of the little town of Cloyne, besides what they received daily, hourly, out of his kitchen and housekeeper's room.
It was a ludicrous message enough which the Bishop received from one old woman:
"Her duty to his Lordship, and she was very sorry that she had not lived better."
The good Bishop sent her word, that
"he hoped she would send for Mr.
, (the name forgotten,) and talk with him, and lead the short remainder of her life differently."
She returned for answer,
"that his Lordship mistook her quite. She had no trouble about her
sowle,
but was sorry, as she now (in her dying state) got such good things from his house, that she had not constantly enjoyned them before, and could enjoy them so short time now."
It is to be supposed that this good woman's ideas of the joys of Heaven were
very
low.
The Editor has been often told by a very intimate sensible friend, that HER ideas of Heaven are
very high,
VERY
singular.
Such as they are, some of her intimate friends now and then conjure her to
treat
them, as they are pleased to term it, with HER account of Heaven. She was once brought to
public
shame for this
private
conversation; for it is not to be supposed, that the Editor is quite fool enough to cast her precious pearls, that seem to deck her wings for flight to those delightful regions, before such S
ne
See the words of our Blessed Saviour in the Gospel.
as frequently surround a drawing-room, or cardtable.
A very fine lady once requesting dear Dr. Berkeley and two other learned men
"to hold
their
tongues, that she might hear more distinctly Mrs. Berkeley's account of Heaven, it was so
enchanting;
"
this so shamed poor Mr. Berkeley, that it almost turned Heaven into H
l. Dr. Berkeley, laughing, said,
"It is wonderful, how many people love to hear
my
wife talk of Heaven. She has never been there yet. But
(calling her by her name) knows the Bible by heart from end to end."
There is certainly much to be gathered from that sacred volume concerning the state of happy spirits, much more than can be imagined by those who do not read it
very
attentively, and with a view to discover the
hidden
treasure. With regard to what relates to our salvation,
"He that runs may read;"
blessed be the mercy of God!
A smart young Divine, a relation of Dr. Berkeley's, had one day after dinner a contest with Mrs. Berkeley about a text of Scripture; when he, very intimate in the family, said,
"My dear Madam, is it not
very
strange, that
you
will contend with
me,
who am a
Clergyman,
concerning
Scripture?
"
(He was then about twenty-three.) Dr. Berkeley said,
"Oh! George, it would be very happy for you, and many other Divines, if they were as throughly acquainted with the Holy Scriptures as that lady is.
I
frequently apply to her."
The Editor has little other knowledge to boast of; and
that
knowledge must, in
every
instance, EXCLUDE BOASTING; but, had she not
some
of it, she must have been a doleful dolt indeed; having been
made
to hear or read four chapters every day of her life at family prayers at her Father's, with her
leading-string
at her back, (as mentioned in a letter in the St. James's Chronicle near eighteen months ago, combating the learned Dr. Beattie's treatment of
his
son, with regard to the existence of a Supreme Being,) and thenceforward until this present day; and, she humbly trusts, to the last hour of her life; besides every day's private reading, alone, some portion of that all-informing volume.
But to return from this long digression to Mr. Monck Berkeley's noble and non-noble
The Editor has perhaps here,
selon sa coutume, coined
a word, as she did many years ago when in the world. When the Honourable and worthy Mrs. Berkeley, mother of Lady Woodhouse, was living, there were frequent mistakes, although the Editor always left her cards, as it
became her to do,
"Mrs. George Berkeley," and always ordered her servants to announce her Mrs. George Berkeley; but, to save trouble, the
ton
lacqueys often dropped the GEORGE (a bad pun might here be made) in ascending the stair-case; which now and then occasioned her being received with a
formal respectful
face; and then—
"Oh! my dear friend, is it you?"
A gentleman once said,
"These Ladies should be announced, the
Honourable,
and the
."
The Editor exclaimed,
"
I will not be announced the Dishonourable
Mrs. Berkeley; for
I
have never disgraced the noble name. I am content to be announced the unhonourable Mrs. Berkeley."
—A very polite lady said,
"You should, Madam, be announced the honoured Mrs. Berkeley."
grandsires. The Editor does not recollect to have redde, in any of Bishop Berkeley's lives, that mention is made of his
utterly
refusing to inclose the great common at Cloyne, where the poor used to cut their peat, turn their cows, pigs, and poultry; the doing which had nearly cost the present Earl of Bristol his life, he being obliged to be guarded out of Cloyne by an old friend of Dr. Berkeley, Mr. Lumley of Ballymaloo Castle, riding with a cocked pistol close to the CHARITABLE Prelate's ear, declaring that the first man who threw a stone was a dead man, as that gentleman's mother told Dr. Berkeley in his drawing-room, the Editor being present. It were to be wished that worthy-spirited gentleman, or some as worthy and
fearless,
had been on the jury who acquitted C
ld. How often has the Editor rejoiced to hear her Son thank the goodness of God, that the
said
support of the poor was
not
united to
his
small patrimony by his episcopal grandsire!
No regular life of Mr. Cherry has ever been
attempted,
as of Bishop Berkeley, to be written. A short sketch appeared, in 1782, in Mr. Nichols's "Leicestershire Collections
See the History of Hinckley, p. 174.
," where his Chaplain, the Rev. Francis Brokesby, is mentioned. The
Irish
Demosthenes once did him the honour to say,
"It is a shame, Madam, that the life of your grandfather has not been written."
Mrs. Berkeley once met with a small diverting humiliation, on account of being descended from that excellent man, to the no small diversion of Dr. and Dr. Mr. Monck Berkeley. Returning from her morning walk, clad as usual
in the morning
(the Editor never wastes the
morning
in walking but in winter
Some years ago, when Dr. Berkeley resided at Cookham, the Editor, escorted by three elegant beaux, used generally to walk an hour and a half in the Southcote Walk, by moon or star-light, enjoying the conversation of the very learned, accomplished D
M
, Esquire, his son S
M
, Esquire, and her own delightful youth, then about seventeen. On their return to Dr. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinsham, he used to say, on their creeping
into
the fire,
"I wonder your Mother and you, two such chilly souls, are not perished.—It can only be M
's conversation that can prevent it.—To be sure, if any one's can, it is his."
—Dr. Berkeley himself never sat
into
a fire. He was a great admirer of that gentleman's fine understanding and deep learning.
, she being now too tender in excessive cold weather to venture to walk after dinner for health, although it is
wonderfully
beneficial for those, who, dining at a reasonable hour, at three o'clock, can do it, as the Editor does experience, and has seen in various persons), with a black beaver hat tied under her chin, and wrapped round in a
rather
rusty black mode cloack, she stroled into Dr. Berkeley's room, not knowing that any one was with him. There happened to be a person more esteemed in the world for his great learning and true worth, than for his title and rank in society. In the course of conversation, Mr. Cherry was named. Dr. Berkeley said,
"A relation of my wife."
The visitor, probably wishing to hear some anecdote of that excellent man, turned to Mrs. Berkeley, saying,
"Pray, Madam, do you know any thing of Mr. Cherry?"
supposing her, as it should seem by the sequel, a distant relation. She replied,
"He was my mother's father."
He started astonished, and said,
"
What,
Madam,
are
YOU a grand-daughter of the
great
Mr. Cherry?"
Mrs. Berkeley, smiling, said,
"She had that honour."
The enquirer's politeness and good sense prevented his
apologizing,
by saying,
"Madam, I ask your pardon; I did not conceive that such an insignificant, undressed, little being could possibly be descended from the very handsome, noble-looking Mr. Cherry"
—universally esteemed the most completely accomplished fine gentleman of his time. A picture of Mr. Cherry by Richardson is in the Picture-gallery at Oxford
Mr. Cherry bequeathed to the Bodleian Library a box of very curious old
genuine
manuscripts. The Editor has often heard her mother say, that in the box was a small manuscript book, written entirely by Queen Elizabeth, the cover of pale blue cloth, embroidered with gold and silver leaves and flowers by her
royal fingers,
much better employed, as she NOW FEELS, than when signing the death-warrant for the
unfortunate Mary
—or the NOBLE
Earl of Essex.
The Editor, in her youth, very seldom went to a new play the first night of acting. She however was persuaded to go to Brooke's "Earl of Essex," where she heard the finest soliloquy put into the mouth of old Burleigh, that even the genius of Brooke could compose,
incomparably
uttered—and the Editor is esteemed by her acquaintance a tolerable judge of speaking; she formerly redde pretty well, having an
absolute
command of her voice in
reading.
It never was spoken but
that once.
When the tragedy was published, it was omitted. The Editor, admiring it very much, made enquiry, but could never meet with any person who remembered it, insomuch that she began to suspect that
she
must have dreamed it. Mentioning it a few years ago in a large circle, a gentleman of the company said,
"I was at the play that night, and heard that glorious soliloquy."
He then repeated the substance of it to the company, joining with the Editor in supposing that one of Burleigh's descendants had prevailed on Mr. Brooke to throw it out. It must have been the late very amiable Lord Exeter, as the
late
Lord Salisbury would not have cared had Brooke made Burleigh the
actual
butcher of Essex. The Editor honours Dr. Thompson for the employment he has assigned to that cruel wretch Elizabeth, in his very entertaining work "A Voyage to the Moon;" as also for the easy, delightful way in which he dismisses the late Earl of K
, who ceased to be his patron, no one knew why, on some little caprice of the Earl's, as was supposed, as the Editor has heard her Son say. Mr. Monck Berkeley admired Dr. Thompson's worthiness in providing an early easy grave for the worthy minister, that is, Lord K
, in the "Journey to the Moon."
, presented after his death by his lady and daughters.
The Editor and her Sister have a very fine picture of Mr. Cherry, painted by Riley, in a full-bottomed twenty-guinea wig, when Mr. Cherry was a Gentleman-Commoner of Edmund Hall not quite
seventeen
years old. This tremendous peruke does not so absolutely disguise him, but that, on
attentive
inspection, he appears a very beautiful youth.
Mr. Cherry married soon after he was twenty. His house, which, at the Revolution, made up seventy beds for the officers and soldiers quartered on him, was the hotel devoted to friendship, to learning, to distress.
With Sir Constantine Phipps, grandsire of the present Lord Mulgrave, he formed an acquaintance at Oxford. He was a native of Reading, and went off from Archbishop Laud's school to St. John's College, Oxford. It was a very advantageous connection for the barrister, who, until his appointment by Queen Anne to the seals in Ireland, had no country residence but Shottesbrook House, where himself, lady, three girls sometimes, the amiable T. Phipps, his angelic eldest son, their coach-horses, saddle-horses, and three or four servants, constantly spent four months every summer.
The respected and respectable friends of Mr. and Mrs. Cherry,
Bowdler, Esquire, his excellent Lady and family, grandfather, &c. of the pious
resigned
Miss Bowdler, author of the Essays.
The seraphic Bishop Kenn
The Editor, when a girl about sixteen, remembers to have redde, what she
then
thought, and believes she should
now
think, a very
dull,
stupid life of that chearful, gay, as well as exquisitely pious Prelate. She was so disappointed, that she told her Mother she
thought she
could write a
better
life of him
herself!
It is very lucky for
damsels
of
sixteen
to have
wise
mothers. Perhaps the Editor had commenced
author
at
sixteen
—some will, perhaps, say, better than at
sixty.
Her chearful gay spirit had been frequently exhilarated by the lively tales told her by her Mother of the agreeable Bishop. She, however, once told her Mother,
"that she
sadly
feared the Bishop was a
little
of an hypocrite."
—
"An HYPOCRITE! child,"
exclaimed her Mother,
"what can make you talk such
horrid
nonsense?"
—
"Why, my dear Madam, in one of his works (the Editor does not now recollect which) he laments that '
his
heart is deceitful, desperately wicked, &c.' and he was,
you
say, 'an Angel'."
—To which the Editor's wise judicious Mother only replied,
"Well, my poor dear child, that only shews that
he knew his own heart.
"
This, and Mrs. Frinsham's answer to the Editor on the conduct of poor wretched Miss Blandy, whose honest father transacted Mrs. Frinsham's business, only made the poor ignorant Editor conceive, that
all
the excellent of the earth were in unison to be, what
she
(not
then knowing her own heart
) thought,
affectedly
humble; and, to
shew
their humility,
falsified.
The LAW is the
only schoolmaster
to teach us to read that BLACK BOOK—our own heart. The Editor cannot forbear mentioning, to the honour of a
sort
of favourite of her's (she believes for his exquisite politeness) Charles the Second, the anecdote that placed Bishop Kenn on the Bench. She does not recollect having ever seen it in print. When the King and Court went down to Winchester, the house of Dr. Kenn was destined to be the residence of Mrs. Gwynne. The good little man declared that
she should not be under his roof.
He was steady as a rock. The intelligence was carried to the King, who said,
"Well then, NELL must take a lodging in the city."
All the
Court
Divines, &c. were SHOCKED at Dr. Kenn's
strange
conduct, saying, that
"he had
ruined
his fortune, and would never rise in the church"
(militant).
Some months after, the Bishopric of Bath and Wells becoming vacant, the Minister, &c. recommended (as is always usual, I suppose) some
learned pious
Divines; to which the King answered,
"No! none of them shall have it, I assure you. What is the name of that little man at Winchester, that would not let Nell Gwynne lodge at his house?"
—
"Dr. Kenn, please your Majesty."
—
"Well, he shall have it then. I
resolved
that he should have the first Bishopric that fell, if it had been Canterbury."
The wise and pious Bishop Horne says, in a Sermon before the University,
"
And be it known to our adversaries, that
GOD
can, if he see it good
for his faithful servants, advance them in
this
world."
Just after the deprivation of the Bishops, a gentleman, meeting Bishop Kenn, began condoling with his Lordship; to which he merrily replied,
"God bless you, my friend; do not pity me, man: '
my father lived before me;
' he was an
honest
farmer, and left me twenty pounds a year, thank God."
He spent his time between Long Leate and Shottesbrook House. He
every
morning made a vow that he would not marry
that
day. Mr. Cherry used frequently, on his entering the breakfast-room, to say,
"Well, my good Lord, is the resolution made this morning?"
—
"Oh yes, Sir, long ago."
—He rose generally very early, and never took a second sleep.
* Mrs. Frinsham always told her daughters, after they ceased to be quite children,
"Girls, never assent to a thing because
I
say it;
think
for yourselves; turn it in your own minds, and, if you think differently from me, politely tell me so, and we will examine the matter together."
The Editor well remembers having availed herself of this liberty at eleven years old, when reading the History of England,
à l'egard de
Queen Elizabeth, whom she thus early abhorred, for her horrid deceits, her conduct to Secretary Davison.
found a second home at Shottesbrook House, dividing his time between the Marquis of Bath's grandfather's famed mansion
"Ye lads and ye lasses, who live at Long Leate,"
&c.
, and Mr. Cherry's. Dr. Grabe, and many other learned foreigners, spent much time at Shottesbrook House.
The very learned Charles Leslie was concealed six months by Mr. Cherry in regimentals, not under his own roof, but at an house of Mr. Cherry's at White Waltham, then called the Hill House, now Waltham Place. He went to Rome at Mr. Cherry's request, and at his expence, to
attempt
to convert the old Chevalier de St. George. A wonderful idea to enter into the heads of two so very sensible men, to convert an ignorant Papist, forbidden by his cunning Confessor to search the Scriptures, lest he should see the ALL-
sufficiency
of Christ to save
lost
sinners. In a letter from Rome to Mr. Cherry, he says,
"It would be much easier to turn the course of the Thames at London Bridge, than to convert his Majesty."
This Prince's health was constantly given every day at Mr. Cherry's, when only Nonjurors were present. After the death of several of the conscientious nonjuring Bishops, the few remaining pious nonjuring Prelates, who were anxious not to continue the schism in the excellent Church of England, and all the pious Nonjurors agreed, throughout the kingdom, to go to their respective parish churches on the same day, always taking care to avoid praying for the Queen
as Queen.
The Editor has frequently heard her Mother laugh at the different dispositions of Mr. Cherry and his friend Mr. Dodwell. Every time during the service that the Queen was prayed for, her Father rose from his knees, (fine gentlemen kneeled to God in those old-fashioned times—the Editor hopes they will take to it again, to
distinguish them
from the
profane
ladies of these times, who almost all now
sit
when they should
kneel,
although they do not worship—alas! for them, poor souls!), and stood up facing the congregation. Mr. Dodwell used to slide off his knees, and sit down upon his hassock.
Mr. Cherry, a native of Windsor Forest, was, to the end of his life, perhaps the keenest stag-hunter in England, esteemed to ride better than any man in the kingdom, always in at the death of the deer. He had one hunter, a very fine iron grey, an
entire,
who never suffered any one to mount him but Mr. Cherry. The groom was always obliged to lead him to water. He once, crossing Maidenhead Bridge, got himself and master half over the rails, and there remained, no one daring to go near; all trembling for Mr. Cherry, the idol of Berkshire. Boats in abundance put out, to endeavour to save him, when this spirited beast should throw him off. In that tremendous situation he remained near a quarter of an hour, and then got the beast on the bridge again
One of Mr. Cherry's grand-daughters (not the Editor, who had only skill enough to spring off her horse three or four times in a morning's ride) seemed to have inherited the skill of her grandfather, without having learned, as he had, to ride the great horse; for she never has got a fall, not even when learning to ride; and, whenever she heard of any lady's being thrown, her remark was,
"I suppose she
chose
it. I should like to find
any
horse that could get
me
off his back, if I had not an inclination to go."
She accordingly would often lend her own beautiful spirited horse, and ride any wild, or stupid beast for her amusement. If they leap, there she sits; if they go on both knees, there she sits; if they rear up, there she remains! Dr. Berkeley used to tell her, she could sit a stag. She used to say, she seemed to have been born on horseback. The late Dr. James once told a gentleman of the Editor's acquaintance, a Prebendary of Canterbury,
"If God had meant men should ride so constantly, he would have sent them into the world booted and spurred."
It was more witty than wise. Perhaps it was politic—less of that excellent medicine James's Powder would be sold, if persons rode more on horseback. A tenant's wife of old Mr. Cherry, having purchased an old hunter, used regularly to ride to Windsor Market, when farmers LADIES were not
quite
so
fine
as in these days, with two large paniers of butter and eggs. One hunting morning, hearing the hounds, the poor old beast pricked up his ears, and set off. Every effort of the old woman to hold him in was in vain.—Away he flew, and soon reduced the butter and eggs to a
fine liquid.
It dashed Yeomen, Prickers, Lords, Commoners, and
even
his Majesty, to the great diversion of the witty Charles, who would not suffer any one to attempt stopping the horse. At the death of the deer, his Majesty ordered the butter and eggs to be
amply
paid for, and told the honest old woman, who began begging pardon, &c. that he should be glad of her company often upon the field, adding,
"I have not been so entertained for a long time."
.
Archbishop Potter told the late Archdeacon Dodwell the following anecdote of his father's excellent friend.
"King William, who valued himself much on his horsemanship, was frequently mortified by hearing his courtiers admiring Mr. Cherry's wonderful skill in riding, and resolved at length that he would follow Mr. Cherry every where. After some days, Mr. Cherry, finding that it was not chance that constantly kept his Majesty just behind him, determined to try to serve his, as he conceived,
lawful
Sovereign, by breaking the neck of the
Usurper.
He went over many very dangerous places. The King, excellently mounted, and a very good horseman, still followed. One day, when the stag took the soil, Mr Cherry instantly plunged into a frightfully deep and broad part of the Thames. The King went to the brink, looked, and looked again, then shook his head, and retired. His Majesty thought the actual possession of
three
kingdoms better than the
fame
of being as good a horseman as Mr. Cherry, thus yielding the palm to Mr. Cherry. He never followed him afterwards, to the great comfort of his Majesty's attendants."
The late Sir Robert Gayer
The Editor and her sister have a most beautiful miniature, the property of Mr. Cherry, done in Italy, of this wonderfully beautiful extraordinary man, with whom their grandfather was exceedingly intimate. When he lost his lovely lady, for whom he mourned seven years, he never changed his linen, walked about the park unshaved, in an old black long loose freeze coat, almost a Nebucadnezzar. The Editor has heard her Mother, and her old intimate friend Mrs. Baldwyn, his grand-daughter, and mother of
Annesley, Esquire, of Blechingdon, say, that the poor women of Stoke would threaten their bawling brats with,
"
If you keep crying, I'll give you to Sir Robert.
"
At the expiration of somewhat more than seven years, he dressed like a rational being, went and made a visit to Mr. Cherry at Shottesbrook House, and, on entering, saluted Mrs. Cherry. Now, alas! comes the throughly tragical part of this tale; which the Editor, when young, used to tell some gentlemen, of her friends, she would print, and, to humble the
lords
of the creation, have bound up with "The History of the EPHESIAN MATRON."—"LORD,
what is
MAN?" After some time, poor
wretched
Sir Robert married a beautiful widow, his own near relation, Lady Christian Rolle, by whom he had several children. His first, so singularly lamented lady, left four fine sons, all of whom he bred up gentlemen, to no profession. At his death, his very large estate fell, unavoidably, to his eldest son, who married the very uncommonly sensible lady Elizabeth Annesly. On opening his will, it appeared that this, what must one style him?—
Monster of Cruelty
is a milk-and-water title for him—had bequeathed to his three younger sons of the THUS lamented lady only FIVE HUNDRED pounds each—Good God!!! and to (the Editor thinks)
six
children of Lady Christian Rolle, each SIX THOUSAND POUNDS. Attend to the fate of the three mal-treated young gentlemen. One died, within a few months, of a broken heart. Another was deprived of his reason, and never perfectly recovered it, although he lived to possess, one can hardly say enjoy, his
horrid
father's great estate at Hurley, Berks, (now the property of the excellent Duke of Marlborough), after the death of his nephew, the late Robert Gayer, Esquire, of Hurley. The third of these injured sons patiently, resignedly, sunk his five hundred pounds in an annuity, and went to board with a farmer at Stoke—the, at that time well-known, witty Joe Hewett, who was in all the gay parties of the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. He had been many years valet de chambre to
; and had not the beautiful Lady Catharine
been pulled back when getting out at one of the windows of
, his grandson had been a Peer of
England.
This made a
little
noise at the time. The only son of Sir William
was going to marry the beautiful Nan Fisher, the chamber-maid of the Sun Inn at Maidenhead, Berks, but Nan would insist upon going to town to buy
wedding
cloaths;
alas! they were converted into
mourning
weeds, for the Earl and Sir William met, made up a match between Mr.
and Lady Catharine
, and they were a very
decently
happy couple; as the Editor has frequently heard her Mother, and many other friends of that day, relate her Ladyship's conduct as a
wife,
and a
mother,
was excellent. A writer of romance would certainly marry the agreeable Joe to Nan Fisher. He married a very rich farmer's widow, by whom he had a very worthy agreeable daughter, whom, it was supposed, that the resigned Mr. Gayer would have married. That happy-tempered, injured gentleman, the Editor remembers; he did not die until after she was grown up a woman. Good-tempered persons generally live longer than bad ones; and it is certain that their lives are much pleasanter.
, of Stoke Park, near Windsor, absolutely refused to let King William in to see his house, his Majesty waiting in his coach at the door—poor Lady Gayer supplicating—His answer,
"No, he is an Usurper. Every man in England is King in his own castle. He shall not come in."
So his Majesty returned to Windsor, and died without seeing Stoke House.
During the reign of King William, Mr. Cherry always on hunting days rode up to the Princess of Denmark's calash, (the chaise in which her Royal Highness hunted was so called,) to pay his respects. The Princess admired his conversation, his uncommonly fine understanding, and exquisitely high breeding, as politeness (now said to be HORRIDLY old fashioned
A Lady, who does the Editor the honour to rank her amongst her eldest friends, having had the
real
pleasure to have been well acquainted with her since she was seven years old, the wonderfully well informed, all-accomplished Countess of Orkney—who has more than once said to the Editor,
"There are two things, however old-fashioned, in which I am resolved to persist. I will not give up the little politeness I possess, nor ever dress like my housemaid."
The Editor has always had the honour to resemble her Ladyship in that idea before Lady Orkney was born; when going into a draper's shop in York Street, to purchase a morning gown, constantly saying,
"Be pleased, Sir, to shew me some linens that
my maid would not wear.
"
Several years ago, at a very large rout at the worthy Lady Head's, a gentleman came up to the card-table where the Editor was playing, and accosted her thus:
"Well, Mrs. Berkeley, have
you
heard how the King has FLUMMERED your young neighbour, Lady Mary O'Brien?"
—
"Not I."
—
"Oh! then
I'll
tell you. She was presented the other day, and the King said, 'He saw that it was possible to be exquisitely well-bred without having ever been in town—in the world.' Did you ever hear such
flummer
in your whole life?"
Every one said,
"That was a very high-flown compliment to her indeed."
The Editor said, rather briskly,
"
By no means.
I, who have the honour to know the young Lady well, throw down my gauntlet, to prove that it is
no flattery at all.
Her father is, I do in my conscience really believe, the most completely well-bred man in Europe. Poor, good Lady Orkney, although unable to articulate, almost equally so."
The Editor, then related two particular instances, one when Lady Mary O'Brien was about nine years old, the other when Doctor Berkeley's family were one day dining at Taplow Court; so silencing the gentleman, and entertaining the company. The Editor, at her return home, related this to Dr. Berkeley, who never staid longer than twenty minutes in a rout-room, saying,
"that he did not love
burnt air,
"
as he always termed the air of hot rooms. He said,
"Aye, his Majesty and Lady Mary could not have a better advocate than
, (calling the Editor by her name) that gentleman did not know the young Lady's
father,
or he would not have termed it
flummer.
"
The Editor, who knows we must account for every idle word, i.e. our common conversation, and for every
deceitful
compliment, (
many
obliging, polite things may be said to, and of, many persons,
without
deceit), here takes the opportunity of saying, that she thinks that the most agreeable
whole
day she ever remembers to have passed in her life was spent tête à tête (for the worthy Lady Anne O'Brien cannot, with propriety, be considered, in a
conversation,
as a third person) with Lady Orkney, when going and returning many miles on a day visit to their common friends, the very worthy General and Mrs. B
s.
) was termed in those AWKWARD days. On her
obtaining a crown,
she
lost
the
conversation
of Mr. Cherry, who was too correctly well bred to think of approaching that throughly respectable Princess to insult her; and no bribe could ever have induced him to acknowledge himself her subject,
whilst
her father and brother were living; Mr. Cherry took great pains, as far as the oath of a woman of the bed-chamber to King James's Queen
could
ascertain it, to be fully convinced that the Chevalier de St. George was
actually produced
by his Queen. The oath of the facts to which the lady swore was carefully preserved by Mr. Cherry; and accordingly, the first day that her Majesty hunted after her accession to the throne, Mr. Cherry kept
aloof
from
Royalty.
Her Majesty called to her officer, known in those days by the name of the
Bottle-man,
saying,
"Peachy, if my eyes do not deceive me, I see Mr. Cherry upon the field."
Peachy.—
"Yes, please your Majesty, he is yonder."
(pointing with his whip.)
The Queen.—
"Aye, he will not come to
me now.
I know the reason. But go you, and carry him a couple of bottles of red wine and white
from me;
and tell him, that I esteem him one of the honestest gentlemen in my dominions."
The Editor, although not so
nobly
descended as her beloved Partner, sometimes feels a momentary pleasure in knowing she is descended from
honest
ancestors; and the character always given by the sensible, elegant, lovely Mrs. Sheeles of the Editor and her sister, when girls at school, was,
"
They are honest to the bone
When the Editor was a girl about eleven years old, dining one day with a very intimate friend of her Mother, together with three or four more of Mrs. Sheeles's young ladies, the good lady recommended to their kind care Miss
, daughter of Colonel
, who was going the next week to Mrs. Sheeles's school. Every one said civil things,
excepting
the poor Editor; to whom the lady said,
"My dear Miss Frinsham, why don't
you
tell me that
you
will be kind to my little friend?"
—
"
Because,
Madam, I never make any promises, for fear I should break them. If you please, I will
stay
till I
see
how I shall like her."
On the young lady's arrival, she proved a little of the
"
hum-drum
"
kind, and
no one
paid her any attention but the Editor; as the good lady told Mrs. Frinsham. Mrs. Sheeles, with her wonted
excellent
skill,
furbished
her up. She is a very worthy lady, as the Editor hears; and, when the antient title of
devolves to the gentleman she has married, she will make a very good Countess.
; they have
no
deceit in them."
When Mr. Monck Berkeley sometimes saw persons
acting polite deceits,
he used to say,
"Well, whatever faults I have, thank God and my Mother,
I am at least an honest man.
"
A very witty friend of the Editor's youth, well known in the world for his
bons mols,
now no more, used to say, when men of
a certain rank
in the world acted like scoundrels,
"Well,
he
will
not
be hanged; for no poor wretch ever goes to the gallows, whose confession does not begin, That he was born of
poor,
but HONEST parents."
But to return to Mr. Cherry. He did not return his
duty
to a Sovereign
he
did not acknowledge as such; he requested Mr. Peachy to present his very humble respects and best thanks to his (Mr. Peachy's) Mistress, for the high honour conferred on him. The favour was frequently repeated.
Mr. Cherry died just one year before the Queen. After the Rebellion in 1715, Mrs. Cherry in her coach, with her two daughters, driving down Ludgate Hill, met several coaches filled with the unfortunate gentlemen who had been in the Rebellion returning to Newgate after their sentence: she exclaimed,
"Oh! my dear girls, bless the goodness of God, that your excellent father is
dead,
or he had been amongst those unhappy men; for, I am sure, he would never have worn a sword without drawing it in
this
cause; and he would certainly have been hanged."
King William sent repeated offers of any thing, and every thing, to Mr. Cherry, if he would go to Court, and take the oaths. Queen Anne, it should seem, was too well acquainted with Mr. Cherry to make him
any such
offers, She shewed her esteem for that
throughly honest
man in other ways.
A considerable part of Mr. Cherry's very large estate lay in Windsor Forest. It is to this day a lucky circumstance for the beautiful county of Berks, that Mr. Cherry's wonderfully acute father, when in the country, resided there rather than at his estate in Surrey.
On the first laying on the land-tax, meetings were called by the Sheriffs in every county in England. At Reading, nearly central, always the county town, until the old Lord Harcourt contrived to get electors and jurymen dragged down to Abingdon, the last town—parish—in the county—At Reading the whole county met, and were harangued by a
ministerial
orator, telling them
"that the tax was only to be levied ONE
year,
and every gentleman and yeoman was to give in the full value of his own estate."
Some
few
of the gentlemen, zealous friends to the new government, (for Berks was always an honest Tory county) and others from motives of vanity, gave in the value of their estates more than double, saying,
"Come, let us do the thing
handsomely, generously.
"
When an entry was about to be committed to paper, that
The Editor often contemplates with admiration the very wonderfully sensible, thoughtful, sedate countenance of her great grandfather, in a very fine portrait of that great lawyer, painted by Richardson, at an advanced age. She would have been pleased to hear the sensible La Vatre's sentiments of it. The Editor, notwithstanding her being short-sighted, was, from her youth, a great physiognomist, and has generally been right in her conjecture. The spirit
will force
itsef through the clay.
acutest
of barristers stepped forth, requesting to be heard a few words. His oratory was different from that of many modern barristers; it was
rather laconic.
The Editor remembers to have heard it often repeated, always applauded, since she was seven years old.
"Gentlemen,
"We are
told,
that this tax is laid on for
only one year.
It is POSSIBLE it may be taken off at the expiration of the year; but it is much more probable, that our greatgrandchildren may see it
trebled,
and then they will not
bless
the
wisdom
of their forefathers in having so greatly over-rated the value of their estates, as, I well know, many of you have done."
The great-grandsire of the present Lord le Despenser cried out,
"Mr. Cherry speaks like an
Oracle.
I am sure, in my
hurry,
I have given in
my
estate
too
high."
It lay in what is called the
antient demesne
of Bray; and the Editor has frequently heard her Mother say, that Sir William Paul's
The Editor, from the very amiable character that she has heard of the present Lord Despencer, conceives, he knows not that his beautiful great-grandmother, from whom he enjoys his very ancient title, (the second daughter of the Earl of Westmorland), lies interred in Bray
church-yard.
At least, her grave was visible a few years ago, without
even
a brick frame to protect it from hogs, who are remarkably fond of routing in cemeteries. It is pity
all
parishes do not follow the example of Fairford in Gloucestershire—
lay down
iron grates, over which swine cannot tread. The Editor learned this humiliation of her grandmother's noble, beautiful friend, by accident, when about seventeen. The late throughly amiable worthy Bacon Morritt, Junior, Esquire, on a visit at the Editor's Mother's, asked Mrs. Frinsham,
"What could be the reason that a woman of that high rank lay thus neglected?"
Mrs. Frinsham replied, that
"her unworthy
only
daughter, by whom she had, to her great injury, acted most generously, having quarrelled with her mother, had suffered her to be buried as a pauper;"
adding,
"I dare say, if Sir Thomas Stapleton knew it, he would order a
protecting
monument, to cover her once exquisitely beautiful, elegant form."
To which Morritt replied,
"If
he
does not,
I declare I will.
"
Alas! dear youth, this, and every other amiable purpose of thy excellent heart, was broken by the dart of DEATH. This excellence could not rescue thee from an early, yet untimely grave!!! leaving all who knew thy intrinsic worth to mourn thy loss! This young gentleman, eldest son of that
eminently
amiable father of
eight
worthy sons and daughters, Bacon Morritt, Esquire, of Rookby Hall, Yorkshire, going from Trinity College, Oxford, where he was a Gentleman Commoner, into Yorkshire, in the long vacation, was seized with a violent fever, which carried him off in a short time, leaving few that resembled him—the Editor does not mean in person or fine figure, but in loveliness of nature. The Editor, most intimately acquainted with him from the time he was an Etonian of twelve years old, she a girl of eleven, never saw him once out of humour, fretful, or displeased. To
by-standers
he scarce seemed to have been a descendant of false Adam. ADIEU, thou sweet spirit.—May we meet in the realms of bliss!
estate at Bray was then called a good four thousand pounds
per annum.
Almost every other gentleman followed Sir William Paul's example, and
all
gave in their estates much under par, many not
half
their
real
value; by which means Berkshire is, next to Yorkshire, said, by those who have really investigated that matter, to be the lowest taxed county in England; and accordingly it is, in the upper part of it, Windsor, Maidenhead, &c. the
dearest,
the farmers, butchers, gardeners, mealmen, &c. the most covetous and griping any where to be met with.
Mr. Cherry's great-great-grandson, George Monck Berkeley, Esquire, lived to see, although not to feel, in his own person, (his Mother and Aunt, alas! surviving him,) the fulfilment of his grandsire's prediction.
The Editor, having trespassed too long on the Public with her own imbecil pen, in order to make some amends, presents her readers with two letters from very superior pens, the two abovenamed great and good men from whom Mr. Monck Berkeley had the honour to be descended; one from Bishop Berkeley on the death of his favourite Son, the other from Mr. Cherry to his Lady, ordering his own interment.
LETTER OF BISHOP BERKELEY
Uncertain whether it is addressed to Lord Egmont or to Bishop Benson. This letter, as well as Mr. Cherry's, is
borrowed
from amongst those of Potentates, Princes, and Plebeians, of the second volume of the "
Literary Relics, by George Monck Berkeley, Esq.
" all ready for the press at the time of his death. When they will see the light is now uncertain. Amongst them is one of Bishop Berkeley's, to his beloved friend Bishop Benson, written on February 29, a few hours after the death of his son. The Editor has heard her beloved Partner say, that on his entering his Father's room, to announce the heavy tidings, he had one arm in his night-gown, rising to go to his Son (four in the morning) he drew it out again, saying,
"the Lord gave,"
&c. and lay down in his bed. On the day of the funeral, his brother and attending friends dined with him, and no one would have supposed that he had lost his idol. The Bishop used frequently to say to Dr. Berkeley, I see him incessantly before my eyes.
My dear Lord,
I was a man retired from the amusement of politics, visits, and what the world calls pleasure. I had a little friend, educated always under mine own eye, whose painting delighted me, whose
Mr. William Berkeley played incomparably on the violin, as his brother Dr. Berkeley did on the violincello.
music ravished me, and whose lively gay spirit was a continual feast. It has pleased God to take him hence. God, I say, in mercy, hath deprived me of this pretty, gay plaything. His parts and person
Mr. William Berkeley was as beautiful, as finely made, as his elder brother, Dr. Berkeley; taller and more slightly built; a most uncommonly elegant youth; danced, as did his brother, remarkably well.
, his innocence and piety, his particularly uncommon affection for me, had gained too much upon me. Not content to be fond of him, I was
vain
of him. I had set my heart too much upon him, more perhaps than I ought to have done upon any thing in this world
The Editor sometimes consoles herself that even the great Bishop Berkeley, and the eminently pious Mrs. A
, had not been able, at least had not avoided,
"
setting up their idols in their hearts;
"
(see the prophet Ezekiel) how much less could
she
hope to avoid it! The pious Prelate speaks himself to his friend by letter. The good lady has frequently,
vivd voce,
said to the Editor,
"Ah! my dear friend, God has been gracious to me; he has taken away
all
my idols, one by one. My eldest son (a lovely youth); my angelic daughter, the first lady of the present Lord
; my son's first lady, on whom I doated."
Then adding, cheerfully,
"God has spared my son, whom I love very much; but the
squire
is not a thing to make an idol."
He is a very worthy gentleman.
. Thus much suffer me to say in the overflowings of my soul, to say to your Lordship, who, though distant in place, are much nearer my heart than any of my neighbours.
Adieu, my dear Lord; and believe me, with the utmost esteem and affection,
your faithful, humble servant, G. CLOYNE.
Cloyne,
8 March, 1750.
The following letter is inserted with the notes, as it was made ready for the "Literary Relics:"
Letter from FRANCIS CHERRY, Esquire, of Shottesbrook House in Berkshire, to his Lady, eldest daughter and one of the five rich co-heiresses of JOHN FINCH
Eliza, the eldest, married Francis Cherry, Esq.
Mrs. Cherry was supposed to have made the greatest match of all Mr. Finch's daughters, though her grand-daughters are now the poorest of the family; but they have enough.
"Man wants but little, nor that little long,"
says the Poet. They bless God that they have so much, instead of murmuring that they have not more. A famous old ferryman at Bray Island used to say,
"We were not all born to live in Cheapside."
His ideas of Cheapside must have been entertaining.
"We cannot all have coaches and six,"
as good Bishop Taylor says. The Editor, when a very young woman, used always to assert, that she had rather have an income of
eight hundred pounds per annum,
than one of
eight thousand,
to the diversion of her friends and her sister. She still continues in the same mind, knowing that, little or much, we
must
"render an account of our stewardship."
Mrs. Frinsham, with her wonted wit, often says to the Editor,
"When you have your eight hundred pounds, and I my eight thousand, you may do so, or so; but, I
promise you,
I will do—."
She might, with truth, add,
"good to every distressed creature that I could hear of, far or near."
Mary, the second, married John Sawyer, Esq. of Henwood House, Berks. Dorothy, the third, married William Wright, Esq. a Welch Judge, and Recorder of Oxford, father of that very learned, upright, English Judge, the late Sir Martin Wright, of Barton Stacy, Hants. The worthy Recorder has still one most worthy descendant, the excellent lady Guise, relict of the amiable Sir John Guise, of Highnam Court, Bart. in the County of Gloucester. May the fine olivebranches round her table resemble the parent stock! The fourth, Sarah, married to William Yorke, Esq. of Pirton, in the county of Wilts, who left no child: and, fifth, Johanna, married to John Dalby, Esq. of Hurst Park, in the County of Berks, nephew to Bishop Juxon. The family of the late J. Dalby, Esq. had a fine original picture of his pious uncle. The idea that the picture of the Bishop, drawn after his death, and in the gallery at Lambeth Palace, being the
only picture
ever painted of that pious Prelate, is erroneous. The good Bishop had one of the six rings given by King Charles at the block, which is exceedingly curious indeed, and is still carefully preserved by the Editor's worthy relations Mrs. E. and Mrs. S. Dalby, now residing at Reading, who obligingly permitted the Editor to take a drawing of it, which she keeps with a lock of the Royal Martyr's hair in a snuff-box, with a very fine enamelled picture in the lid, of his unfortunate grandmother, the murdered Mary.
, Esquire, of Fiennes Court, Berks.
My dearest Creature,
I have several times begun to give you some directions for your behaviour after my death, but always found you so impatient of any such discourse, that, I have reason to believe, you remember very little of what I have said to you upon that subject, and therefore think it necessary to leave in writing the few directions following: with which (how unreasonable soever they may seem to you) I assure myself of your ready compliance, from the long experience I have had of the greatest duty and affection that ever woman shewed to an husband, and for which I return you these my last and most hearty thanks. First, as to my funeral, which will be the first trouble; I desire to be buried, if it may be, the morrow night after I shall die, and so private, that I would have no person know it, or be invited to it, except four of the poorest of your tenants to carry me to my grave; to each of which I desire you to give five shillings in money. I would have no atchievement, escutcheon, or pall. I desire to be buried in the churchyard of Shottesbrook House, between the vault where my father lyeth, and the chancel belonging to Shottesbrook House. I would have a brick-work of two or three foot raised over my grave, and a plain black marble laid upon it, without any arms, name, or other inscription but this which followeth,
HIC · IACET · PECCATORUM · MAXIMUS.
ANNO · DOM. M.DCC . . . . .
supplying the date of the year of my death
Mr. Cherry died in September 1713. His directions to his excellent lady, were, in general, complied with. The burial-ground was, after his interment, railed-in, with iron railing, and planted with cypress, and other funeral shrubs; which the present Lord of the Manor, and the late Rector, conceiving to be injurious to the church, they removed them, to the great regret of his descendant the late George Monck Berkeley, Esq.
.
Second. I desire you to take warning by me, and not to engage yourself or children in any of my troublesome concerns, which have broke my heart, and will never suffer either you or them to enjoy any happiness or quiet if you meddle with them. I therefore beg of you (as the last and greatest instance of love that I can shew you) to content yourself with what was settled upon my marriage, and the addition settled since by my father in pursuance of our marriage settlement articles
Mr. Cherry marrying before he was of age, could only enter into articles to sign, fulfil, &c. when of age. Part of Mrs. Cherry's fortune was in land, which could not be properly shared until her four younger sisters became of age.
. There you have a RIGHT to both, in LAW and CONSCIENCE, antecedent to any debts either of myself or my father, and therefore may, with a good conscience, claim and enjoy them. But, as to the rest of my estate, both real and personal, I desire you to let it go to the payment of debts. This will draw down a blessing upon what you have left, and vindicate, in some measure, the honesty
Mr. Cherry's
honesty
wanted no vindication. A short time before the death of his father he happened to see in his father's study a book, containing a list of his debts. He purchased one estate with debts upon it, which he knew, had life been lent him, he had soon wiped off. On the servant's announcing in the night to Mr. Cherry, that his father was released, three days after the glass of the chariot was taken out of his head, he said to his lady,
"
I am
now thirty thousand pounds in debt; for I am resolved to pay every shilling that my father owed."
So far was quite right, surely; but, alas! he immediately took up his father's bonds, and gave his own. Mr. Cherry's fine judgement certainly failed him here. Almost every one pressed on him to be paid immediately, knowing, that, should he have a son born (he had buried two), the estate was so entailed, that it could not possibly be sold. As it was, with only daughters, they were obliged, after the death of their excellent father, to get an Act of Parliament to sell it. At a meeting of creditors one day at a Judge's chambers, the Editor has often heard her mother say, that Mr. Spinckes, author of "The Sick Man visited," one of the creditors, came up to Mrs. Cherry, and said,
"It may, perhaps, Madam, be an odd thing for a clergyman to say; but I must say, that Mr. Cherry was a too honest man. Why not let us wait, and receive out interest punctually, as we always had done from old Mr. Cherry?"
The celebrated Mrs. Barbara Porter arrested Mr. Cherry for her debt of
only two hundred pounds;
for which his grand-daughter, the Editor, always hangs her beautiful small picture in the store-room; his other grand-daughter often threatens to hang it in a more ignoble place, the temple of
. To be sure, she had a fine face and a clever brain;
"
but the beast had no heart.
"
She was Mr. Cherry's god-mother. He certainly did not learn his
exquisite
kindness to the distressed from
this lady.
The respectful sheriff's officers conjured him to go to Reading gaol in his chariot; but he would not, took his cane, and walked with them. He remained there but a few days; but the Editor has frequently heard her mother say it cost him above an hundred pounds, for all the noblemen and gentlemen of the county went to visit him. Mr. Cherry experienced the truth of one text of Scripture on this event. A nephew of his lady, who was under very great pecuniary obligations, as well as a thousand amiable attentions in his youth, begged to be excused being bound for Mr. Cherry, saying,
"that he had promised his wife, when he married, "that he would never be bound for any one." What a convenient
thing
a wise sometimes is to
!"
The very worthy Vicar of the poor pitiful
living,
or rather
starving,
of White Waltham, in the gift of Mr. Cherry, set out immediately to a gentlemen who had married a near relation of Mr. Cherry, desiring him to be joint bondsman with him for Mr. Cherry. The gentleman, not a very brilliant genius, hesitating a little, Mr. Griffith said,
"Sir, Mr. Cherry would be torn to pieces by wild horses sooner than fly from his bail."
The Clergy are certainly, in general, some few exceptions of
Dignitaries
of the church of **********, a very liberal body of men. The Editor takes this opportunity of making her public acknowledgements to the polite amiable Mr. Hambley of Herts, the present vicar of Cookham, for his very pleasing conduct to Dr. Berkeley, when Dr. Berkeley quitted that lovely spot, and to the Editor since. Dr. Berkeley always left all unpleasant business to the Editor, as he always made her open letters that he suspected to be unpleasant. He charged her to write him word how
she
liked his successor. She wrote him word, that in Mr. Hambley's
bearing armorial
was a
lion,
but that
she
thought he ought to apply to their friend Sir Isaac [Heard] to exchange that ferocious animal for a
dove
or a
lamb.
As also to the exquisitely polite Mr. Barker, who succeeded Dr. Berkeley as Chancellor of Brecon. But
he
has only
ten children;
and he has the excellent Bishop Stuart, of St. David, for a patron, at which the Editor most sincerely rejoices. Those that are judges know that Mr. Barker is a gentleman of profound erudition, and that the good Bishop has honoured himself by preferring Mr. Barker, a stranger to his Lordship, as his very polite son, of Christ's College, told the Editor, until he became his Diocesan.
of
Thy unfortunate, but Truly loving husband, F. CHERRY.
Copia vera verbatim.
No date. It was written several months before Mr. Cherry's death, which he had seen approaching with such entire confidence in the glorious promises of our all-gracious Redeemer, that on the Saturday preceding his death, which happened on the Wednesday, he danced until the clock struck twelve. (His beloved nephew (eldest son of his eldest sister) James Hayes, Esq. of Holyport, father of James Hayes, Esq. late one of his Majesty's Judges for North Wales, then recently married.) Mr. Cherry said one day to his lady,
"We have not had the new-married couple to dinner: yet we must have them; the last venison we shall have this season is fit to dress for every body but myself;" (Mr. Cherry frequently had a haunch hung up, like his nephew Dr. Cherry Hayes, of Windsor, until it was ready to shake from the bone). "Send over a servant to invite them for Saturday."
Of course some other families in the neighbourhood were invited to meet them. During the time of dinner Mr. Cherry said,
"It is just come into my head, that I must have a dance with the bride."
—Mrs. Cherry objected, lest it might injure him. He replied,
"My dear, I am as well able to dance now as I was the first time I had the happiness
There had been a quarrel between the gamekeepers of Mr. Finch and Mr. Cherry. Their manors joining, so there was no visiting. Mr. Cherry, however, met the lady at a neighbour's, and, as in antient times, danced the whole night with her. At breakfast one was saying, how soundly they had slept, and another that they had slept little. Mr. Francis Cherry said,
"I can't tell how it was, but I could not sleep at all."
An acute lady said to his anxious mother, (Mr. Cherry, a sort of
Isaac,
born after his sisters were almost women,)
"
I
can tell you why
Frank
did not sleep, it was because the FINCHES kept such a twittering at his windows, it was
impossible
he
should
sleep."
Mr. Cherry told his single, his favourite sister, who fell into a consumption, and died for the loss of an accomplished young gentleman, to whom she was going to be married, that
if ever
he married, he then hardly twenty,
she
had seen the lady. She replied,
"Oh! my dear brother, that is
impossible;
you know there has been a quarrel between the families."
—
"Well, then,
I
will make PEACE."
He did so, for never did family live in greater harmony than old Mr. Cherry, his excellent lady, and Mr. and Mrs. F. Cherry. They had no other home, either in town or country, but Shottersbrook House and Arundel Street—the house now made into three. Old Mr. Cherry allowed his son £.2,500
per annum
to fly about to Astrop, Bath, &c. and to relieve distressed objects—a favourite amusement of Mr. F. Cherry, as well as of his great grandson George Monck Berkeley, Esquire.
to dance with you."
The young lady, one of the most amiable of women—(the Hayes family are remarkably lucky in choosing sweet-tempered women, at least Mr. Hayes and his son were so; may their worthy descendants be as fortunate as their father and grandfather!—when these gentlemen lost their
lovely
mother, the Editor lost a
most sincerely
beloved friend; and ALL the surrounding poor a real
visible
Guardian Angel. Adieu, sweet spirit!)—this lady may, perhaps, like to think that she has danced with her old uncle
Mr. Cherry was esteemed one of the finest dancers, as well as the first horseman, in England; and HE certainly did not esteem dancing a sin: he was not one of the gloomy Christians, disgracing instead of
"adorning the doctrine of God our Saviour."
He was a great studier of the Holy Scriptures; and had, no doubt, often redde, as well as his grand-daughter, Mrs. George Berkeley, although, perhaps, he had not occasion in those days to quote it so frequently, the promise of God by the prophet Jeremiah,
"Thou shalt again go forth in the dances of them that
make merry.
"
The late John Wesley says, in his ridiculous account, printed by himself, of his seminary for educating young hypocrites,
"the children at certain times are allowed to RECREATE themselves" (there was surely need that they should be
re
-created after being under his tuition); "for the word
play
is never used, never
heard
of, amongst them."
Now, God, speaking by his Holy Prophet Zechariah, says,
"there shall yet again be boys and girls PLAYING in the streets of Jerusalem."
(ch. viii. ver. 5.) It is lamentable to remark, that those who affect so much more strictness, rigidity, or what you please, than is enjoined by God himself, generally fall into the shameful breach of part of the second table. This
"loading men and poor little children with these heavy burdens and grievous to be borne,"
is often a
blind,
to conceal the breach, the open breach, of the seventh or eighth commandments. Mr. Cherry was certainly not one of
this sort
of Christians; for, until the end of his life, he, his lady, and daughters (the youngest near sixteen at the time of her father's death), always danced several nights, every full moon, at his own, and several neighbouring gentlemen's seats; fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters, all danced together. Young ladies were at
least as
virtuous, in those
old-fashioned
days, as they are at present. The House of Peers was not
quite
so often applied to for dissolving marriages as they are at present. Alas! let us remember that God, speaking of the Jewish nation, says,
"they assembled by troops in (the witty, wise, pious Dr. Young, in his 'Centaur not fabulous,' says) the LADIES houses. They were as fed horses, &c. Shall not my soul be AVENGED on
such
a nation as this?"
He expressly avoids saying on
this
nation; but,
"on SUCH a nation as this;"
where or whenever seen by his all-heart-searching eye. We have seen it on France, where the
hoinous
sin of ADULTERY was not, as formerly there,
winked at,
but GLORIED in. Let us of this still-spared nation beware lest we fall into like condemnation. It is in the power often of the most unimportant person to brow-beat this dreadful growing sin; and woe to those who can, by their high rank and station in life, do it, if they do it not to the
utmost
of their power!
(Mr. Cherry died at 46). Then, turning to the butler, he ordered him to send the groom over to Wooburn, to fetch the music: it soon arrived, and to dancing they went, and continued their dance until the clock struck twelve. Mr. Cherry went to church on the Sunday, and died on the Wednesday morning following. His intimate friend Mr. Nelson
The Editor has frequently heard her relate the following, she thinks curious, anecdote of her excellent, intimate friend Robert Nelson, Esquire. When dying, he lay several hours speechless, perfectly composed, taking no nourishment, shewing no signs of life; but it was perceptible that he continued to breathe. About four in the afternoon, the day preceding his death, he suddenly put back the curtain, raised his head, and uttered the following sentence:
"There is a very great fire in London this night"
—then closed his eyes, and lay some few hours as before. The Poet says—
"Standing on the
threshold
of the old," &c. &c.
went over from Cranford House to spend the day with him, and found him dying. He stayd as late as he could, to have carried the news to Lord Berkeley that his friend Mr. Cherry's noble spirit had taken its happy flight to the realms of bliss, which it did at four in the morning of the next day; and, it may be hoped, the worthy Earl some years after; if he attended to the rules given to him at his
own
See Lord Berkeley's Meditations, and the Countess of
's Funeral Sermon, &c. both now very scarce books.
request by his angelic friend Mary Countess of Warwick, the favourite sister of the SERAPHIC Robert Boyle.
It is impossible to dismiss the short account of that
real
Patriot, Bishop Berkeley, without mentioning his voyage to America; one grand design of which, no doubt, was, to introduce Episcopacy,
unadulerated
Episcopacy, that of the incomparable Church of England into the Western Hemisphere; his Lordship frequently declaring,
"If Sir
and Lord
do continue to succeed in defeating every scheme to introduce it there; that noblest, grandest part of the British Empire of the WHOLE world
See Bishop Berkeley's fine poem on America.
will be lost; they will shake off the Mother Country in a few years. Nothing but introducing Bishops amongst them
can
keep them together, can keep them loyal
As does plainly appear at this time in France. The late Dr. Berkeley, many years ago, once said in a Sermon,
"I am persuaded that the
sole
cause why
so
idolatrous a church as that of Rome has been spared thus long is, because they have
so strenuously
maintained the co-equal Godhead of the Saviour of the World."
And, about two years since, that very learned Divine and excellent Preacher the Rev. Dr. Neve, Prebendary of Worcester, said, when preaching,
"The reason, I am convinced, why God has delivered up to such distress, devastation, and destruction, the great kingdoms of France, Poland, and Hungary, is,
because they
have given up the GODHEAD of the LORD JESUS CHRIST;"
which, in France, every one knows, was owing to that MONSTER of
villany
(for he certainly was
not
an infidel, but a rascal) VOLTAIRE. Oh! why did PROVIDENCE prevent the great Earl of Peterborough from running him through, when his sword was unsheathed to do it?
"GOD's ways are unsearchable."
. Church and State, in every country, must stand and fall together."
What the learned Father so ardently wished, so earnestly laboured after, the acute Son happily accomplished; but it was
"
after the steed was stolen that the stable door was shut;
"
for America IS lost. Now that he is gone to receive the reward of this
"
good deed,
"
and can no longer be
"brow-beat
Dr. Berkeley, in a letter to a friend—
"It will
never
be forgiven: I was well aware, when I did it, it
never would.
But I care little for that—
I
have great delight in having accomplished it."
"
for it, it
may
be known to those who did
not
oppose it, as it has
long
been to
those that did,
that Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, by his wise arguments, persuaded the learned, sensible, pious Prelates of Scotland to consecrate Bishop Seabury, to
their
honour, and the
delight
of his own amiable spirit; and, it may be hoped, to the everlasting happiness of many thousands of souls; for, when the opposers saw that
one
Protestant Bishop had been furnished to America, notwithstanding all their opposition, they
e'en
sent a few more. Why such opposition has been made to the conferring of that invaluable blessing on the Western World for almost three quarters of a century, the OPPOSERS best know; and at a certain day we shall ALL know; perhaps some may venture a guess before the arrival of that great day—
"
That day for which ALL other days were made.
"
Dr. YOUNG.
The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley, and his mother, who was there, say, that in Rhode Island, about twenty miles in circumference, there were, at the time of the Bishop's residence there,
no less
than
sixteen
different sects in religion, Presbyterians, Baptists of various sorts, &c.; and it was customary for strangers to ask their visitors,
"Pray of what religion are you?"
and discourse with them on the subject of their dissent from the other FIFTEEN. All, however, excelled the majority, alas! in England at present, in
agreeing,
that it was
necessary
to keep
one
day in seven holy to the Supreme Governor of the universe. Accordingly, on the Bishop's making this usual enquiry, it was sometimes answered,
"I am a Friday-man—I a Saturday-man,"
and others acknowledged themselves SEEKERS—that they were
seeking
for the
best
religion, and had not
yet
found it. These, it is to be feared, excel thousands in England, who
never
Our Blessed Saviour, in the Holy Gospel, tells us,
"Many shall SEEK to enter in, and shall not be able;"
that we must
"STRIVE, &c."
The witty Dr. Young, speaking of
mighty good sort of gentle, polite
(Christians one supposes) says—
"Who make an
unobtrusive
tender of
"Their hearts to Heaven," &c. &c. &c.
NIGHT THOUHGTS.
seek at all.
When two persons of different sects married, a bargain was constantly made, that, if they changed their religion, which they often did twice in six weeks, if they did not turn to the husband's or wife's, and would exchange it for a
new
one,
that new
one should be the Church of England; so tacitly acknowledging that to be best of FIFTEEN different religions. Surely ladies who are fond of new fashions would find it
mighty pleasant
to reside
sometimes
at Rhode Island—a quite
new wateringplace.
This account has been confirmed to the Editor by the very worthy, amiable Samuel Johnson, Esquire, of Connecticut, before mentioned in this Preface, who was a Privycounsellor of Connecticut, the only Church of England-man that colony had ever elected. He was sent over here, before we lost America, to solicit a cause before his Majesty's Privy Council. He was many years here—about seven. His father, Dr. Samuel Johnson, a very learned man, an eminent Presbyterian minister, was convinced by Bishop Berkeley's arguments, and saw the
Divine
right of Episcopacy. He preached several Sundays upon it, and at length told his congregation, that he was so fully convinced of it, that the next Sunday he should attend Episcopal worship, and wished
them all
to accompany him, (which most of them did,) telling them, that
"
he
should not PRESUME to minister any longer in things sacred, until he had obtained Episcopal ordination;"
which he soon did. He wrote several very learned treatises, and a very good Hebrew Grammar. His excellent son had the degree of LL.D. conferred on him by the University of Oxford during his residence in England. He always spent great part of every summer at Dr. Berkeley's, and constantly, until after the breaking out of the American war, sent over two immense double barrels of fine American New-Town pippins, the finest growing on Long Island, of which his elder brother was proprietor.
The Editor used to delight all her friends and neighbours by presenting them with some, and herself by making her gardener every year sow some pips in the melon-frame, and at proper times plant them out. There are now eight fine trees, thicker than herself, bearing six different fruits, only one of them resembling the parent fruit; one quite through the colour of an orange, exquisitely finely flavoured for about six weeks, when it becomes so nauseously sweet, that nothing but her Chinese pigs will eat them; one a green, strong, sour apple, that keeps till May. The Editor is a great gardener, and made her children such, telling her friends, that "when God created man, HE placed him in a
garden,
not in a
house.
It was SIN that made an
house
necessary as well as
cloaths.
The young women now contrive to do without cloathing. The Editor wishes some contrivance could be found out for aged matrons to do without houses, as rent and TAXES run away with much of a small income.
In one thing, however, the different sectarists, both men and women, all agreed, viz. in a
rage
for finery, to the great amusement of Bishop Berkeley's two learned, elegant friends, Sir John James, and Richard Dalton, Esquire; the men in flaming scarlet coats and waistcoats, laced and fringed with the brightest
glaring yellow.
The
sly
Quakers, not
venturing
on these
charming
coats and waistcoats, yet loving finery, figured away with plate at their side-board, or rather
beaufait.
One, to the no small diversion of Bishop Berkeley, sent to England, and had made on purpose, no such thing being to be found, a noble large tea-pot of solid gold, and enquired of the Bishop, when drinking tea with him, whether
friend
Berkeley had ever seen such a
"
curious
thing?"
On being told that silver ones were much in use in England, but that he had never seen a gold one; Ebenezer replied,
"Aye, that was the thing; I was resolved to have something
finer
than any body else. They say that the Queen (Queen Caroline) has not got one."
The Bishop delighted his ridiculous host, by assuring him,
"that his was an unique;"
and very happy it made him.
Oh, the fools! say rather the knaves! If the Kingdom of God, as speaks St. Paul,
"does not consist in meat and drink;"
can it signify whether an insignificant individual wears a coat or gown of one colour or another?
The Editor once met a rich Quaker woman at tea, at the house of a person of quality in her neighbourhood, and happened to have on a pair of very fine point ruffles, purchased at the time of her marriage, for she loved her children too well to buy fine point or lace afterwards. After tea, the company, as is surely pleasant in summer, went out to stroll in the garden; when the lady of the house called the attention of the Quaker to the Editor's lace. She
piously
shook her
wise
head, and said,
"
I doubt thee beest proud of them, vain of them.
"
The Editor quietly replied,
"I hope not: why should I? I am a gentleman's daughter, and a gentleman's wife; and I have, from my cradle, been dressed as such; and if
thee
"—(the Editor always
thees
and
thous
them—they like
Sir
or
Madam
much better; but, if they will
not give it,
they ought in CONSCIENCE
not to receive it
)—"and, if
thee
wilt excuse me, I do not think that I have half the vanity that
thou
hast; for
I
have not once called the attention of any of the company to my ruffles, and thou hast gone to every individual in the room, to shew them that bauble at thy watch, telling them, it was given to thee by Lady
, and taking that opportunity of shewing a very fine watch; besides, as that is a solid pebble, not an egg that opens, to hold something to regale thy nose, I fear it must be deemed a VAIN ornament. Now ruffles keep my arms warm."
A circle gathered round the Lady who exhibited the ruffles, Friend
and Mrs. Berkeley. They all laughed much; and the poor Quaker said,
"Thee beest right; it is of no use; I will take it off when I go home, and lock it up."
When Dr. Berkeley was rector of Action, a female Quaker, who lived in the next parish, and was said to rouge her cheeks, hearing the same of Dr. Berkeley's preaching, desired to go to Acton church with Mr. and Mrs. W
. A day or two after, Mr. W
's family dining at Dr. Berkeley's, Mrs. W
said,
"Mrs.
was a little out of luck last Sunday;"
then related as above; adding,
"that ever
she
should come to hear
her people
so
tuned!
"
The sentence alluded to was,
"All Christians, of every communion, agree in this point, excepting the Quakers, if indeed
they
can be
styled Christians,
who have no sacraments at all, and who do not allow of Water Baptism, despising that important denunciation of our adored Redeemer, 'Except a man be born of WATER and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven."
The Friend, however, told Mrs. W
, that Dr. Berkeley was a very fine Preacher.
Bishop Berkeley was a
real
Patriot, not a PAT-RIOT, as that Prelate always wittily styled his own
bawling
(as he called them) countrymen, the contrasts to himself, Dean Swift, Dr. Madan, and a very few more
temporal
At the head of the list the excellent Marquis of Waterford. It has been mentioned above that Dr. Berkeley had the honour to be nearly related to the Marchioness. At dinner, one day, the Editor asked Dr. Berkeley if he had redde the paper. He said,
"No, he had been out riding."
—
"Why, then, you have not seen that the
King
has made a
Marquis of your
cozen Lord Tyrone."
—
"He has done very right in so doing. He would not have
overpaid
him had he created him a Duke."
—
"Why so?"
—
"Because Lord Tyrone has SAVED Ireland. He was the ONLY man who could. And he has contrived to get the arms out of the hands of the Papists; when that poor
Sir
had been weak enough to put them into their hands; he knowing
nothing
of the politicks of
that
kingdom. How, INDEED, should a L
shire 'Squire?"
saviours of Ireland. The power of the Drapier's Letters all know. Bishop Berkeley's letter to the Roman Catholics of the Diocese of Cloyne, as mentioned above, had its deserved attention from the wise Clergy of that communion throughout the nation. The lower rank of Roman Catholics, all round the neighbourhood of Cloyne, with one voice used to declare, that
they
did not trouble themselves who had the
best right
to the Crown, King George, or King Charles;
"but my Lord,
i.e.
the Bishop, knew very well—and they would therefore
fight
for whoever his Lordship
bid them.
"
One Popish gentleman, alas! forfeited his vast estate, at the age of
only eighteen,
for having raised some of his tenants in the service of King James just after the battle of the Boyne: he had not marched them off his own estate; but
unluckily that
estate lying conveniently for two of his Protestant relations, it was
forfeited,
and HE reduced to
extreme
poverty, residing in a cottage, with a wife and two daughters. When Bishop Berkeley went to reside at Cloyne, in the year 1734, he found the
unfortunate
Mr. Fitzgerald as above described, and in his grand climacteric. He habited him comfortably, gave him an invitation to dine at the palace every day, bought him a quiet horse, on which he rode out in fine weather, the Bishop keeping it, and one of his grooms attending to it. When any person dined at the palace beside the Bishop's family, Mr. Fitzgerald, at his own entreaty, always dined at the steward's table; to whose room he every day retired to smoke his pipe. Dr. Berkeley and his brother, when there was not company, frequently attending this
"
Cullen of other times,
"
to hear, as youths and girls of sense always wish to do, what was transacted before their
parents
were born.
Mr. Fitzgerald had a small potatoe ground, and two cows. The Editor honours the lower ranks of people in Ireland for their kindness to their
fallen
superiors. As Mrs. Fitzgerald kept no maid, the neighbouring poor women milked her cows, made her butter, scalded her vessels, &c. saying often to the Bishop's Lady,
"that it was not
fitten
the
poor Laady
and her daughters should do such drudgery:"
so they, amongst them, did it for them. Bishop Berkeley, on his leaving Ireland to go to reside at Oxford, to superintend his Son's education there, left a certain establishment at Cloyne. Mr. Fitzgerald dined there every day as usual, his horse being kept, &c.
On hearing of the death of Bishop Berkeley, he exclaimed,
"My
only
friend is gone!"
leaned back on his chair, and instantly expired. He died speaking the truth
The Editor has no doubt the worthy successor of Bishop Berkeley would have continued the same amiable attention: for, although Bishop Stopford, grandfather of the very worthy Earl of Courtown, was esteemed a very covetous man—perhaps he was a saving man, a
very
different thing—the Editor feels pleasure in an opportunity of publishing the conduct of
"
dear Jemmy,
"
as Bishop Berkeley always styled Bishop Stopford. Dr. Berkeley's Mother one day saying,
"Your Father kept every thing in as good repair as you do; for at his death
even Stopford could
not make
any
demand for dilapidations."
To which Dr. Berkeley replied,
"Pardon me, my dear Madam; it was that he
would
not; saying, 'I will not have
any
thing overlooked, for
I
will not take a shilling dilapidation from the family of my dear friend Bishop Berkeley."
The Editor cannot here refrain from relating a
bon mot
of her honoured Father-in-law, which, if she could envy
any
body
any
thing, she should envy Bishop Berkeley. His predecessor once, on a visit at Cloyne to Bishop Berkeley, asserted (a vast circle at the table) that
"
all
mankind were either KNAVES or FOOLS."
Bishop Berkeley instantly said,
"Pray, my good Lord, to which class does your Lordship belong?"
He hummed a little while, then replied,
"Why, I believe to
both.
"
Bishop Berkeley made a graceful
assenting
bow; and, when relating the ancedote, used to say,
"there never was a
truer
character given by man—of
any
man."
, as he conceived; for the Editor has frequently heard Mrs. Berkeley say, that neither of the Earls, his kinsmen, who divided his estate, ever gave him a shilling. It was not pleasant to them to hear him named.
One day, when they, their ladies, and families, had dined at Bishop Berkeley's, just as the coaches were driving out of the court-yard, a violent clamour, was heard
scolding, screaming, crying.
It was, alas! poor Mrs. Fitzgerald and her daughters, reproaching their noble, rich, (not, alas! very
"
rich in good works,
&c.) kindred with
"avarice and cruelty, enjoying
their
estate, and leaving them to starve, but for the good Bishop."
The very grateful Mr. Fitzgerald had made a will
The Editor has frequently been told, by Bishop Berkeley's learned, agreeable friend Richard Dalton, Esquire, that his friend Sir John James, Baronet, told Bishop Benson, that he had bequeathed his very large estate, excepting a few legacies to his dear friend Bishop Berkeley. Bishop Benson wrote what he, lovely man, thought the
pleasant
news to Cloyne; and received in return a
thundering
letter, as Mr. Dalton termed it, saying,
"Do
you
tell JAMES that
I
will NOT have his fortune. Bid him leave it to his RELATIONS, I WON'T have it."
Sir John, on hearing this, bequeathed it to the old Chevalier de St. George—so, of course, his relations got it. He had, after Bishop Berkeley went to Cloyne, boceme a Papist. A very long letter of Bishop Berkeley to Sir John James on that occasion is one of the letters which will compose part of the second volume of "Berkeley's Literary Relics," if it is ever printed; as also a very curious singular case of conscience, submitted
to,
nad determined
by,
another eminent Prelate of the Church of England.
, which was sent to Mr. Berkeley at Christ's College, bequeathing, in case the House of Stuart should ever come to the throne, and
the poor
PROPRIETORS have their estates restored, his WHOLE property, excepting fortunes to his two daughters, to Bishop Berkeley's eldest son, and requesting the
possible
King to grant the title conferred on him by King James, of Baron Monteagle,
on
the Bishop's son.
Neither Doctor Berkeley nor his Son could ever be persuaded by their friends to go to Court, and be presented, without any cause calling them thither. Both laughed at the idea of almost every Country 'Squire, and unpreferred Divine, going to St. James's. He used to answer one old friend, who often urged him on the subject, by saying,
"When his Majesty
wants
me, he will send for me; he knows who I am, and where I live: and my curate (that surely finest of all fine Preachers, the late pious Mr. Harmer,) goes frequently, and that is enough."
Dr. Berkeley felt gratified by a gentleman of his Majesty's household once telling him, that, on asking leave of absence for a few days, his Royal Master asked whither he was going, he replied,
"To Dr. Berkeley's at Cookham."
His Majesty said,
"
His Father was an honour to human nature.
"
His Majesty had not a more active, zealous friend than Dr. Berkeley; nor certainly a
more disinterested one.
Dr. Berkeley was at a very great expence to disperse his famous Sermon on the thirtieth of January. Only a few months before his lamented death he printed the sixth edition, on common paper, and had one thousand of them dispersed over England. On its first publication, it went through five editions in four weeks. He has repeatedly told the Editor, that the notes of the fifth edition, in small duodecimo, not now to be purchased for any sum, are all, except one, answers to letters, from
"Lords and Gentlemen,"
some admiring, some with Nicodemus, enquiring,
"How can these things be
See the third chapter of the Holy Gospel, as recorded by Saint John.
?"
To have answered all the letters received on that Sermon, he said, would have taken a ream of paper. One from the Editor's, not Dr. Berkeley's,
old
acquaintance, Soame Jenyns, written a very short time before the death of that entertaining, agreeable, great genius, and, at length, devout Christian, is carefully preserved by the Editor, who lately found an odd glove in her cabinet, that happened to be dropped by a beloved friend the last time she ever visited her, about twenty years ago. The Editor has a picture of her friend, and other
souvenirs;
yet the glove is still preserved with care. Why is it? perhaps it brings the
last
idea of the beloved object to the mind. One knows not why else. Perhaps the
mind
of man can never be fully defined by
man;
yet it is a delightful study surely, next to observing the wonderful ways of PROVIDENCE. Of
both,
like the late Queen of Prussia on her death-bed, as related by her Royal Descendant
See "Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg," written by the late King of Prussia.
before
his acquaintance with Voltaire, the Editor hopes ere long to know more.
Perhaps two sincerer, more disinterested patriots, have not existed in
any
country, at
any
time, than Bishop Berkeley and his son Dr. Berkeley, both very great politicians. The Bishop publicly, his son more quietly, frequently suggested hints to the minister for the time being, for the benefit of the country, some of which he had the pleasure of seeing were attended to, although the letters, when the advice was thus conveyed, were generally anonymous, he using to say,
"If the advice is wise, a man of sense will attend to it, come how it may;"
adding,
"I write frequently to Mr. Pitt, and sometimes send him a message."
Dr. Berkeley suggested, and it was attended to, some additional benefit for the poor common soldiers. The Editor is no politician—not that she does not esteem
females equal
to politics. Sir Robert Walpole used to say, that an old friend of the Editor's Father, Mrs. Waller, of Hall-Barn, near Beaconsfield, grandmother of the present Mr. Waller,
"
understood the interests of this nation better than any man in it.
"
Mrs. Waller, a daughter of old Aislabie's, had a very superior understanding.
Dr. Berkeley was universally admired as a letter-writer; he wrote such
The Editor fears to set down, lest it should seem incredible, during Archbishop Secker's life, the annual amount of the postage of Dr. Berkeley's letters—(the Editor always keeps the letter-accompt separate, and an heavy enough accompt it is most years, even her own now—when her beloved friends were living, it was sometimes quite frightful)—and, after his Grace's death, numbers of persons, who had never seen his face, wrote to him to request his advice how to get a place or preferment. He benevolently answered them all, and generally directed them into a track that led them right. The plan he pursued was once practised
against
himself. At the election of the late amiable Lord Lichfield, when standing for the Chancellorship of the University of Oxford, during the reign of George the Second, his Lordship, being an honest Tory, was likely to be
hard-run.
His Lordship lamenting one day to a relation of the Editor, the late sensible cynical Richard Rowney, Esquire, Fellow of All-Souls College, that he feared Mr. Berkeley, of Christ College, would not vote for him, asked if Mr. Powney had any interest with Dr. Berkeley, just then made Vicar of Bray (Ive's Place is in Bray Parish). The Editor's acute kinsman replied, that he could not take the liberty to ask Mr. Berkeley for his vote; but added,
"
I can put you
in a way to SECURE IT, if you are acquainted with the Archbishop of Canterbury."
—Lord Lichfield replied,
"Yes, intimately so."
—
"Oh! then, I'll
promise you
Mr. Berkeley's vote.—Go
yourself
to Lambeth, and request his Grace to
ask
Mr. Berkeley to vote for you."
The advice was exactly followed. The Editor has repeatedly heard Dr. Berkeley relate to various persons—(it happened before she was acquainted with Dr. Berkeley)—the Archbishop wrote to Dr. Berkeley (the letter still exists); Dr. Berkeley answered it
per
return of post, telling his Grace that, according to
one
statute he had sworn to observe, Lord Lichfield was not eligible; and, although he respected Lord Lichfield, his conscience would not permit him to vote for him—that he had always determined not to vote
against
him; and most sincerely wished he might be elected Chancellor. Soon after Dr. Berkeley went to stay at Lambeth, he told his Grace that such a statute said so and so. His Grace replied,
"HAH! I believe it may; but I never understood it so before. You were (or are) quite right, Sir, in not voting for Lord Lichfield; for, according to that, he is (or was)—(the Editor forgets whether this conversation was prior, or subsequent, to the election) QUITE RIGHT IN NOT voting for his Lordship."
—As the Editor does not read Latin,
she
is no judge of this matter; but she knows it is happy for the poor patients in the Infirmary that his Lordship was Chancellor.
numbers so alertly for his friends and common acquaintances to serve them: indeed the chief business of the
trio,
Father, Son, and Grandson, seemed to be, to assist, serve, and benefit every one but
themselves.
It is supposed, by many that knew him through life, in early life, and until nearly the latest period of life, that Dr. Berkeley had, by his advice, direction, and assistance, made the fortunes of more men, than any private person, not in station to do it, than any man in the three kingdoms, so as sometimes to occasion Mrs. Berkeley to say to him,
"My dear friend, you can make every man's fortune, or put him in train to do it himself,
but your son's:
why do you not try to get some appointment for him, to help him, until he can, at least
will
help himself, by going to the Bar?"
His constant reply was,
"Alas! no, poor fellow; I cannot ask any thing for him, or for myself. He must make his own fortune for me. God may raise him some friends."
Mr. Monck Berkeley, by his Mother's earnest advice to him in youth, never meddled with politics; she always telling him, it was time enough if ever he should be in a station to require it. How many creatures stamp themselves for fools, by bawling for or against a party, when they have hardly left bawling for a good whipping!
A gentleman, many years ago, said to the Editor,
"What a man Dr. Berkeley is!"
The day before yesterday, at
, some public dinner, it was said, that an officer, one of the company, was going to Ireland. Some one asked,
"if he had many acquaintances in that kingdom."
—
"Not one."
—Dr. Berkeley politely asked,
"in what part the Colonel's regiment was quartered?"
and then said,
"I will do myself the pleasure of giving you two letters, Sir, that perhaps may be of some little service to you, although they are very hospitable in Ireland."
He called for pen, ink, and paper, twirled his chair round to a small table, and in, I think, little more than five minutes, produced two such letters to the Colonel, (we all talking and babbling the whole time,) as I am sure I could not have written in five hours.
"My G-d! what a clever fellow he is!"
Mrs. Frinsham sometimes, when going into the library, and seeing half a score letters lying on the table, would say,
"Well, well! what a pity it was your father did not
put
you 'prentice to be Secretary of State.
You would have
scribbled
away
so finely
to all the
princes
and
potentates,
that it would have
done their hearts good
to read your epistles."
To which, as when many persons have said,
"How remarkably Dr. Berkeley's talents seem calculated for the diplomatic line!"
—
"My dear Donna Anna, (Mrs. Frinsham's nick-name amongst her intimate friends,) I would not
have
been put
'prentice
to any thing but a clergyman,
no,
not if at twenty-two and an half I had received a revelation from Heaven, that I never should have had any thing more than a curacy of forty pounds a year through life."
Not many days before Dr. Berkeley's lamented death, the Editor consoling him with the delightful thought, that he had been a most zealous preacher of Christ, not elegant MORAL essays from Plutarch or Seneca; he lifted up his still exquisitely fine eyes on her, and replied,
"I have, my dear, and HE knows I preached him in SINCERITY.
You know
I always
dreaded
being a popular preacher. I never wished to please men from the pulpit."
Bishop Berkeley and his grandson both assumed an additional motto of their own choosing, as did Mr. Cherry—
"CONSCIENTIA MILLE TESTES."
Dr. Berkeley contented himself with the beautiful blessed one of his ancestors,
"DIEU AVEC NOUS."
The Bishop's was,
"NON SIBI, SED TOTI."
Mr. Monck Berkeley's, assumed by him when he was about or rather under twenty, on an almost miraculous preservation of the life of himself, two other gentlemen, his intimate friends, still living, and their postillion and horses,
"VIVAT POST FUNERA VIRTUS;"
which he engraved in the strings of his crest, as is seen in the print prefixed to the Poems. That Mr. Berkeley, from his cradle, or rather
no
cradle, as has been before stated, to his coffin, had numerous hair-breadth escapes from death, has been mentioned. Some time
after
his death two
very extraordinary
things occurred, which will not be here related; one very soon after his interment, to an entire stranger to every thing but his name, having never even
seen him;
the other to his Mother, about five months after his decease.
The Editor again begs pardon for trespassing so long on the public; and wishes that she resembled her excellent Son in many instances, particularly in burning without mercy, not, as he did, whole quires at a time of beautiful Essays, Poems, &c. for in early youth
her manuscripts
consisted only of innumerable letters to friends, which she trusts they consigned to the flames, and a diary of her own
very unimportant
life, from the age of seventeen, when, being a very early riser in summer, and her mother never coming out of her closet to
breakfast
until ten o'clock; for the family prayers at Mr. Frinsham's were (the Editor thinks very inconveniently) not offered up until
after
breakfast, when trades-people are coming, and the door must be answered, in private families—excepting at the house of the late excellent Mr. and Mrs. Peirce, of Windsor Forest, who, either in town or country, never suffered even the kitchen-maid, or groom, to answer the door until prayers, lessons, and psalms, were gone through. At Lambeth Palace, during Archbishop Secker's life, every servant, including the
porter,
went into the chapel at nine in the morning. Dr. Berkeley and the Editor, when resident at Acton, were one morning a very few minutes too late—the footman dismounted, and knocked violently—Dr. Berkeley assured him it was in vain; so the glasses were drawn up, and in about half an hour the gates were opened. The Editor, on her marriage, found the custom at Dr. Berkeley's much better, that of assembling before breakfast, at nine o'clock, perhaps not always quite so punctually to a
minute;
as did, for more than half a century, the pious mother of that just Judge Sir W. H. Ashhurst. What a blessing to individuals, sometimes to thousands, is a wise, pious mother!
The Editor has frequently heard her mother say,
"that the mother of Judge Buller, although the daughter of Bishop Trelawny, was an angel on earth"
—she has been one in heaven almost half a century. The late worthy, charitable Marchioness of Abercorn was a grand-daughter of this lady. The
poor
lamented bitterly at the death of both these ladies.
The Editor's idea is, perhaps, in
most
things, an
almost
universal one,
to take most care of the most valuable things.
She takes more care of a little fine Dresden china, than she does of her milk-pans; and, as she used frequently to tell her dear, amiable, old friend the late Lord
, when he used to tell her,
"that she took too much care of her soul, going to church on week-days and Sunday afternoons; that it were better to stay and chat with her friends."
Her constant reply was,
"This little,
insignificant
frame of mine
must be laid in the dust one day or other,
sooner or later; but the
little spark
within
must
exist FOR EVER: therefore
I
must take some
little
care about it, say what you will; and if
I
cannot make
you
take a little more care of the spark that animates
your noble
case, why hereafter
I
shall be
noble,
and
you ignoble.
"
Alas! dear amiable friend, my mind cannot follow thee with delight beyond thy grave, but leave thee in the hands of HIM that
"
judgeth right.
"
Thou certainly wert not of the number of those to whom the Psalmist prays God
"
not
to be merciful;"
for thou didst NOT
"
offend of malicious wickedness.
"
Thou wert neither
profane, Deist,
nor
Arian.
Thou hadst a simple, ignorant, thoughtless mother, and no father from five years old.
If the Editor, by any thing contained in these sheets, should induce
any,
in a certain rank of life, of her fair (she corrects herself, she means her RED countrywomen, for
almost
all are now become ROUGE DRAGONS,) to attend a
little
to the education of their children, and not devolve that
very very
important charge upon, in general, a poor, ignorant, low-lived,
foreign
animal, with no other recommendation than that she
cannot
speak
English
—
It has been of late years much the fashion to decry schools for girls. The Editor, (notwithstanding the wish of her amiable friend Lord Lyttelton, that she might have
"half a dozen girls to educate,"
) having neither daughter nor niece, and not very intimate with many of her kindred that have girls, knows little of schools; but thus much she knows of
Swiss
and
French
governesses, that the schools must be
bad indeed,
if not better than
these gouvernantes.
The Swiss
gouvernante
at Lord
's used regularly, when Lady
was in the country, and gone visiting, to take the young ladies in the evening, to
visit,
and drink
hot elder wine,
with the hucksters, the bakers, the butchers wives of the neighbouring village, and sometimes to drink tea, &c. with some of her more distant friends, the farmers'
ladies.
This the Editor knows from ocular demonstration. The following fact was many years ago related with horror to the Editor by Lady P
:
Going one morning in town to call on her cousin-german, the late Lady
, who not being up, sent her little girl, aged eight years, to entertain her; the young lady soon began
such
a conversation as was terrifying. On being asked,
"what could make her talk thus?"
Young Lady.—
"Why, to make you laugh."
Lady P
.—
"Make me laugh, child! Why, I am ready to run up the chimney, I am so frightened to hear you. Whom have you ever heard talk so? tell me directly, or I will tell your Mamma."
Young Lady.—
"Why Mademoiselle, and Papa's Gentleman; and they do laugh so at it, that I thought it would make you laugh."
This ill-fated, ill-educated young Lady, when
completely
educated, made Mamma weep, instead of Mademoiselle laugh.
The unfortunate Lady
, soon after she married Lord
, told several of her friends,
"that she wondered she was not a street-walker, for that she generally spent every evening, whilst the family were in town, in a
night-cellar
with her governess, when her
careful
mother thought her in bed."
This unhappy woman has been long divorced, and is not
re
-married. She was some few years ago at a water-drinking place, no living soul noticing her, an object of great compassion to the Editor, who, never doing
any
thing in haste, was meditating on calling upon her; but a very few days ended those charitable meditations; for her Ladyship, alas for her, poor creature! was soon exhibited leaning on the arm of an
hostler.
Ah me! her careless mother must one day meet this injured, cast-off daughter, and hear her call aloud for vengeance on her horrid cruel negligence. What will she then do!!!
A few years ago, a lady asked the Editor, if she was acquainted with Lady
. She answered,
"I have not that honour. I only know and revere, as all must do, her great worthiness of character."
The Lady replied,
"Alas-a-day! a friend of hers is almost frantic on her account. She has got a devil incarnate for governess to Lady Charlotte. It is certainly known that in her own country she was an adulteress, and, many assert, the murderer of her husband; and she is so artful, so insinuating a creature, and has so wound herself in by her seeming worthiness with Lady
, that she will not believe a syllable against her, although she has heard it from several of her friends; and, I think, you might perhaps find some method to convince Lady
what a
wretch
she is."
The Editor assured Lady
that she was unequal to the task; it must, for her, be left to God. Probably his mercy kept the wretch's mask on; for Lady Charlotte has been married several years, and the Editor has not seen
her
name in the newspapers, as being handed up to Doctors Commons. May she never carry any grist to that mill, not for grinding
old
women young, but reducing
young
women to a
worse
condition than even old ones!
Does not the Almighty exclaim, by the Prophet Jeremiah,
"Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this
Jer. ch. v. ver. 9.
?"
The Almighty does not expressly confine that TREMENDOUS threat of His being
avenged
to the Jewish nation, but on
any
which is guilty of that
dreadful crime,
placed
second
to murder in the Decalogue, written by the
finger
of GOD himself on Mount Sinai. It would exceedingly delight the Editor, if she thought that any of the fine ladies and fine gentlemen, described in the first ten verses of the fifth chapter of the Prophecy, of Jeremiah, who may chance to read this whilst their hair is dressing, may be benefited by it; it being customary with many people to read some
trumpery
book at that time; the Editor generally reads in an old thumbed Bible, for the powder and pomatum would spoil a good one, to her maid, which, she hopes, benefits both parties; she means it should, as she explains as she reads, or rather when she is requested to lay down the book, because, while the frizzing, &c. is performing, the reading cannot go on, especially as the Editor is short-sighted.
It is now and then some consolation to the Editor, (who hopes these nations may be spared from French brutality a little longer, at least till she has made her exit,) when she hears these lamentable divorce bills sued for, that she recollects that, at the time of publishing a
magnificent
edition of the works of that patron of ADULTERY, that vile
inciter
to it, that MONSTER Voltaire, it was said,
"
every
CHRISTIAN Prince in Europe had subscribed to it, but the King of England."
The Editor very well remembers her beloved Partner's comment on it,
"I am sure HE has
shewn himself a Christian
by
not
doing it, and God will reward him for it
Dr. Berkeley, on leaving Lambeth Palace, after some days visit, on his return to Berkshire, when he came just to the entrance of the Park, recollecting that there was a poor dying Prelate at Knightsbridge, called his servant, and sent him with an
howd'ye,
saying,
"I will wait here, that you may not heat the horse (a very fine one) to overtake me."
Just then his Majesty rode up. Dr. Berkeley's wonderfully fine face caught his Majesty's eye.—Turning to the attendant Lord, he said,
"Whose coach is that, my Lord?"
—
"Please your Majesty, I cannot tell."
—
"I want to know."
—His Majesty rode round, and looked in.—Dr. Berkeley
solus.
—His Majesty asked another attendant. At length Dr. Berkeley heard some gentleman say,
"His name is Berkeley, for the man's arms are the ten crosses."
—Dr. Berkeley once said to Mr. Monck Berkeley,
"Alas! child,
we
have crosses enough"
(in their arms). The Editor said, she hoped SHE did not make the
ten eleven.
Both laughed, and proceeded to talk of something pleasanter.
."
The old Prophet Jeremiah would be a very excellent tutor to many
very fine
people of both sexes, as the third chapter of Isaiah would to many of the
quondam
fair (now RED) sex. The Editor recollects that there
is
a text in her
old-fashioned
book, a kind of THREAT to ladies:
"
thou rendest thy face with
PAINTING."
—It is, we see, so
very old-fashioned,
one wonders that fine
ton
ladies practise it. The poor old
immensely
vulgar Editor does honestly own, it
ever did, ever must,
whilst she retains her senses, occasion her
not respecting,
although she
loves,
some who do it.
As the Editor is writing this, her sister is reading to her the direful catastrophe of Lord C
T
. About three years ago, the Editor was told by her friends, that she ought to write a Preface to her dear Son's Poems; when she determined to give the opinion of two wise men, and her
own,
although an imbecile female, of a book which Dr. Berkeley declared he esteemed to be the first, the best, work of this century. Mr. Monck Berkeley said, that if young men of
sense
would read it
only cursorily, that it must
prevent their gambling. The Editor, charmed with it on reading only thirty-five pages of the first volume, then at Canterbury, laid it down, put on her hat and cloak, and posted off into the city, to the bookseller's, to subscribe, for herself,—her sister, then at her own abode,—and her Son, then abroad. Mrs. Berkeley, ever delighting to benefit her fellow creatures, in her
very narrow sphere,
did many of her friends the
kindness
to
compel
them to subscribe to "A Treatise on SUICIDE, GAMING, and DUELLING, by the Reverend Charles Moore, of Boughton Blean, Kent." The Editor used constantly, when soliciting subscriptions, after the publication of the first incomparable volume, to say,
"It is for your
own
sake, not Mr. Moore's, although he is a very old acquaintance, a very highly respected friend."
On Dr. Berkeley's going to Cookham in the summer, Mrs. Berkeley invited several of her Berkshire friends and neighbours to subscribe. Among these was her very worthy respected neighbour Lady Y
, who replied,
"Oh! my dear Mrs. Berkeley,
I can't afford it.
"
"Can't afford it! Poor soul! Shall
I lend you a Guinea?
—Why, I did not bring my husband
quite
fourscore thousand pounds, and yet
I
have afforded it, who laid it down as a rule, since I had children, never to buy a book but at a stall. I do not think my friend Sir George will either thrash or scold you."
—
"No, no; but I can't afford it."
Mrs. Berkeley declared she would not lend it her, unless she
would
subscribe; another neighbour did, as the sequel of the little tale will shew. Two or three evenings after Mrs. Berkeley called on Lady Y
, to ask if she would take a walk with her, to view the progress of her Ladyship's castle of
, then building. On the servant's announcing Mrs. Berkeley, her Ladyship sprang from the sopha, exclaiming,
"My dear Madam, I am
so
happy to see you, you cannot imagine. I have been this hour determining every minute to go to you, to ask if I am too late to subscribe to Mr. Moore. It is surely the most excellent book I have redde a long time. Do pray take my Guinea"—(all that Mr. Moore would suffer to be paid for those two excellent volumes in quarto.)—"I was not able to quit it; and luckily you are come!"
The Editor would not take this Lady's subscription; for she never receives any money but what is her own due, lest, as she tells her friends, as we say in Scotland,
"
She is not o'er rich,
"
she should forget, and spend it on herself; to prevent which, when compelled to be
treasurer
for any friend for a few weeks, she always seals it up, and writes on it to whom it belongs. She, however, promised to write directly to her worthy old acquaintance, Mr. Rivington, to learn about the matter; and the name of POOR Lady Y
appears in the additional list of subscribers.
Some time afterwards this worthy friend of the Editor, at her request, procured a very advantageous appointment in the army in India for the eldest son of Mr. Moore, who, although a very excellent scholar, as Dr. Berkeley told the Editor, was resolved to be a warrior; and we had then happy days
The Editor, although No politician, is
"clearly for carrying on the war,"
until there is
some
established government in France with whom to make peace; or peace may be much more
horrible
than war. It is like a
silly
girl
marrying because
she has a
stern
father or a
cross
mother. Poor souls!!!
, no war of our own in Europe. Mr. Moore and his Lady, and, the Editor dares believe, the young gentleman, felt great gratitude to good Lady Y
, for exerting her influence with her brother-in-law, Sir J
C
. The Editor wishes that, for the benefit of society, Mr Moore would put forth an edition in half-crown numbers. There are anecdotes enough to furnish a fine print for
every
number; for, as Mr. Monck Berkeley used to say,
"it is as entertaining as a novel, with this difference, that the facts are real, and as pious as Thomas à Kempis."
Thousands would then read and profit by it, who otherwise will never hear of it.
Bishop Berkeley used to say,
"If I had the voice of Stentor, I would become hoarse in calling on all, particularly on persons of high rank,
Take care of the education of your children.
"
If my Lord M
s has done so, he may meet his children in a more august court than that of St. James's without horror
See a most excellent sermon of the pious, learned Dr. Doddridge,
"
on children's turning out wicked.
"
; "if not, perhaps it might be wise in him to place himself in the situation, before the throne of mercy, in which, thirty-six years ago, in the summer of 1760, he thought proper to place Mr. C
, a very respectable Gloucestershire gentleman, at the Swan Inn at Cheltenham, on
both
his knees, begging this GREAT man's pardon; not only all the gentlemen who dined there witnessing it, but all the town, the sashes being up, standing on each others' shoulders, to behold so wonderfully NOBLE a conduct.
At the time when this circumstance happened, the Editor and her sister were returning, from drinking tea at the rooms, to their lodgings below the Swan Inn, such a crowd none could pass; after waiting some time, they desired their footman to push through, and learn what occasioned this violent concourse. After some time, the servant returned (he was a very worthy Gloucestershire man, so knew Mr. C
) saying,
"Oh, Madam! it is young Mr. C
, upon his knees, begging pardon of an Officer."
Both the Miss Frinshams at the same instant.—
"
Upon his knees?
"
Servant.—
"Yes, Madam; and he is making a long speech; and all the gentlemen are standing round them, looking very grave."
The next morning the walks echoed with this wonderful transaction.
Three of the Editor's old, intimate friends, the late Sir William and Sir Septimius (then Colonel) Robinson, and the sensible, worthy Philip Sharpe, Esquire, Clerk of the Privy Council, lamented over Mr. C
's having unluckily said,
"that he understood not the use of the sword, could not fight;"
that declaration, all present agreed, produced the genuflexion. Cheltenham rang with this NOBLE deed during the season. It determined the Editor, then a young single woman, that if ever she did marry, and should produce a son,
he
should learn to
use
a sword, although she trusted he might never meet with a son of the noble M
, never draw it in any private quarrel.
Mr. Monck Berkeley had the honour, the
pleasure,
to be well known to the
"sweet, amiable Lord L
,"
eldest son of the M
, as he termed him, on the Editor's asking, in her wonted way,
"What is he or she like?"
It may be hoped, this dire calamity may bring this NOBLE M
on
his
knees.
The idea of a nobleman or gentleman upon their knees to
any
BUT God, brings to the Editor's mind a circumstance of a noble Duke upon his knees (not to beg pardon), repeatedly related to her by her Mother.
It has been mentioned before, that the great controversial writer, Charles Leslie, great-grandson of the excellent Bishop of Rothes, the only
Scotch
friend of the unfortunate Queen Mary, as good Sir Nicholas Throcmorton was her only English one, spent much time at Mr. Cherry's
Mr. Leslie was staying with Mr. Cherry, at his house in town, at the time of the great storm in 1703. Mr. Cherry's Lady always, winter as well as summer, rose every morning at six o'clock, until within two years of her death at 68, when she lay till seven. She never went to rest till between twelve and one. Her daughter, Mrs. Frinsham, and one of her grand-daughters, not the Editor, could live almost without sleep. Mrs. Cherry used to say,
finches
were early birds. In the morning, at half-past five, when the house-maid went in, to light Mrs. Cherry's fire, Mr. Leslie followed her in, saying,
"Is the report true, or are my good friends living?"
Both at once blessed the mercy of God that they were. He replied,
"The whole street have been up all night, except yourselves, and are telling each other, 'Ah! poor Mr. Cherry's family, they are all killed, servants and all.' I lay till my bed was quite covered with bricks from the chimney—I then got up, and went to the farther corner, and have sat there ever since the first hour."
Mr. Cherry had gone up to see after his little girls—their excellent French governess entreated him not to awake them, so they slept through it.
, where she had often heard the following little anecdote related by Mr. Leslie; as the origin of Mr. Leslie's
"FOUR SHORT MARKS"
to ascertain the truth of historic facts related as having past long since; and which, the Editor has repeatedly heard from many learned men, cost the late Dr. Conyers Middleton twenty years' trying, but all in vain, to refute.
An excellent lady, a friend of Mr. Cherry, was very intimate with the then Duke of Leeds, who was a Deist. They often disputed on the subject. The lady happened one day to lament that, although the Duke would never pervert her to Deism, she should never be able to convert him to Christianity, for he took all her arguments to pieces. In short, his Grace was a better logician than the lady, who said,
"Now, if Mr. Leslie would teach me some arguments, I could urge them, and perhaps rescue my noble friend from his sad error."
Mr. Leslie replied,
"I will endeavour to furnish you with some arguments, that, if his Grace has an
honest
mind, will convince him of the truth of Revelation."
Accordingly, the
four marks
were given to her, and she soon produced them to her noble friend.
The next morning, as early as it was proper to send to a fine lady, perhaps
rather
earlier at the end of the seventeenth than at the close of the eighteenth century, the Duke sent to request that the lady would have the goodness to desire the gentleman who had written that paper to visit him with her. On Mr. Leslie's entering the apartment the Duke went towards him, and, like Cornelius to Saint Peter
Acts, chap. x.
, fell on his knees, burst into tears, thanked him, and besought him to pray to God to forgive the having lived so long in ignorance and error; said that he had sat up the whole night, reading it over and over, impatient for the arrival of the morning, to see and bless the hand that had rescued him from eternal misery.
Whoever has as honest a mind as this wise excellent Duke, may read these FOUR MARKS, almost
verbatim,
transcribed by the pious Mr. Nelson, in
the Monday and Tuesday in Whitsun-Week,
in his "Feasts and Fasts." The very learned late Reverend Meredith Jones, Rector of Guestling, Prebendary of Chichester, Chaplain to the present Bishop of Chichester, in a most incomparable work of his, written when a young man, without his name, and printed for B. White in 1758, says,
"I defy any
honest
Arian not to be convinced by the proofs here produced."
The book is almost as scarce as it is excellent. It proves that the filiation of the SAVIOUR of the WORLD did
not
commence until after the angel Gabriel had been sent to the Blessed Virgin. The excellent and very deeply learned Mr. Romaine says, that the distinction in the Trinity, of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, are only
office
names; for he was old-fashioned enough to believe that, in this Trinity, none was greater or less than another, &c. (See the Anathasian Creed
The book on which the witty Frank Coventry has placed his
hero
POMPEY
"the little,"
when conversing with his
friend
PUSS, in his old mistress's closet. The Editor cannot here forbear setting down
her idea
of the TRIUNE God at
seven
years old. Earnestly reading on Saints-days, &c. this
old-fashioned
creed, she puzzled her little
over
-inquisitive brain to find out some similitude; at length, standing one evening by the card-table, when the family, &c. were playing quadrille; Basto was played, and, lying some time alone on the table, it occured to her young mind that the ace of clubs was the emblem of the TRIUNE God—this entirely satisfied all her
sceptical
doubts at seven years old, and they have never, blessed be God, troubled her since. It was a wonderfully odd idea for a child; but it entirely delivered her parents from her worrying to explain the Trinity to her.
. The very learned Mr. Hawtry has lately published a similar work for
very
learned persons. Few females of the Editor's acquaintance, excepting her two old friends and namesakes Mesdames Eliza Carter and Eliza Lawrence—the latter styled by Dr. Johnson
"The English Sappho"
—are, perhaps, qualified to understand all its merits. Probably not the learned Miss
, (of whom the Editor has heard her son speak,) who have a little Greek,
"a little learning is a dangerous thing,"
would always call the Roman orator
Kickero.
—A boy should have received a
kick
for such folly. Mr. Monck Berkeley detested every kind of affection as much as his Mother. He delighted much in the conversation of the two above-named, uncommonly sensible, as well as very learned ladies. The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley say, he would prefer, were he to publish a Greek work, the criticism of Miss Eliza Lawrence, now Lady of the member for Canterbury, to most men he knew. These two
really
learned ladies are also two of the best housewives that the Editor knows.—She thinks that, in that
absolutely necessary
knowledge, both these learned ladies
equal
her ignorant
self!!!
The title of Mr. Meredith Jones's work is, "The Doctrine of the TRINITY, as it stands deduced by the Light of REASON, from the DATA laid down in the SCRIPTURES; to which are added, some Remarks on the ARIAN CONTROVERSY; also a POSTSCRIPT, containing some Observations on the Writings of Justin Martyr and Irenaeus."
The Editor trusts, for her own sake, as well as that of others, that she draws near a conclusion of this
very
long Preface, not quite unexampled; for one of the acutest writers of the latter end of the last century, that wonderful genius Charles Leslie, in his incomparable book, intituled, "THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS
Perhaps it might not be amiss if some of our learned Divines, who are such strenuous advocates for
universal unlimited
toleration to
all
the open and
sly
underminers of the excellent Church of England—until she, as in the last century, receives
her
toleration from them, when Archbishop Usher taught school for a groat a week, and two poor suffragan Bishops, Joseph Hall and Jeremy Taylor, for two-pence a week—if these learned modern Divines would take a hint from an aged Matron, and, now that Leslie's Snake is coming
boldly out
of the grass, just peep upon him
in
the grass—they might be better prepared to encounter his
hissing.
, has made his preface considerably longer than the Work itself. The Editor is conscious that she ought hardly to presume to write
her
name in the same paragraph with that great man; yet is certain that she has the happiness to resemble him in
one
thing—a most ardent wish to advance the glory of GOD and the salvation of souls. She hopes for pardon, at least from those
"who never give themselves the time or trouble to
consider
whether they have souls to be saved or not."
A young man, now no longer an inhabitant of this sublunary world, on being one day asked if a friend of his had any religion, replied,
"Of all the
young
men of my acquaintance, I do not in my conscience believe that, excepting
and
, there is one that ever gives himself the time or trouble to think
whether
he has a soul to be saved!"
Every one has redde the request of a pious dying father to a thoughtless dissipated son—to retire for one half hour every day into a room, without either pen, ink, or book. We are told it had the desired effect—he was COMPELLED to THINK.
The Editor being old-fashioned, and vulgar enough to believe a future state of rewards and punishments, and wonderfully addicted, when she loses a friend or an acquaintance, in idea to follow them over
"the dark irremiable flood,"
the river of death, and to rejoice that,
"whether they would hear, or whether they would forbear"
—for the
generality
are most
"
thoughtless,
"
that she has suggested to them, that it
might
be wise to
think
a
little about
it now and then, lest, like the wretched Lord Chesterfield, they should, when too late, experience what he certainly said,
"If I believed one word of the Bible, I would live like
."
And some years after, not long before his death,
"I have a frightful long journey to take in the
dark,
and I do not know one step of the way."
Could one of those friends
return
to earth,
how
would they reproach those who forbore to warn them to flee to the only TRUE consolation in TIME, and through the countless NEVER-ending ages of ETERNITY.
The Editor, ever addicted to scribbling, to composing—for she amused herself with writing two
sermons
at
eleven
years old—has long been in the habit of composing prayers for her own
sole
use, not for her own
sole
benefit—takes leave here to subjoin a part of one used by her
every
morning, as soon as she opens her eyes, and, to her wonder, finds herself an inhabitant of this
thorny
wilderness.
"* * * * * Grant, I earnestly beseech thee, O my God! that I may not pass this day, or any succeeding one of my life, without doing
some
good to the souls, bodies, or fortunes, particularly the
souls,
of my relations, friends, benefactors, servants, neighbours, and acquaintance, or those that I may chance to meet with; and this I beg, for the merits, death, and passion's sake of Him who went about doing good to
all
—who died for all who truly call on him—Jesus Christ the Righteous."
The Editor daily uses the very short beautiful prayer of ARMINE NICHOL, the famous pious German maid servant, now as much higher, as she was here holier, than, perhaps, any of her contemporary Princesses of the whole Germanic body. That every one who reads this may profit by it, is the ardent wish of the Editor,
Eliza Berkeley.
Of Mr. Monck Berkeley's genius many of those who read what he has written may be competent judges. To attempt to do justice to the exquisite amiability, generosity, and nobleness of his heart, the wonderful strength and soundness of his judgement, the brilliancy of his imagination and ready wit, his wonderful wilfulness in youth, the great steadiness of his temper, and the exquisite loveliness of his nature, even in very early youth, would fill a small volume, which would be an entertaining one, and would require the
knowledge
of the Writer of this Preface, and the
pen
of his favourite Dr. Johnson.
Mr. Berkeley, like the excellent, Honourable Captain Hamilton, of the Lancaster man of war, father of the Marquis of Abercorn, never could behold a cloud of distress on any brow, even on that of a perfect stranger, without not only wishing, but even endeavouring, to remedy or alleviate their sorrows, in which they both often succeeded with high and low; many curious instances of which might be related.
Of the excellent, amiable Captain Hamilton, the Editor has frequently heard his very worthy brother, the Honourable and Reverend Mr. Hamilton, Canon of Windsor, relate the following story, which shall be given in his own words.
"My brother was going one day from town, to dine with several of his friends at Lord
's (name forgotten by the Editor). It was at the time when Westminster Bridge was either building or repairing. Captain Hamilton got into the great ferry-boat; after having seated himself, he observed a middle-aged farmer-like man sitting with his arms folded, regardless of all that passed; no one, perhaps, but my excellent brother would have thought of enquiring into the cause. He spoke to him two or three times. His answers were as laconic as might consist with civility. This only served to convince my brother that the man was under some distress, which it was possible he might alleviate,
if he could but find it out.
Accordingly he requested one of the passengers to exchange seats with him. He now placed himself close to the poor man, and said, 'My friend, you seem unhappy."
Farmer.—
"Yes, Sir, I am so.
Capt. H.—
"Can I do any thing to relieve you?
Farmer.—
"No, Sir, I thank you.
Capt. H.—
"Do, my poor friend, tell me your distress; perhaps I may be able to assist you.
Farmer.—
"No, Sir, you cannot."
"Nobody but
my brother
would, after this, have persevered. He intreated the man to tell him the cause of his distress; who began thus:
"Oh! Sir, you are so kind, I must tell you. About a fortnight ago a man came to my house in Devonshire, telling me, that a relation of mine had died very rich, and left me and my brothers his money, but that I must go to London to see after it, or we should lose it. I took him in; made him very welcome; and, in a few days, set out with him for London, mounted on two of my best horses. He said I must carry a pretty good bag of money
The Editor thinks it was about £70.
, just to fee the lawyers, and bear my expences in town. I paid the road all the way up. The morning after we came to town, he took me to Westminster Hall, where we saw a vast many lawyers in black gowns; but he said his lawyer was not there that day, and we must go again; but advised me, as he was more used to London than I was, to let him carry the money-bag. We walked about, a day or two, to look at fine places, and yesterday we got in one place into a great crowd, and I lost him. I have been looking for him, and for the inn where we lodged, and cannot for the life of me find either. I am afraid the man is a rogue, and I shall lose all my money; but that I do not value, if I could but have got my poor horses; for they are very fine, and worth a deal of money."
"My brother asked him, in what part of the town his inn lay."—He replied, "That, never having been in town before, he knew not, nor the sign of the inn, only that it had
great gates.
'—My brother said, 'Well, my friend, instead of going to my friends, you and I will go back to London in the boat, and try to find your inn and your horses.'
"The poor man's countenance brightened. They returned, set out on this benevolent wild-goose chase, my brother charging the man to keep fast hold of him if they got into any crowd. Every inn, from Whitehall, quite through the City, the Strand, and Holborn, was shewn to him. After some hours they got into Aldersgate Street, at the upper end of which the poor man exclaimed, 'Oh! God bless you, Sir,
this is the inn!
' He flew into the yard, went to the stable, where stood his two fine horses, which the sharper had not taken away. My brother enquired if he did not want money to take him home; the honest man replied, 'No, God reward you, Sir; luckily I took three guineas loose in my pocket, before I gave him the bag to take care of."
The angelic-hearted Captain Hamilton left his party to dine without him, and joined them not until the next day. It is almost superfluous to add, that, whilst he resided at Bear-hill House in Berkshire, he was the idol of all his neighbours, high and low.—He enjoyed the
"Peace of God,"
which made him ever chearful, and he had wonderful good-will towards man. An attempt to describe the sincere lamentations at his early (one must not presume to add untimely) death
The Editor cannot forbear to insert here part of a letter, written at the time, by an old intimate friend of her early youth—the
learned, benevolent
author
of
"
Christianity not founded on argument.
"—
"Your excellent neighbour, poor Captain Hamilton, got on the keel of the boat three times, and was washed off again. He humbly, earnestly, begged the sailors pardon for having brought them into such peril, told them how merciful God was in granting them that little time to fly to Christ for mercy. He preached like an Apostle. Upon my word, Christianity
cuts a noble figure
in the hands of such an hero."
A naval officer, not many months ago, told the Editor what she never heard before, that Captain Hamilton had not been drowned at last, but that he was pinioned—he was endeavouring to take off his coat, when the waves washed him off the third time. Who can reget that he went to glory in Heaven so many years sooner than by the course of nature?
would be as vain as fruitless.
This excellent man lived to Christ, was owned by him in death, and is now rejoicing with him in glory. Captain Hamilton was convinced, that not every one that
saith,
"Lord, Lord!"
shall enter into the kingdom of Heaven. He acted, as well as talked, like a Christian, having constantly prayers twice every day on-board his ship; and, when on land, his family was constantly assembled as often. An eminent Divine says, although Adam's sin does, yet grace does not, run in the veins. Captain Hamilton's mother was NOT a saint,
i. e. sancta,
like himself!!!
Mr. Berkeley's mind, from the time he could articulate, appeared to be of so very extraordinary and singular a turn, as determined his Mother to watch over him with the utmost vigilance, during the time that, to use the language of the wise Lord Halifax, in his Advice to his Daughter,
"We are entirely under your government, and indeed through life you have so much influence over us, that it behoves us to take the greatest care that you (females) are well educated."
Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, used frequently to say,
"Let a man commit whatever he can, except the not being a good Greek or Latin scholar, my Mother constantly says, That was his Mother's fault, poor young man!"
Mrs. Berkeley as constantly charged the improper behaviour of young ladies on the father,
if
he was a man who had lived in the world. It would be cruel to charge it on a man entirely devoted to study; but there are few such now amongst persons of a certain rank in society.
Mrs. Berkeley, from long observation, saw how naturally youths are attached to the mother, and girls to the father. The reason is obvious. The mother is not finding fault with her Son's slovenly Latin and Greek exercises; nor the father of the young lady's monkey-tricks, when she should be learning History, Geography, Drawing, Music, &c. so much as often to occasion the late excellent Lady P
, the bosom-friend from early infancy of the Editor, to say
"It was impossible that children, particularly girls, should love a mother that did her duty as she ought by them."
She, as her friend always assured her she would, experienced the contrary. Her children, when they grew up, were lovely, and loved her much. She was indeed lovely; she has frequently wept with vexation, that she had not the clam, not to be shaken, steadiness of mr. Berkeley's mother. It was perhaps, according to the old French proverb,
"
Dieu donne la robe selon le froid.
"
Mr. Berkeley's maternal grandfather, with the same lovely nature as Mr. Berkeley had, when a child of only four years and an half old, on his father's whipping him the third time for wilfulness, resolved, as the Writer of this Preface has often heard him say, to tire his father out; and he thought that about seven or eight times would do it. Luckily for him his mother intreated his father to give it up: to which he replied,
"No; I will whip him till to-morrow morning, rather than let him get the better of me."
THAT he thought would be
rather
too long; so instantly submitted.
It was really entertaining to hear from Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, his wonderfully deep-laid schemes to conquer his Mother; but he used to add,
"I never did once succeed; yet still I persevered, till reason, pretty early in life, convinced me of my folly."
He would frequently exclaim,
"Oh! the Wise King was inspired, when he gave his lessons for education in the book of Proverbs; and, blessed be God, MY Mother had the sense to make his directions the rule of her conduct. God knows what would have become of me by the time I had been ten years old, with my sort of spirit and temper."
From two years old until the last breath he drew, perhaps no one ever loved a Mother with such exquisite tenderness as Mr. Berkeley; of which a million of instances might be related. Mrs. Berkeley used often to say, on shewing any curious thing presented to her by Mr. Berkeley,
"I am persuaded, if my Son visited any odd place, where nothing was to be procured but tanned bulls' hides, he would say, Pray pick out the very best, and send it directed to Mrs. Berkeley, the Oaks, Canterbury."
Mr. Berkeley's gratitude to his Father was very great on several accounts, particularly on two. Mr. Berkeley from a child, and through life, was an enthusiastic lover of music. Like most, he was exceedingly anxious to learn to play the violin, which his Father early, very wisely, told him he
never
should do; and Mr. Berkeley used always to say,
"He was sure, had he learned, it would have been his destruction."
In the early part of Mr. Berkeley's life, he played on the German flute; but an hereditary illness, the asthma, attacked him at the age of about seventeen. The advice of the very judicious, worthy Dr. Biddle of Windsor, so entirely cured him, that he never had a second serious attack. The Doctor said,
"Mr. Berkeley was the youngest patient he ever attended in that frightful disorder."
He bade him lay aside his German flute, and charged him never to give the view halloo. Mr. Berkeley at that time hunted regularly twice a week with the buck-hounds
Mr. Berkeley used frequently, at his return on hunting days, to say,
"There is a fellow, a well-mounted butcher, that I longed to knock down. He seems to
delight
in crossing the King, so as really sometimes to endanger his Majesty.
Nothing ever
makes me do it. I wonder what the wretch is made of."
To which Dr. Berkeley used to reply,
"Why of
bulls' hides,
child, to be sure."
His heart certainly was not cast in the same mould with the amiable, elegant butcher, standing to represent the town of Hythe in parliament, whose conduct on the hustings to the Peer that opposed him is well known to every Kentish person.
. He wisely obeyed both injunctions.
The father and mother of Bishop Berkeley, although not at all related before their marriage (Mrs. Berkeley was aunt to old General Wolfe, father of the famous General of that name,) both died in the same week of the asthma, and were interred at the same time in the same grave. They were a happy pair through life, and happy in not being divided in death. It cannot be said, that they died an untimely death
Old Lady Bannister, aged more than an hundred, grandmother of the late Lady Abdy, when her children and grandchildren were lamenting over her, with her wonted vivacity, said,
"Children, don't stand crying and whining over me. I am sure you cannot say that I die
an untimely death.
"
.
, both being near ninety. They lived to breed up six sons, gentlemen
Bishop Berkeley received his school education at Kilkenny. He had, like other boys, cut his name with a knife on some post or table. It was protected and shewn to strangers. A very few years ago, an Irish gentleman told Dr. Berkeley, that a malicious boy one day cut it clean out, for which the Master flogged him very severely. The Editor does not recollect the name; but thinks it was not JONES: perhaps the poor stupid boy did it on the same principle on which the low-lived wretch acted, who burned the Temple of Diana at Ephesus.
. They lived to see the eldest a Bishop some years before their death—a Bishop who did honour to episcopacy, by his learning, his munificence, his piety, his wonderfully well-judged charities.
The Sunday after the hard frost set in, the Bishop appeared at breakfast with his
Cloyne-made
wig. All the Bishop's
own
cloaths, as well as his liveries, were constantly made at the
little
village of Cloyne. He permitted his sons to employ a Cork tailor. The Bishop's wig was without a grain of powder. On his Lady's expressing her astonishment at his wonderful appearance, he replied,
"We shall soon have a famine; and I have expressly ordered, that none of the servants put any powder into their wigs, neither will I."
The chaplain, secretary, and all, took the hint. A certain Bishop, as soon as the tax was laid, took out a licence for three men, and his Lady's maid. Bishop Berkeley, during the frost and scarcity, gave, every Monday morning, twenty guineas to the poor.
Primate Boulter gave to the poor that winter ten thousand pounds. The then Lord Bishop of Cork, (Dr. Peter Brown
Whoever has not redde Bishop Peter Brown's Sermons, those which describe our frail,
no longer frail
bodies when clad with glory, has much pleasure to come.
, uncle to the late agreeable Archbishop of Tuam, and great uncle to the Editor's
young—old
friend Jemmet Brown, of Riverstown in the county of Cork, who frequently spent his holydays when at Westminster at Dr. Berkeley's,) a single man, gave thirty pounds every week. One day the mayor, his almoner, came, when, the money being all gone, the good Prelate gave all his plate.
The Bishop of Cork was great uncle to the Reverend James Brown of Rivers Town, the present possessor of the fine ring, the only jewel which his truly honourable grandsire would accept from the Spanish lady, after Colonel Brown had said,
"Cease, fair lady, cease this strife;
"I have in England a fair lady wife.
"I would not falsify my vow for gold or gain;
"No, not for
all
the fairest dames in Spain."
To be sure, Colonel Brown had some
odd
ideas, perhaps from his grandmother, from which most of our modern heroes are
entirely
free. As to the generality of our fair dames of these days, if they chance to meet with a humoursome or unkind husband
Parents are
wretches
who marry poor girls of sixteen or seventeen to animals, to Hodmadods, because they are rich. The Editor had formerly two friends thus sacrificed at sixteen; one had thirty-five thousand pounds, the other had seventy thousand pounds. Neither, had they been permitted to remain single until twenty-two, would have taken their husbands for
under
-footmen. The six thousand pounds
per annum
was, alas! still is, a noisy mischievous Baboon. The other, a poor, quiet, stupid rake, who several times endangered, in fact ruined, his lady's health—but peace to his manes—he died a penitent, and left his relict immense riches, all he had. The other lives,
perhaps
to get the
silken
halter, which the Editor's sister, Mrs. Frinsham promised a lady, who said,
"that she thought he deserved EVERY thing
but
an halter."
Mrs. Frinsham, in her wonted way, said,
"Yes, yes, hang him, you may give him a
silk
halter, if you please."
Both these very sensible, highly cultivated ladies made most excellent wives; one, alas! still does—almost too good; for she suffers this wretch to force her to request her excellent, worthy, eldest son to enable the father to beggar, by degrees, himself. A woman
owes
a duty to her children, as well as to her husband.
, they fly to an Officer of the Guards, instead of to some old reverend Divine, for counsel and consolation, as our great-grandmothers were wont to do; for, to suppose that there were
no
unpleasant husbands in the last century, would be to suppose that miracles had not
then
ceased; but the beauteous young dames were then differently educated, and
decently
attired.
A few years ago, Mr. Brown taking his ring off to wash his fingers after dinner, three ladies hid it from him. For three days he supposed it lost, and was, as he well might, exceedingly distressed. They deserved a trip at least
half way
to Botany Bay for their cruelty; since which he has never worne it, but keeps the invaluable jewel locked up, and only shews it to those friends who wish to see so noble, so honourable a curiosity.
In one of Mr. Berkeley's idle fits, he was wild to go into the Army, that he might take a
handsome
leave of Greek and Latin; and, by a noble connexion of his Father's, he had the offer of a Cornetcy in the Oxford Blues. This, at the age of fifteen, put him into an extacy; and he used all his eloquent rhetoric on his Father to obtain his permission; but, as he used to say,
"Happily in those things my Father was as steady as my Mother in other respects where she was concerned."
Dr. Berkeley used to say to his Son,
"If, after you have left Eton, and spent four years at Oxford, you wish, as it is
possible
you may, to go into the army, you shall have my free consent."
Dr. Berkeley valued an English,
i.e.
not a
foreign
university education, as highly as did the Editor from the age of fifteen.
Nothing
could have tempted her to marry a gentleman who had not passed some years either at Oxford, Cambridge, or Dublin. It certainly infuses something into the brains even of the most
hair-brained
youths that they very rarely get elsewhere. Several gentlemen of the different regiments of cavalry constantly quartered at Canterbury had received that advantage; and Dr. Berkeley, who sometimes dined at the mess with his military acquaintance, at his return home used to say,
"I wonder all the young men, when they see the deference paid by the whole regiment to Captain or Major
, do not use their time of absence at the University."
Mr. Berkeley, during his residence in Scotland, accepted a commission in the Royal Edinburgh Volunteers, raised to quell some riots in the neighbourhood of that city; which occasioned a gentleman's asking him,
"if he had not some thoughts of going into the army."
He replied,
"No, Sir, my Father's wisdom kept me out when I was an idle boy, and my own will keep me out now that I am a man. Nothing but his Majesty's erecting his standard will ever make
me a
military man; in that case, I should feel it my DUTY to repair to it."
One trait more of Mr. Berkeley's singular temper shall suffice. Like all other children, he had been early told, that it was utterly impossible to form a syllable in any known language without the aid of at least one vowel. It was Mrs. Berkeley's constant custom to go every night, before she sat down to supper, to the
rooms
of her children (for she never suffered them to sleep together) to see if they lay straight, and had closed their eyes before they went to sleep, as many eyes are injured by sleeping without this necessary care. One night, on entering Mr. Berkeley's room, she saw his fine eyes rolling about, and began to give him a lesson for not going to sleep as soon as he went to bed, at seven. He replied,
"I cannot sleep for thinking"
—(the misery of too many older persons; it certainly occasioned the death of that wonderful genius, the late agreable, amiable, excellent Mr. Gainsborough, Dissenting Minister at Henley upon Thames, elder brother to the justly celebrated painter, Mr. Gainsborough of Bath; but it may be in general avoided by care;) as the Editor knows by experience, and, when grown up a man, taught her Son—for which
he blessed her
Her.
]—The Marquis of Lansdown has complimented the Wise old King, by adorning his lovely first Lady's costly monument in High Wycombe Church with several verses from the Book of Proverbs, not engraved in verses, but as a long sentence, and at the bottom,
"SOLOMON."
Dr. Berkeley felt much gratitude to the polite Marquis for his very amiable attention, in repeatedly obtaining his Majesty's permission to omit his residence at Canterbury during the years he was attending his Son at St. Andrew's. The Marquis and Dr. Berkeley were at Christ Church at the same time.
.
Mrs. B.—
"How dared you set to thinking? What are you thinking on?"
Mr. B.—
"Why you have often told me, that it was impossible to form a syllable without a vowel; and therefore I have
long resolved to do it,
and to-night have been thinking till my head runs round; and I believe I have tried five hundred words, throwing out the vowels, but I have not
yet
compassed it."
Before six years old he could spell every word in the English language without book, and before he had completed his eighth year knew how to introduce them with propriety when occasion served, which rendered his language remarkably elegant—not all mono- and dis-syllables, as is often the case with children, insomuch as to make the learned, accomplished Sir John Temple, of America, say,
"My nephew, at near sixteen, a pretty good Latin and Greek scholar, can no more express his sentiments in the language of this little creature, than I could scale the skies;"
adding,
"I shall watch him as he grows up; and farewell to my sagacity if he does not make a most extraordinary man indeed."
The worthy Sir John needs not bid adieu to that trait of his fine strong understanding. The Editor has not heard of any of her beloved respected American friends for many years.
Mrs. George Berkeley, being little addicted to going from home, and Dr. Berkeley's hospitality very great, Mr. Monck Berkeley, when any of his
ton
friends or acquaintance were going to the Continent, Margate, Ramsgate, &c. &c. used to give them a letter of introduction to his Father, or his Mother, which occasioned the latter to say,
"that she was the
good woman
who kept the sign of the
Berkeley arms.
"
This so tickled the fancy of Mr. Monck Berkeley, that the next time he visited at home, he brought a print of Lord Berkeley's arms, framed and glazed.
The next day Mrs. Berkeley, passing through the hall, seeing something that she had not been accustomed to see, called to Mr. Wrightson to know what it was. He replied,
"that Mr. Berkeley had ordered his man to hang it up
This worthy man, from his first coming into the family, a lad, before Mr. Monck Berkeley's birth, was an excellent hand in assisting Dr. Berkeley's young friends from Oxford, and his relations from Ireland, together with the ladies of the family, in a joke to enliven Dr. Berkeley when out of spirits. (He continued it for his beloved Mr. Monck Berkeley.) One of which jokes was a ring at the front gate, just as it was dusk, to make Dr. Berkeley believe that his dear Jemmy Hamilton was arrived, as Mr. Hamilton never fixed the day. This worthy domestic showed his good judgement at fourteen. One of the maids saying to him,
"If I was you—I would not help to make a FOOL of my Master so often."
To which, as the Editor's servant told her, Mr. Wrightson sensibly replied,
"Indeed I shall. Don't you think that my Mistress, the ladies, and the young gentlemen, know what liberties they may take with my Master better than you or I do: besides, my Master was never once angry with me for it in his life; only says,
Jack you are are a sad rogue.
"
."
Mrs. Berkeley, having recourse to her glass, soon discovered her Son's
fun;
and, on seeing him, told him,
"that his Father's
ten crosses
had no right to supporters, except himself and his Mother, who ought to take care not to make the
ten twelve;
that, if he wished for
crowned
supporters, he must begin to open his mouth in Westminster Hall
One of the Earl of Berkeley's supporters is crowned, as Dr. Berkeley has told the Editor, to mark that the family are descended from a king—of Denmark.
."
Mr. Berkeley conjured his Mother to let it hang up; to which she consented, on condition of its being removed from the hall into the anti-room leading to the eating-room in the Oaks.
The arms still hang up—and if any of the Editor's old friends, Scotch or English, should wish to breathe a little of the soft air of Chertsey, and happen to recollect that she lives at that beautiful town, and call, she cannot, with truth, say, that
"
Here is good entertainment for man and horse;
"
but she can, and does say, that there is hearty welcome to—if they are
in
luck—a slice of leg of mutton—if
out
of luck—hashed mutton and a tart;—and, whilst the Editor's
now
small stock lasts, a bottle of good old port or sherry; but, after her
one
glass
per diem
has exhausted it, she believes they must bring their bottle
under their arm,
as the new wine-tax has quite scared her.
Mrs. Berkeley cannot pretend to assert, that the BERKELEY ARMS is the
best
inn at Chertsey; for the Swan, kept by the uncommonly sensible, clever Mrs. Daniel, mother of the Messrs. Daniel, who have lately published some fine things, which the Editor cannot afford to purchase, and if she could, has not time to contemplate and admire, as she hears all others do, certainly excells the BERKELEY ARMS at present, for the Editor conceives, that Mrs. Daniel, the post-mistress here,
could
conduct a post
Most inn-keepers' widows find out very soon that a
helpless widow
cannot carry on business, so—marry their waiter, hostler, or some such
proper
man. The Editor has known in her life three or four who have not; she feels
unfeigned
respect for such wise women. When a young woman, she always despised Mothers—who were threatening their boys, with
"I'll tell your PAPA of you;"
always declaring, if God sent her boys, she would
try
if
she
could not manage them without calling the
aid
of PAPA. Dear lady P
used to say,
"You have kept your word to a tittle. Batchelors' wives and maids' children is not
your
case, my dear friend, you have a knack,
that is certain.
I wish I could learn it of you."
Sweet friend, thou learnedst
better
things!
, and procure a post-horn, the pleasantest music imaginable, without sending every letter to and from Staines. Some days there are more than
fourscore,
as the Editor is informed.
Mrs. Berkeley one day received a letter from her Son, saying,
"that in about a fortnight she would receive a visit from the Princess de Lambelle, and that he was sure she would have pleasure in making her Highness's few days
séjour
at Canterbury as agreeable as possible."
In answer to which epistle, the Editor wrote as follows:
My dear Son,
If you will
inflict
Princesses, as guests, upon your poor Mother, I hope you will at least have the goodness to
instruct
her in what manner she is to
comport
herself towards them. She has had the honour to entertain Baronesses, &c. &c. up to Duchesses; but when she comes to
Princesses,
she is
quite out of her Diocese
This sentence was a cant phrase in the family. A poor lady in the neighbourhood of Cloyne, being seized with a phrensy fever, and continuing long ill, Bishop Berkeley, being out early one morning, before enquiry had been regularly made, stepping into the coach, asked his faithful old coachman if he happened to hear how Mrs.
did? He replied,
"Oh! very ill indeed, my Lord; she is
quite
out of her
Diocese.
"
indeed.
Who is to be invited to meet her? What is to become of her suite? To be sure, they are
too fine
for John, &c.
To which an immediate answer was returned, of the following purport:
"Only
must be invited to meet her. With regard to her suite, they will all be at the Lyon, whither I have recommended her Highness. The Marchioness of
, and the Count and Countess of
(names forgotten,) will dine with her Highness, at the same table, in the humble eating-room at the Oaks."
Matters thus adjusted, the Editor, who, during Dr. Berkeley's life, always kept an excellent cook, set her spirit quite at rest, expecting, in due time, the arrival of a fine French
lacquais,
announcing when she must go to the Lyon,
request the honour,
&c.
One morning, before the expiration of the fortnight, on going down to breakfast, Mr. Wrightson delivered to her a letter, which she saw was directed by her Son. It contained only:
My dearest Madam,
You will have the honour to receive this from the hands of the Princess de Lambelle; and I am persuaded, that my Father, to whom I request you to present my duty, and yourself, will have great
pleasure in doing yourselves the honour to pay every possible attention to her Highness; in doing which, you will greatly oblige
Your most dutiful, affectionate son, and obedient servant, GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY.
It may perhaps be asked, how became Mr. Berkeley so well acquainted, so interested, for this lovely unfortunate Princess? His noble friends at Blenheim did him the honour to invite Mr. Berkeley, during her Highness's visit at their delightful abode. Mr. Berkeley escorted her to Nuneham, and waited on her whilst she viewed all the noble buildings, paintings, &c. at Oxford. She said she much wished to see Cambridge; but that, if she went, she feared she should not find
a
Mr. Berkeley there.
Mr. Berkeley, with his wonted amiablility and alertness, told her Highness, that
"if she wished to go thither, he would, with great pleasure, give her a letter of introduction to the Vice-chancellor, who was a very intimate friend of his Father, and with whom
he
had the happiness to be well acquainted, the very learned, accomplished, polite Dr. Farmer, Master of Emanuel College."
He accordingly did so. She said,
"She wished to see every thing that was curious during her stay in England;"
adding,
"I hear that there is a curious Cathedral at Canterbury. I saw nothing but a very old city, and a vast multitude of people."
Asking Mr. Berkeley, as he seemed to have a large acquaintance,
"if he happened to know any one at Canterbury, to whom he could be so good as to give her a letter of introduction—just to shew her what was worthy attention there?"
Mr. Berkeley told her,
"
that
he could most certainly do, for that his Father and Mother resided there, and would have great pleasure
Perhaps Mr. Berkeley, in this instance, resembled SPONSORS at the FONT (who promise
a great deal
indeed, which the Editor
never
would,
never
will do, whilst she retains her poor faculties,) promising what
pleasure
his
Mother
would have.—The pleasure would have been, by rebound, gratifying her lovely Son.
Entertaining
Princesses is
too mighty
a task for a poor quiet country gentlewoman. Indeed Mr. Berkeley only said, she would receive every
attention.
That her Highness certainly and probably would have accepted
more
graciously than did an English
titled dame
of Mr. Berkeley's
inflicting,
who talked during the time of dinner, as
ton
dames frequently do.—But, on the drawing-room filling with ladies and gentlemen in the afternoon, every way
her
superior
save
in birth, never opened her mouth but to Dr. Berkeley and the Editor; which occasioned Mrs. Berkeley's asking her Son, when he came to the Oaks,
"if
was not a very stupied woman."
—
"No my dear Mother, but she despised
your
visitors."
She can talk at a fine rout in town, I promise you. The Editor forbears setting down
her
answer. Dr. Young shall now speak,
—"How will ye weather an ETERNAL night?"
,"
&c. &c.
On hearing this, her Highness exulted, expecting, probably, to find as good a show-man in the Father as she had found in the Son. Dr. Berkeley could most elegantly, most highly, entertain his friends in almost every
other
way; but, as a show-man, he was so notoriously bad, that a gentleman, a very near relation of his, used to say,
"George is the idlest dog upon earth. One may come from Ireland, stay a month at Cookham, live on the fat of the land, and, but for Mrs. George Berkeley, go back again without seeing even either Cliefden's 'proud alcove,' or Windsor Castle, to say nothing of half a score other beautiful places within a drive of his house, to which, with much ado, Mrs. Berkeley drags him, as she will not leave him to dine at home without her."
The Editor laid it down as a rule when she married, and she strictly adhered to it, never to go any where in a morning, that would not admit of her placing herself at table at three o'clock, unless Dr. Berkeley ordered dinner later.
Dr. Berkeley was famous, when at Oxford, for
not
going on parties; so as to occasion Mr. James Hamilton aforenamed to say,
"Berkeley had always
one
answer at Oxford. 'Oh! not
I
indeed;
I
have seen Blenheim.'—So now it is, '
I
have seen Windsor Castle,"
&c. The fact is, Dr. Berkeley, on his arrival at Oxford, the first long vacation, flew half over England; added to which, any bodily exercise brought on with him, as with his Father, who used no exercise at all, but in the easiest hung coach, for many years, a constant hectic feverishness.
Mr. Berkeley did not at all resemble a late worthy Fellow of All Souls College. The Editor one day, many years ago, asking a very witty Fellow of that College, if he was acquainted with Dr. B
r of his College; he replied in the affirmative, adding,
"he is a very worthy man, but never
throughly
happy when he has not some
Prince
of the GERMANIC BODY to
escort
about the University."
The Princess de Lambelle, although she did not see, was seen at Canterbury. The day after her passing through Canterbury from Dover, the Editor met her old,
very highly
respected friend Captain Gostling
The Editor, the
last
time that she visited Canterbury, enquiring after her old friend, of his wonderfully witty sister Mrs. H. Gostling, who could
banish
solitude from a
desart,
whether she was to ask after him as
Major
or
Colonel,
replied,
"Oh! dear, Madam,
neither;
he prides himself (no great honour to others) on being the
oldest Captain
in the service. Had the old excellent Duke of Montague, who got for him his ensigncy at thirteen, been living, he had not now "whereof to glory" thus."
, who reproached her for not having stepped down to the city to look at the Princess de Lambelle, saying,
"I think
every body
but yourself was there."
To which the Editor replied,
"that she was too old and too stupid to go to SEE any body;"
(she did not add
"
hear
any thing;"
for she would, if she could afford to hire horses, willingly drive twenty miles, at least once every week, to listen to the conversation of Mr. BURKE;) adding,
"I dare say, the wise folks were all disappointed."
To which Captain Gostling replied,
"I was not; for, I think, in my conscience
I think in my conscience the Editor does verily believe that her old friend Captain Gostling has a conscience as
"
void of offence towards
GOD
and
MAN"
as most men have ever enjoyed, and so his soldiers think.
, that she is altogether the very finest
woman
that the Almighty ever formed."
The Editor begged, as she always does, to except her
lamentably curious
grandmother EVE before the Fall. Why would the silly woman
The witty and (as the Editor has heard her Mother say) worthy Bishop Hickman, in one of his Sermons, says, that the
sad dialogue
between the
Lady
and the Serpent (ladies
should not be familiar
with the Serpent, however beautiful their
outwara
appearance may be) has the following sentence,
"Eve, in conversing with the Devil, adds to God's command of not tasting the forbidden fruit one of not touching it; she broke her own command, and found no inconvenience; she then ventured to break God's, and so brought misery on all her descendants, &c."
The Editor, as Atheist Gibbon says,
"quotes this from memory not having redde it since she was sixteen years old; but she frequently finds occasion to quote it to those of her acquaintance who seem to wish to be MORE RIGHTEOUS than GOD."
The Editor writes it with due veneration; but there were always Pharisees.
wish to know evil? As much good as you please, Sir Serpent, but NO evil for me.
A gentleman, very many years ago, mentioned to the Editor, that he had been taught by a very learned anatomical gentleman a method of separating the soul from the body, without a possibility of being suspected of suicide; adding, that he would tell it to her: she begged to be excused hearing it, lest, at any time of deep affliction, the enemy of her soul might tempt her to practise it. She also conjured him to let it die with him, as
angelic
BOYLE did his secret of discharging ink. The Editor believes her friend took her advice, as he is dead, and she has never heard any thing of this
dangerous
secret.
Mr. Monck Berkeley, in one of his letters to his Mother, speaking of her after much eulogium, adds,
"I am afraid I am
really
in love with her without knowing it."
Some pains were taken to conceal from Mr. Berkeley, just then within a few days of his death, the dreadful fate of this lady, and of poor Louis the Sixteenth; but in vain. It was said,
"that the monster who murdered this lady received the wages of his iniquity in England, at the banking-house of an old amiable friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley, Mr. Chambers in Bond Street, one poor hundred pounds only."
Our Blessed Master says,
"What shall it profit a man, if he gain the
whole
world, and lose his own soul?"
But few Papists are permitted to read the Book of God.
This brings to the Editor's remembrance a dialogue that many years ago passed between the late King George the Second and the French Ambassador at Herenhausen, one day at dinner, when a relation of the Editor, the late Richard Powney, Esquire, Fellow of All Souls College, had the honour to dine with his Majesty, who, when abroad, laid aside royalty, and wished his guests to forget that he was a King.
The Ambassador, a lively man, said,
"YOU poor Kings never made so
pitiful
figures as when Joshua had
seven
of you shut up in a cave together."
The King replied,
"Ah! you Papists do not read the Bible, or you would know that he had but
five
of us in the cave."
Mr. Powney, who entertained a table full of company at Dr. Berkeley's with this anecdote, said,
"Every one admired the ready wit of the King;"
and all the company laughed heartily.
This lovely—must one style her unhappy or happy?—Princess could not avail herself of Mr. Monck Berkeley's politeness.
An order arriving in England from the unfortunate Louis XVI. for all his subjects to return to France, an express followed the Princess to Cambridge. The Editor thinks she recollects hearing her Son say that she had been there some days.
This order was so urgent, that the Princess only stayed in Canterbury to change horses for Dover, at three in the morning. At eight Mr. Monck Berkeley's letter, mentioned above as to be received from the fair hands of the beauteous Princess, was brought to the Oaks by the honest hostler of the Lyon, and delivered with
"
Mrs. Lambelle's
best compliments to Mrs. Berkeley, and she was very sorry she could not visit her as it was so early, but that she should be in Canterbury again very soon, when she would come—and that Mr. Berkeley, the gentleman who wrote the letter, which Mrs. Lambelle charged him to deliver safe, was very well."
The Princess's degradation by the honest hostler afforded much diversion to Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley and their friends. Alas! what degradation did her lovely, lifeless from suffer after it was lifeless? for, it is very certain she
"never
saw,
"
although she tasted, as every mortal must, death; for her sweet spirit was dismissed from the lovely casket in a single instant. Happy if found washed clean in the atoning blood of God, cloathed with the robes of HIS RIGHTEOUSNESS, and her spirit renewed by
that
Spirit which HE died to purchase for all that throughly turn to HIM! See the viiith chapter to the Romans; which glorious chapter, the Editor has heard Dr. Berkeley say, his great-grandfather, Mr. Monck of Grange-Gormond, when old, and visited at times, perhaps not
very
often, by his fine young lady and gentlemen grandchildren, used, his large Bible always lying on the table, to request them to read to him, which occasioned
their
supposing that the old gentleman
doated.
The late very pious Dr. Booth, Dean of Windsor, was so addicted to talk on the same
delightful
subject, that the Editor well remembers a gentleman coming in one evening to her house, when she resided at Windsor thirty-six years ago, and, happening to say
"he came from the Deanry,"
a gentleman asked,
"Did you hear any news?"
Mr. Trevanion
The worthy uncle of the present Member of Parliament for Dover.
.—
"No."
Gentleman.—
"What did you talk about?"
Mr. Trevanion.—
"Why on the Dean's beloved topic, the great blessing of REDEMPTION, the wonders of REDEEMING LOVE. Aye, aye, good man; he never seems to enjoy any other conversation."
How happy in
age
to resemble the
friends
of St. Paul!
"whose conversation,"
the Apostle tells us,
"is in Heaven,"
&c. &c. May that of the Editor, and all her beloved
aged
friends, be daily more and more so, is her
ardent wish.
When last at Canterbury, the Editor requested her worthy friend, the throughly elegant amiable Mrs. Hughes, to say to her relation, the Reverend Mr. Hambley, the present vicar of Cookham, how very sensibly dear Dr. Berkeley and herself felt that universally beloved gentleman's polite, generous, pleasant conduct, on Dr. Berkeley resigning that lovely spot. Lest it should have slipped that lady's memory, the Editor inserts part of a letter of hers to Dr. Berkeley, who, as well as her Son, preserved all her scrawls:
"You bade me draw the character of your successor (at Cookham). You observed that he had LYONS in his bearing armorial: to
that
they are confined, I really believe. He seems to have much of the Lamb in his nature and manners, and I do not suspect that he is a wolf in sheep's cloathing; which I abhor. Suppose we get our worthy friend Sir Isaac to exchange the noble Savage for the lovely Lamb for him?"
Mrs. Berkeley gladly embraces this opportunity of holding up to its merited praise so amiable a character.
It may be asked,
"What could
Mrs.
Berkeley have to do with dilapidations during the life of Dr. Berkeley?"
She has, alas! had
too
much to do with them since his lamented death. Dr. Berkeley never took dilapidations, but at Acton a very trifle, and at Canterbury not forty pounds, and immediately expended on the Prebendal House more than two hundred pounds. The Editor asked him how he came to take any, as he never had before, and Dr. Stedman did not die rich; he sweetly replied,
"Because I had not you here to remind me not to do it."
Dr. Berkeley used always, from the time he married, to leave all business that he thought might have any thing at all unpleasant in it to Mrs. Berkeley, laughingly saying.
"it was the pleasantest thing in the world to have a wife, that one could metamorphose into a steward; that although
(calling Mrs. Berkeley by her name) had always declared, when she was single, she was resolved never to marry
any
man who took a woman merely as a disinterested housekeeper, to see that the servants did not cheat him from morning till night, and to bring him an heir; yet she had not declared against being a steward; as was the case of the
little quiet
mother of a worthy Baronet, now a Peer, whose father had
at least
twenty thousand pounds
per annum.
"
One day, an amiable Countess, a lovely friend of the Editor's youth, dining at the
said
wise man's, with other company, after the ladies were retired to the drawing-room, the butler came, whispered the lady; after some time he repeated his visit, and,
"Oh! beware of the third time,"
says the old proverb, he entered, and whispered loud enough for every one to hear,
"Madam, if you do not please to come, and
weigh
out the hops, they cannot go on with the brewing, and the beer will be all spoiled
The Editor's Father was famous for having the finest strong beer in Berkshire, and she was resolved her husband should be as famous. She
routed out all
his brewery books; Mr. Wrightson
studied
them, as Berks and Canterbury can testify, to excellent effect.
".
Beer is generally spoiled
by
hops; and the Editor has been repeatedly told, that there is still an act of Queen Elizabeth
unrepealed,
forbidding the
"planting or cultivating that
pernicious weed
called hop."
(The Editor has heard from her youth that the law for extinguishing fire on the tolling the curfew bell is also unrepealed—She is sometimes
tempted
to wish it was enforced.) Perhaps there are few persons who fully know the wholesomeness of aged hard beer. The Editor has frequently heard the late excellent Mrs. Tucker, of Canterbury, say, that when her father was head master of the King's School, the second masters, and the other boarding houses, had, summer after summer, a very bad fever amongst the boys; but her father, Mr. Gurney, had not a boy ill, which
he
attributed entirely, under God, to their drinking very hard
home-brewed
beer. He brewed, as they do in all
wise
gentlemen's families, only twice in the year, in March and October. All the world have of late found out the virtues of beer without hops. New, or as it is commonly called sweet-wort, is excellent for worms in children, and for scurvies in men; and when the poison of the strong rank weed, hop, is gone off, it is
aqua vitae
to many, to the Editor, even when almost vinegar; but a table spoonful of stale brewer's beer is almost death to her.
Qu.
Why is this?
The lady, however, begged excuse, went, and did her
duty as housekeeper.
Her husband built a very fine house, but would have no back door, that
he
might see the motions of his half hundred of servants all day long. The Editor, then about seventeen, offered to lay a wager with a gentleman, that within two years he would break out a back door; he did it within one.
The Editor now experiences the want of a back
gate
at least. She has few servants, but, thank God, they are not eye servants, so want not watching, but there are many beggars who do; for
"these beasts of the
people,
"
on being constantly refused relief, leave the front, the only gate, open, for the beasts of the
common,
to rout the garden direfully indeed.
The Editor, and a lady with her, went a few weeks ago into a shop: a girl, about thirteen, shabbily dressed, came in, asked for a pennyworth of gingerbread; it was cut; and also for a pennyworth of sugar candy; the mistress of the shop sensibly asked,
"Would you have both?"
Beggar.—
"
Yes, I eats um together.
"
This being at the time when bread was at its very highest price, and WISE people believed we had no corn in the nation; the Editor asked,
"If she lived at D
, that she might
avoid
relieving
her
family?"
Beggar.—
"No."
Mrs. B.—
"Where then?"
Beggar.—
"No where; we travels the country."
Mrs. B.—
"What do you sell, laces and pins?"
Beggar.—
"No, we only travels about."
—That is, we are common beggars; can it be charity to relieve such?
The Editor, at length getting sight of most of the sheets at once, is confirmed in what she suspected; that she has been guilty of tautology, of Egotism, or rather
Editorism.
It is said of the excellent Lord Chancellor Clarendon, that, in his incomparable History of the Rebellion, the
Chancellor of the Exchequer
is
too
often introduced.
The Editor has always thought that there is at
least
as much, if not more, in the circumlocution often practised, and she is certain a vast deal of affectation, which she ever abhorred, does still abhor, especially in matrons, and pities in girls, in persons relating transactions, in which they were
necessarily
principal actors, front figures, who cannot be thrown into the
back-ground
without ruining the picture, as is done by
at
, by using circumlocution in mentioning themselves. It is like a very plain woman
decking
herself
violently;
it
calls attention,
but does not, according to the Editor's humble opinion, in
either
case,
create respect.
It must be considered that through life there was so constant an intercourse, whether present or absent, between Mr. Berkeley and his Mother, that She has, during the writing these sheets, frequently studied how to put herself in a dark corner, which has been much more difficult than the doing that kind office to her dear Son, until he attained to the age of five, when
that
mode of punishment ceased, and another somewhat similar was substituted.
The Editor, perhaps, (having described herself as the
most resolute of all females,
where her children or her conscience were concerned,) owes it to herself to say, that it is most certain that she is not cursed with a
stubborn
or a
saucy
spirit: both were pretty easily by her wise mother nipped almost
before
they were
in bud.
When she was not quite four years old, being very busily employed in underssing her doll, to put it into the cradle, in an arbore at the farthest part of a very long walk, her mother called her: thus
importantly
occupied, she, conceiving that it could not be heard, uttered the following soliloquy,
"
I won't come till I have done.
"
Very soon appeared the amiable woman who had taken care of here from a month old, (for, thank God, her mother was her nurse,) with
"Oh!
fie,
Miss, how came you to say such a naughty word to my Mistress?"
—
"What word?"
—
"Why you know, Miss, you said
I won't come.
"
Miss did
not
deny it, knowing, from the time she could articulate, that a LIE, even with her father, was a threat of being whipped,
"
all
but to death."
The little culprit was delivered to her mother, standing at the garden door to receive her. She can almost fancy that her wrist, when she thinks of it, feels the grasp of her mother's elegant long fingers, and hears her say,
"
You won't come,
MADAM, will you?"
In she was taken, shewn a nice slice of bread covered with currant jelly on the table.
"Look you there, I called you to give you that for your supper. You will now go to bed without any supper, but a good whipping;"
which was instantly administered, to teach her never to say
"I won't"
again to her mother or father. It proved effectual; for, the Editor can, with strictest truth, assert, that this was the
first
and the
last
time that
frightful
word was ever pronounced by her, to either parent.
It pleased the gracious Giver of every good gift to spare that excellent mother until her daughter was twenty years old, although at the time of her father's death no one would have given half a year's purchase for her life; and she has frequently told her daughters, when grown up, that every breaking up, when she returned them to Mrs. Sheeles's, that she conceived she had taken her
last
leave of them. The Editor often cannot refrain exclaiming, to her excellent sister,
"How gracious was God to us in sparing our angelic Mother!"
To shew that the Editor needed not much discipline to bring her to submit to
lawful
authority, a simple little story may, she hopes, be excused. The
fault
is obliterated from her memory; the
punishment
never can, and her consequent sufferings. One of the Fathers, describing woman, says,
"
She is an animal delighting in finery.
"
A very pretty pale blue (the Editor's favourite colour, from her cradle, for herself, to this time) bonnet had just arrived with some things of her mother's from town; which she had contrived to get sight of half a dozen times during the morning, and was told she was to wear it in the afternoon to go visit Miss Sloper, sister of General Sir Robert Sloper; Mr. and Mrs. Sloper then lived at Waltham Place. (This young lady died at Mrs. Dennis's school.) Whether elated by so frequently contemplating the
beautiful
bonnet, or in what else she offended, whether by flying up one pair of stairs and down the other of the old house, a favourite amusement with both sisters when their
Mother
was out of the house. Be this, however, as it may, the culprit was called, well-jobed, and told, that instead of going out visiting in the new bonnet, she was to stay at home tied by the arm to, she believes, the first fly-table ever made in England, made according to Mrs. Frinsham's own directions given to a country cabinet-maker, and which she (the culprit) could have drawn all over the house. She supplicated for pardon, but in vain; she was made to sit down on the floor under the table, tied by the left arm. She was tied with a good long needleful of common white silk, taken from a ball in her mother's Indian work-bowl. She wept much a little while, but, being naturally of a very cheerful disposition, soon dried her eyes, and began to amuse herself with scratching a tree and some flowers on the shining old oak floor, with a large pin that she had coaxed out of her frock behind.
The Editor's delight in drawing and mixing colours commenced, she remembers, before she left off her backstring. Thus amused, she
forgot
that she was a prisoner, and had crawled quite to the stretch of her tether. On finding it, she was in such terror lest the silk should break, and that her mother should think that she had dared to liberate herself, that she crept so close to the leg of the table as to let the silk hang in a loop for considerably more than an hour, not amusing herself in any way but the delight arising from her happiness that the silk had
not
broke.
It may perhaps, by some, be thought strange, that a
very
docile girl should make so very resolute a mother. Her disposition is naturally yielding, except when duty called for steadiness, as in the case of Mr. Berkeley. His brother was as easily governed as his Mother.
The Editor had the happiness, she still feels it such, that her mother bore testimony to the amenableness of her temper a very few months before her
"slow sudden death."
A beloved friend of the Editor was strenuously asserting,
"that every human being was
stubborn,
and would, if
possible,
get their own will; that nothing but superior absolute force prevented it;"
adding,
"shew me any man, woman, or child, that is
not
stubborn, and I will shew you a
black swan.
"
Some late travellers have discovered this
rara avis.
The Editor constantly opposed the doctrine of
universal stubbornness,
and insisted, that, although she had MANY faults, she was certainly not a
wilful
being; and respectfully requested her mother to say whether she thought
her
so. Mrs. Frinsham laid down her work, and, lifting up her sweet eyes, which exactly resembled Dr. Berkeley's, said,
"Oh! no, my dear, indeed you
are not
stubborn; you never gave me five minutes trouble in your life from
wilfulness.
"
The mentioning of these things brings to the Editor's recollection a conversation with her Son not many months before his death, telling a friend, who had a violent-tempered little boy,
"that she should contrive to prevent his crying and screaming so violently as described, as it was dangerous, and often productive of bad consequences to
boys'
health;"
adding,
"that she always took care to prevent it with her own boys; that when she had locked them into a light room, (no child should ever be shut into a dark room; sad consequences have arisen from it;) and got the key in her own pocket, that no servant might
kindly
administer consolation, she always stood to listen till the roaring ceased."
Hereupon Mr. Berkeley said,
"My dear Mother, did you,
could
you think that I was fool enough to scream a moment longer than I thought you were in hearing? I strained my lungs that you might hear as long as I conceived it possible you should hear." (Mrs. Berkeley had often observed that the last shout was the most violent.) "I then immediately reached down some book, (the prison was generally the Editor's book closet,) to amuse me till the hour, or the two hours, according to my sentence, was elapsed,
I
never shed a tear;"
(
that
his Father often remarked;)
"I only
roared like a wild bull,
to, as I conceived,
punish you
for punishing me—blessing on you for your wisdom!"
The Editor, on perusing the sheets quite ready for publication, finds that she has omitted many anecdotes that must have heightened the ideas of Mr. Monck Berkeley's wisdom and amiability, and his undaunted courage. His rescuing a poor little child late one night near Covent Garden, as he was going home to his chambers. He met the thief soon after at the Old Bailey, and she was transported. His rescuing an amiable friend of his from the
Jews,
whose
wise
guardians did not, at twenty, allow him as many hundreds
per annum
as, the next year, he was to inherit thousands; and, assisted by his learned, amiable friend, Mr. H
, from the Gentiles at four in the morning, when going along Covent Garden they saw a coach, and some kind of bustle and struggle.
Hereupon Mr. Berkeley said,
"It is very late, let us go and see if all is right there."
On drawing near, they saw a gentleman lifting—dragging into a coach by three females, assisted by the coachman. Mr. H
exclaimed,
"Good God! Berkeley, it is your friend
."
Mr. Berkeley sprung forward, and said,
"My
, where are you going?"
, extremely intoxicated, replied,
"I do not know."
Mr. B.—
"Yes, you do; you are going with us."
Mr. B.'s Friend.—
"Yes, yes."
The Nymphs began raving, and said,
"The gentlemen had no right to take their
guest
from them.
was going to spend the
evening
with them."
The Coachman said,
"The gentleman
belonged
to the ladies. They had taken his coach to carry him home."
Mr. Berkeley said,
"Have-a-care, my friend, I have taken the number of your coach already; and if you act like a villain, as surely as I live till morning,
you
shall appear before the Lord-Mayor. I fancy the ladies can walk home by themselves; and do you assist us in putting
into the coach; and at your peril drive to any place but where I order you."
They accordingly drove to
's lodgings, where they delivered him, his
bourse bien chargée,
not
des louis,
but guineas, and his very fine watch, safe into the hands of his
valet de chambre,
with directions to put him to bed.
The Editor rejoices very sincerely, that PROVIDENCE has some time ago delivered his Lordship into the hands of a very sensible worthy Lady, who has brought him a son and heir to his vast estate. May he grow up as amiable as his father, as sensible as his mother!
The Editor, on perusing the sheets of this wonderfully long Preface
de suite tout ensemble
is hurt to find, that her memory is become so treacherous as to have permitted her to be so guilty of tautology, at the distance of little more than six months, to have twice quoted some favourite lines of Mr. Addison. This, however, may be pardoned, for they are beautiful, and she repeats the hymn of which they form a part every day; but repeating her own remarks or comments she laments, as she does her
seeming
ingratitude, when, mentioning the amiable hospitality of Scotland, she perceives she has omitted to mention the very highly polite attentions received by Dr. Berkeley's family, from the very elegant sister of the worthy Lord Newark, resident at St. Andrew's when Dr. Berkeley's family went to reside there;
"although last, yet not least,"
&c.
A lady, the other day, said to the Editor,
"that our Nobility wanted a
little
humbling; that to be sure they had carried the matter
much too far
in France; but a
little
humbling would do them service for both worlds."
The Editor begged that the
Scottish
in general, excepting some few, might be spared; and, as they took the advice of our blessed Master, and amiably
"humbled themselves, that they and some few English might be exempted from the
said humbling.
"
The Editor has not the honour to be known at present to many Noblesse,
"
The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
"
but she is apt to think that
modern
Nobility are addicted to set more value on a coronet than those to whom it has descended by hereditary succession through several generations.
Mrs. Berkeley some years ago had the honour to correspond with some English Nobles of both sexes, now no more. Very many of their letters are preserved—as polite as if
she
had been noble.
Several years ago the Editor took leave to write to a modern Peeress, requesting a very small favour for a young lady,
very very
much Mrs. Berkeley's superior, not to say by birth the Peeress's. The answer was returned on an half-sheet of common paper, sealed with a wafer pricked with a pin, expressing astonishment that the Editor could suppose she could do what she requested,—use her interest to procure a vacant twenty pounds
per annum
for a poor lady, who must have had the PAS of the Peeress until her Lord was a few years ago created a Peer. What made it
still stranger
to the
poor simple
Editor was, that when the Peeress and herself were both girls, the Peeress's lovely mother felt, at least expressed herself (she had the grace of humility) obliged by the Editor's mother's attentions to her and her little girl, now the
little
Peeress. This occured not long after the Editor's return to England, and she supposed that some great revolution in politeness had taken place during her absence, and that poor untitled gentry must approach Nobility as Swift makes the subjects of Japan approach their Emperor, and
"lick the dust as they crawl towards him."
The Editor's ideas concerning a revolution in manners were, however, soon corrected, by her having the honour to receive letters
à l'égarde de son cher fils
from her amiable friend, Lord Loughborouh. An instance of his Lordship's amiability, related to her by another old friend, the agreeable Mr. Berridge, the hospitable master of John à Gaunt's Castle, emboldened her, at the distance of near a quarter of a century, to write to his Lordship to introduce that dear young man, telling his Lordship,
"that naturalists assure us, that the most timid animals become courageous where their young are concerned, that she felt the truth of the assertion."
His Lordship's, and good Lady Loughborough's attentions are carefully registered in her grateful memory. His Lordship's answer was most polite and friendly. Their amiable Graces of Marlborough, and the late excellent Lady Effingham, who have chanced to honour the Editor with letters, have written on
whole
sheets of gilt paper, most condescendingly subscribed, and sealed —as to a gentlewoman—not to be mantua-maker. Indeed the Editor used to write more respectfully to the famous Mrs. Munday, her old playfellow, niece of John Breedon, Esquire, of Bear-Court, Berks, when she wanted a new
négligée.
The poor lady for whom the Editor supplicated the Peeress's interest, for only a poor vacant twenty pounds
per annum,
has the honour, at least her grandfather had, and upwards for
very many
centuries, the honour to have two crowned heads, put on mourning at their decease, (as, whilst there was a King in France, was always done by that King when the head of the Courtney family died,) which the Editor is
very
sure no crowned head ever did for
her
ancestors, nor, as she verily believes, for those of Captain
, father of the Peeress. The poor young lady shewed her high birth, by submitting with, the Editor really thinks, unexampled fortitude and true unaffected dignity, to the distresses to which an imprudent match, in
very
early youth, had unavoidably subjected herself, her elegant husband, and lovely little girl. Although Mrs. Berkeley failed to obtain relief from the
courtly,
COURTEOUS
Peeress,
the amiable Dr. Berkeley's pocket failed not to alleviate their
deep
distress; for which the young gentleman blessed him when dying. His sensible, grateful relict and lovely daughter continue to bless his sweet memory. Dr. Berkeley is receiving his reward; the Peeress
still
enjoys her
new
coronet.
Mr. Monck Berkeley, a great herald from ten years old, was consulted at twenty-two by a noble, amiable Peer, a great herald, a friend of the Peeress's Lord elect, about supporters to be added when the arms of
were to be
tipped
with a coronet. Mentioning the selection Mr. Monck Berkeley first made would too plainly mark out the Peeress, who, it is hoped, although she is now turned threescore, may live to grow older—and wiser. The Editor never wishes
"her pocket cat-o-nine tails"
to
wound
any but the vicious and the ungrateful, and only to make the
insolent tingle
a little. The Editor has some letters, which she preserves, from ancient
noblesse,
male and female, for their internal as well as their external merit. The assumed motto of the excellent Countess of L
, round her Ladyships cipher-seal, is always carefully preserved;
"HOLINESS IS HAPPINESS."
Oh! that this were the
motto
of millions, noble and non-noble!
The two following letters of the late George-Monck Berkeley, Esquire, were written at different periods; the first, when he was just about to return from his
last
vist to Scotland in the end of the autumn of 1789, not then, alas! thinking it was his last visit; for he frequently used to say,
"If God spares my life to settle, I shall every now and then, once in three or four years, in summer vacation, make a visit to Scotland for a few weeks."
Although an enthusiastic admirer of Johnson in his writings, all on the side of virtue, his integrity, &c. he used to say,
"He behaved like a savage in Scotland, where every respectful attention was shewn to him by every one."
Mr. Berkeley constantly styled Dr. Johnson the
noble learned
BEAR. His own abhorrence of what is called rudeness, even when persons are ever so much inflamed by resentment, he contracted very early in life from his Mother, who added to Shakspeare's
"Speak daggers, but use none,"
let those daggers, for your
own
sake, be
gilded;
never use
coarse
language, nor make a
coarse
simile. The second was written at Dover a very few months before his lamented death.
AN ADDRESS TO THE CLERICAL AND LAY MEMBERS OF THE EPISCOPAL COMMUNION IN SCOTLAND.
Reverend Sirs and Gentlemen,
Presuming, that by this time you are all sufficiently informed with respect to the steps that have been taken by your Bishops to procure a repeal of the penal laws, and that you are also acquainted with the TOTAL failure of their undertakings; I shall only trespass on your attention whilst I suggest the propriety of a second application to Parliament, and propose to your consideration a plan of proceedure, of which the expediency will, I doubt not, be sufficiently apparent, to require little or no assistance from argument.
The plan, for which I wish to procure your sanction, is as follows: That each of the two orders I have now the honour to address, should elect a representative to superintend on its behalf the next application to Parliament, for a repeal of those laws, which it is no longer the interest of any man to enforce
Not suffering more than four persons, excepting the family of the Clergyman, to assemble at one time to attend the reading of the English Liturgy, under a severe penalty indeed. The Editor has heard a reverend old Divine say,
"That he has read it so repeatedly over to
only
four, that frequently by evening he has scarce been able to speak to be heard."
It was
not
a sabbath of
rest
to him, poor man. This is something
like
persecution. The
noble charitable
Lord who framed the Bill
wittily
said,
"He had got a bill passed that would starve one half of the Scotch and
d
n
the other."
Perhaps it did not occur to his Lordship that an English Peer (bred a Presbyterian, as his Lordship was) could invent any thing TOO severe for
Scottish
Episcopalians. To the honour of the Editor's Presbyterian neighbours at St. Andrew's, she never saw the Episcopalians incommoded, although they assembled in much larger numbers at Mr. Lindsey's chapel. The spirit had
quite subsided,
and Lord
had been gone some years before to join—either the starved, or the d
d Scots!
.
To direct the attention of the
inferior clergy
to the preservation of their own rights, as connected with that church to which their services are devoted, would have appeared to me wholly unnecessary, had I not witnessed their supineness on the late occasion.
That the Bishops undertook their embassy without the concurrence of the Clergy and Laiety over whom they preside; that they constituted themselves, SOLE AND ABSOLUTE GOVERNORS of the Church IN Scotland; that they concerted measures for the relief of that Church, without the advice or approbation of the inferior Clergy, who, with themselves, were equally interested in the success of these measures; and, that they have plainly evinced their utter incapacity to execute their own plans; are
facts
I need not call to your recollection. But, as a man
much
interested in the welfare of that Religious Society in which he hopes to die; I think it a duty incumbent on me, to suggest to you the necessity of preventing a second encroachment on your privileges, and of attempting, in concurrence with our
Prelates,
by a PROPER and RESPECTFUL application to Parliament, to procure for that Church, of which you are at once members and guardians, the protection of Government, whose authority it acknowledges, and whose lenity it has long experienced.
Do not, Gentlemen, however suppose, that, to lessen the respect due to the
Episcopal
character, or to circumscribe the authority of the Bishops by improper limits, is the object proposed by the present Address. Such is by no means the case. But when any authority, however venerable, presumes to invade the rights of others, it is the duty of those whose liberties are endangered, to defend
that blessing,
for which an
equivalent
has never
yet
been discovered.
Let me, therefore, Reverend Sirs and Gentlemen, entreat you, without delay, to elect, each of you, a representative, who may attend such Bishops as may be disposed to go upon a second embassy to London; for, if you reject this measure, errors, similar to those which have already disappointed your hopes, may again frustrate any exertions that may be made in your favour, and you may
for ever
lose that relief which the present government so readily affords to all its suffering subjects. This advice will, I fear, lose much weight, as coming from the pen of an Anonymous Writer; and I should certainly subscribe my name, were I vain enough to suppose it could in the least influence those to whom it is addressed.
I have the honour to remain, Reverend Sirs and Gentlemen, Your sincere well-wisher,
A
LAY-MEMBER
of the Episcopal Church in Scotland
After the above address was published in Edinburgh, and dispersed through Scotland, Mr. Berkeley sent up a printed copy to his Mother, desiring her to shew it to his Father, and learn his sentiments of it; and after he left Scotland it was immediately known who was the writer.
Mr. Berkeley was early convinced of the Divine right of Episcopacy. His Mother, lest she might die, had engraven in his mind
that one
text, which
nothing can whittle
away, spoken by God incarnate himself—
"Whosesoever sins YE remit they
are
remitted. Whosesoever sins YE retain they
are
retained. Lo!
I
am with you alway even unto the end of the world."
A Bishop's being a
vautrien,
a Socinian, &c. &c. does not affect the
office
of a Bishop, as our blessed Lord plainly shewed, by consecrating the traitor Judas. He who redde
every
heart certainly
knew
his, and, no doubt, chose one a DEVIL
"Have I not chosen you twelve, and one of you is a DEVIL?"
See the Holy Gospel, as recorded by St. John, ch. vi. ver. 70.
, as he styles Judas Iscariot, on purpose to shew
us
that it is the
office, not
the
man.
The Editor has often made persons stare, by asserting,
"that she had as lief been baptized, or received the sacred elements, from the hands of
Judas Iscariot,
as from
St. Peter,
or the beloved Disciple."
We may wish Bishops, Priests, Deacons, and
Ourselves,
more piety, less worldly-mindedness, and more to adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour.
My dear Parents,
As reiterated relapses leave me no hopes of a speedy recovery, if of any at all; and as I long to embrace those who are most dear to me, I propose, whilst I have strength left to accomplish the journey, to set out for Cheltenham this day se'nnight. Weak as I am, the journey will take me a whole week
It took him more than a fortnight. He was two or three times supposed to be dead in the coach by his incomparable aunt, and the two affectionate worthy female attendants named in the Editor's Preface. What a journey, for three, perhaps, as tender-hearted persons as can be any where found!
to accomplish. On this day fortnight I hope to receive your blessing at Cheltenham; and possibly, when so near, I may see Dr. Chestern, who
may
hit on something to palliate sufferings that are almost intolerable: but
that
GOD who
has supported, will
support me through it all. With kindest love to Dolly, (
i.e.
Mrs. Dorothy Monck,)
I remain, Your unalterably dutiful devoted Son and servant, GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY.
A very vexatious suit commenced against the Editor, as sole executrix to Dr. Berkeley, to which she did not prove till the middle of May, although he died on the 6th of January, and from a quarter she little expected, and could hardly be persuaded to believe it by the very Reverend bringer of the intelligence, who repeatedly assured her, in the presence of her Sister, that the whole affair was to be carried on in the most amicable way.
The Commencer of this suit and the Editor have frequently had very warm, amicable disputes concerning the lawfulness of
going to law
with your brother, your neighbour, or
any one;
the commencer of the suit against the Editor constantly declaring that She thought it
so very
wicked, that she would sooner give up
every shilling
she possessed; the Editor constantly saying,
"That, seeing it
no where
forbidden in
any
part of her
old-fashioned
book; and seeing St. Paul, in one of his Epistles, blaming his converts for carrying their litigations before
Heathen
tribunals,
Heathen
judges, and
recommending
them to select some wise Christian to decide in matters of law,
she
should, if attacked,
certainly
defend her right."
To which the Commencer of the suit used uniformly to reply,
"Oh! fye, * * * * *; you
cannot
be a Christian."
Here follows a proof,
how little
we know ourselves, how little we can judge how we shall act, until called upon
to
act. The Editor
was
called upon
to
relinquish. The very Reverend the
of
, her Lawyer, the WORTHY Agent employed by the Commencer of the suit (a near kinsman both of his employer and Dr. Berkeley), all know that Mrs. Berkeley instantly declared, she was ready to do it; and, fearing lest Death might overtake her before the forms could be completed, she instantly added a codicil to her will, bequeathing the sum in dispute
It was in the Editor's will, made soon after Dr. Berkeley's death, bequeathed to two nearer relations of Dr. Berkeley's; as the Editor
ever
esteemed
highwaymen
HONEST persons, when compared with
childless
widows who rob their husbands family of what his generosity has bestowed on them, to alleviate, in
some little
measure, the loss of an amiable companion, and a reduced income. The Editor has
very
little more than her own original fortune; her
misfortune
now is, that, as a widow, the largest part of her income is in Ireland, alas for her!—As an unmarried woman, it was chiefly in that delightfully punctual repository for widows and maidens, the BANK of ENGLAND.
: it could not be witnessed until past ten at night, as is well known to her excellent Sister, her servants, and a worthy neighbour called in to witness it, who came not home untill that late hour. The
of
, who brought her the intelligence, said,
"She
must
oppose it."
The Editor, ignorant in many things besides law matters, enquired why? being ready to do every thing that was wished.
"It must be pleaded,"
was the answer. The Editor then obeyed, made a horrid hot journey from Oxford to London on the 17th of August, and has in this
amicable
way been taking journeys, feeing counsel, swearing—nothing but truth, God, the searcher of ALL hearts, well knows
And the obliging,
patient
Mr. Bush, partner with Mr. Jenner, her Proctors; he writing over six or seven times what she was to swear; Mrs. Berkeley so often assuring them,
"that she
would not
swear to
any
thing, that she was not, of her own knowledge,
certain was true.
"
SHE fears an Oath at
least
as much as a subtle QUAKER. Surely our SENATORS will not enable those
artful
creatures to take away the LIFE of MEN—by THEIR SOLEMN AFFIRMATION.—GOD in MERCY avert it!
—at different times ever since, until now June 30, 1796
It is now November 15; the Editor correcting this sheet—her excellent Sister, just returned from London, called thither to give evidence,
"That Eliza, widow of the Reverend George Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, &c. could
not secrete
a few lines of an
unsealed, unwitnessed, undated, unfinished, unsigned,
WILL, found in a corner of a locked-up closet, in an house which she never was in in her whole life; nor has she been in the
county
of Sussex since the year 1777, when she was at Tunbridge."
To be accused of
wilfully, wickedly, fraudulently,
concealing (the words of the citation) an only begun will, many months before the death of the testator, is
too
much for a
poor, frail
OLD
mortal
to bear, without vindicating herself. The Editor was told at Doctors Commons,
"That the aspersing her
thus
was matter of FORM."
She assured an old gentleman there,
"That, were he to take it into his head to call her an HARLOT, fashionable as it now is, she would make him suffer soundly for his pains!"
.
The Editor has heard from some
real
friends, that
she
is much blamed for the opposition she has, by the Commencer's friend, the
of
, been told she
must
make: but she feared to share the fate of an amiable relation, who neglecting to obey a summons from a Law Court, on a suit instituted against her, by her WORTHY son, for neglect of paying a small annuity left by his father to his aunt, he, enjoying then a paternal estate of two thousand pounds
per annum,
and knowing he must inherit that of his uncle, at least six thousand pounds
per annum
more, suffered his
unfortunate
mother to be dragged to Winchester jail. Mr. Monck Berkeley, on hearing it, said,
"I will never speak to him again whilst I breathe."
What a contrast between this rich
Squire, and Richard Rainsford
The Editor has not seen this amiable gentleman since he was a lovely, lively youth, at Eton, at a
Montem,
before her marriage. He then describing matters concerning it to his Mother and the Editor; the word
to march
was given: how he got down stairs the Editor knows not; but in an instant he was in the statue-yard, in his proper place. He was an exceedingly clever youth; and was surely a most amiable-hearted man; probably is such, if still living; and must have joy of his own children.
, Esquire, whose father lived many years ago in Windsor Forest, whose mother's beauty the Editor admired at
five
years old, who some years ago, on his mother's jointure suffering some considerable diminution, went immediately to her receiver, and amiably
charged him
not to let his mother know it, but pay her as usual; that he would constantly make up the difference, and never tell her, lest she might think he could not afford it, as he was married. The Squire was married; and Fame gave his Lady the credit of
this pious
deed to a most amiable
parent,
who had suffered
very much,
for him and his really worthy sisters, from her tyrant savage husband; he the Editor's relation, and whom she used to
tune a little
for his
bearish
conduct as a husband, when she was only eighteen years old, staying in the house on a visit to his lovely
suffering
Lady. Mrs. Berkeley cannot now read over his eldest sister Mrs.
's letter, giving her an account of the dreadful situation in which she and her accomplished partner, who flew day and night to her, found her, without wetting it with a tear.
Some persons were apt to disbelieve the above astonishing conduct of this Gentleman
See Brooke's excellent etymology of the words
Gentleman
and
Nobleman,
in his Fool of Quality. To be sure, a man's being of a
very
antient family does not always make him a GENTLE-
man,
or a NOBLE-
man, i.e.
"of GENTLE-
manners,
of NOBLE-
manners.
"
(pardon this misnomer,) to his Lady; for he was a very good son until after his marriage. On his becoming of age, he was very desirous to have made over his paternal estate to his sisters, and their heirs, to take place on his coming into possession of his uncle's estate, after the death of Lady
: to which his worthy mother objected, saying,
"No, Tom: no wife or child of yours" (thank God, he has no child; so the race, it is to be hoped, will be extinct in his own
sweet little
person,) "shall ever have it in their power to say, that your mother and sisters fleeced you when you were a boy. Your father has left your sisters very ample fortunes, and they shall not have a shilling of your estate."
This, as was observed, happened
previous
to his marriage with the daughter of Sir
.
Some years ago the Editor was applied to, by the lawyers of her WORTHY relation, to give information, when, where, and by whom, his father and mother were married, it being necessary to prove it before he could become seised of his grandfather's vast estate in * * * * * * *. After repeated applications to Dr. Berkeley to
make
the Editor tell, and her Son's assuring her that, if she did not tell them, they would summon her into Westminster Hall, she wrote
a
letter that scared, yet diverted her beloved Husband and Son, when she shewed it to them before she sealed it, in which she pathetically laments,
"having never heard, or read in History or
Romance,
of but two Monsters, at whose suit
those who bore them
were imprisoned; that one of them should be
her
kinsman; the other the
tender,
the
soft,
the
delicate,
the
compassionate
Sterne, the seducer of ELIZA, and the
distractor
of her husband, the support of eight fine young children;"
as some worthy wise man related in the Gentleman's Magazine at that time.
The letter given us by Mr. Walpole, signed, ANNE DORSET, PEMBROKE AND MONTGOMERIE, is perfect
milk
and
water,
compared with the Editor's. She preserves the copy (a rare thing with her to make or take one) in an elegant box, for the
amazement
of an old friend or two, who
admire
the
spirit
of the Editor, who trusts that she attends to the advice of her blessed Master,
"Be ye angry, and sin not."
Does not God say,
"Who will rise up with ME against the wicked, and who will take MY part against the evil-doers?"
The Editor ever has, and hopes she ever shall, when she thinks
it
necessary, not in her
own
cause, but her friends or her neighbours.
Many arguments were used, by Dr. Berkeley. and her Son, to
blunt
the sentences of this letter, but all in vain; and Mr. Monck Berkeley said,
"Well, Sir, if my Mother
will not
write another, this will prevent her being called up to give evidence in person, as it will prove that she knows that Mr.
was married to the daughter of Bishop
; which is all that is necessary."
The Editor, naturally rather a coward, was once very near being murdered, at least knocked down, a tremendous thing to befal a poor little female. One morning in winter, (the Editor never wastes the
summer
mornings in walking) returning from her morning walk at Canterbury, passing through the Cloisters, there issued from the dark chapel, called St. Mary in Criptis, violent blows—on a nearer approach, dreadful groans, On turning to look into it, the following words were heard,
"Because I am old and feeble, you take this time to abuse me, when all the men are gone off to dinner."
—
"Yes, you old dog, I'll do for you, I
promise
you."
The Editor, much nimbler than at present, flew in, and there saw a sturdy young villain giving such blows as she never saw before, and hopes never to see again, to a poor, old, silver-haired man. She called out,
"You wretch, leave off: how dare you beat the poor old man in this shocking manner?"
He instantly replied,
"I'll beat him to death, what business is it of yours?
I'll teach you to
meddle:"
and, clenching his fist, advanced, saying,
"Who are you? I'll teach you
."
—
"Who am
I? Nobody:
but my Husband is VICE DEAN, and I will go home, and send him to
trounce
you, for beating this poor old man, you
vile
wretch, I promise you."
The Editor never felt pleasure before from Dr. Berkeley's
local
dignities; on this occasion, it made her happy. The Monste turned as pale as death, flew by her, and was quite out of sight in an instant. She took the poor old man home to her house, and desired her careful, compassionate servants to see to him, and give him some wine, &c. to comfort him.
The Editor feels it incumbent on her to declare, that, from the age of about seventeen, when she began to consider seriously, that Time is a point, Eternity A NEVER-ENDING circle; that she resolved to endeavour to discharge the relative duties of life, as she felt she should wish at the
aweful
hour of death, as a daughter, a sister, a friend, a mistress, a neighbour, a wife, and a mother.
As a daughter, the extremely tender attachment she felt for her mother from childhood, added to gratitude for a very liberal expensive education, rendered the studying to obey and delight her a
pleasant
task.
As a sister, Mrs. Berkeley owned much, for the
tenderest
love; and never had, when a girl, the least idea of acting in character of
eldest
sister, which she ever reprobated.—The idea of brothers and sisters being ANGRY at an imprudent match is to her wonderful; they may be grieved. Had the Editor's sister, who
early
in life resolved never to marry any man, as she told a friend some little time ago, chosen to unite hereself with a chimney-sweeper; the Editor would have kept up friendship with her sister, and civility with the
quondam
SWEEP. The Editor conceives that the authority of PARENTS is not meant by God to extend to
children
of twenty-five, thirty, or
forty
years old.
As a friend, the Editor is certain she was faithful and secret; she constantly laboured to be agreeable; and she trusts she was obliging and complying. It is a little remarkable, that almost quite entire strangers to the Editor have requested to deposite important secrets to her keeping. She never could conceive the reason. She indeed has been told, by more than one physiognomist, that the lines of honesty are strongly marked in her countenance. She never wished to know a secret, lest, as she used jokingly to say, she should reveal it in her sleep; she was well assured she should not when awake.
As a mistress, which she became very early in life, she endeavoured uniformly to treat every, even the meanest servant in her house, so as, were she and they to exchange situations the next day, she would wish them to treat her; which once occasioned a very faucy, very wicked vile housekeeper's saying to her,
"You may be loved for aught I know, and I believe you are, by your servants; but, I promise you, you will never be
obeyed,
nor
well served,
whilst you consider them so much
A most accomplished neighbour of Dr. Berkeley once said,
"Either Mrs Berkeley has the
best
servants in the kingdom, or she is the
best
mistress; for, when all the rest of us are complaining of our servants, you never hear her utter any thing like a complaint."
This gentleman and his lovely lady are a most excellent master and mistress themselves. The Editor has in general been happy in worthy servants. She has, in the course of thirty-six years, been visited by two devils
incarnate,
in the capacity of housekeepers; one the
"ugliest female,"
dear Lady P
used to say,
"that ever Nature formed:"
one eyebrow of one colour light, the other dark, her eyes ditto, forehead all covered with fears, not
influted
at Newgate, although she is a thief, but by falling into her mother's (an honest washer-woman) embers. She was a harlot to every man, gentle or simple, whom her cunning deceitful tongue could draw in, still unmarried: The other, exceedingly handsome, harlot to
no
man, but cursed with a very black heart indeed, married to an exceedingly worthy man. May God in mercy grant them both
"
repentance unto life!
"
The Editor, when her friends are complaining of the worthlessness of their servants, asks them these short questions,
"
Do you teach
them
their duty
to
their
HEAVENLY MASTER?—Do you call them daily to family prayers, and
force
them to hear God's word redde every day?"
Did masters and mistresses of families consider that they MUST, if negligent of the souls of their servants, be infallibly accused by them
for
such negligence at the bar of God, surely,
"
as lovers of their ownselves,
"
they would instruct their servants in their duty to God and man.—Want of time will not be admitted at that RIGHTEOUS BAR, on that TREMENDOUS DAY.
A few years ago, a groom of a very old acquaintance of the Editor, was sentenced to death for a highway robbery. His master being at the Assizes, the poor wretch turned to him and cried out,
"Oh! Lord, Sir, if I had minded what your honour said to me, when I lived with you, I had never come to this!"
His worthy, remarkably, tender-hearted, master replied,
"Alas! Tom, but you would not attend to me, so I was
forced
to turn you off."
This gentleman keeps his servants, like the Editor, as long as they are
keepable.
Let
negligent
masters and mistresses, who read the poor groom's testimony of his master's atrention to his soul, draw
their own
inference!!!
The Editor has the pleasure of knowing, that, in several instances, her
"
labours with her servants have not been in vain in the
LORD;"
and
earthly
LORDS have reaped the benefit; as Mrs. Wiggins, many years the Editor's excellent, conscientious cook, now wife of Mr. Wiggins, baker in Dyot Street, St. Giles's, (a good neighbourhood!) lately told the Editor, that his Grace of York sent twice a week, all last winter, to her shop for bread; (they send none out to any one;) and that Lord Lonsdale, whilst in town, sends two horses and serants three times a week for their bread; finding that it is composed only of the best wheat flour, yeast, and salt, and is better at the week's end than the generality of bakers' bread at two days. The Editor used frequently to say, without the gift of prophecy, to this very worthy woman,
"Whenever you set up for yourself, you
must
prosper, you are so conscientiously careful for those you serve."
It would be well if servants considered WHO it is that says,
"
If ye have not been faithful in that which is another man's,
WHO
shall give you that which is your
OWN?"
."
But the Editor ever kept in mind the words of holy Job,
"If I despised the cause of my man servant or my maid servant,"
&c.—
"Did not HE that made
me
make
them,
"
&c.
As a neighbour, Mrs. Berkeley rejoiced always to render any little kind services in the power of so unimportant a person in the scale of beings as herself to do. She had always a sort of
giving
spirit. Dr. Berkeley's very large garden, at Cookham, excellently planted and cultivated, enabled the Editor to oblige her neighbours, high and low. Sometimes her dairy or her larder were a convenience to her neighbours. Had she had a park, fish-ponds, or a pidgeonhouse, she could have done more.
An high Authority says,
"To whom little is given, of them shall be little required."
Had the Editor been placed in a high station, with a large fortune, to account for at the Great Day of Account; which she most heartily thanks the mercy of God she has not; she must have laboured more
A young man of very large fortune was one day abused by a large circle for spending it very ridiculously; one said one way, others another, in which he ought to spend it. At length, after every one had said their say, Mr. Monck Berkeley, looking very seriously, said,
"Poor young man, I pity him: I have always, from a boy, prayed earnestly to GOD, that he would never bestow more money upon me than he would give me sense and grace enough to spend as I ought to do."
On which his mother,
wickedly,
exclaimed,
"Oh! my dear child, so then you have, I find, been praying for POVERTY all your life."
To which he replied,
"My dear mother, be that as it may, I always have done it, and I always shall continue to do it."
. When a young, single woman, she always declared,
"that if the great Disposer of riches would suffer her to choose, as a single woman, maid or widow, she would prefer a fortune of eight hundred pounds
per
annum
to one of eight thousand
For which her excellent Sister and an old acquaintance of hers used to laugh her to scorn, saying,
"
She is a poor, little,
unambitious soul! Give us the eight thousand pounds
per annum,
and let her enjoy her paltry eight hundred pounds."
Neither of the three have that annual income; one has the really pretty word
Honourable
prefixed to her
Mrs.
.
Somewhat of the same spirit was visible in an housemaid of old Lady Draper of Sunninghill Park, grandmother of the late amiable pious T. Baber, Esquire. Old Sir Thomas and Lady Draper were neighbours and intimate friends of the Editor's grandfather, the very worthy John Finch, Esquire, of Fienes Court, in whose clothes King Charles escaped with Lady Jane Lane. They met often; and Lady Draper, not a
modern
fine lady, but one of Solomon's, looking
well
to the ways of her household
See Proverbs ch. xxxi. ver. 27.
, finding sometimes occasion for a little objurgation; one of her honest old housemaids used to say,
"Aye, well, my Lady may threaten what she will: BUT, thank God, she can never make
me
Queen of England, that's my comfort!"
Perhaps this honest woman had lived at Court, and seen good, quiet, mild Queen Mary milling the old Dutchman's chocolate on her knees until her face perspired, so as to need wiping. This, the Editor can assert, is a fact, it having been repeatedly told to her by her Mother, to whom it was related by Mrs. Lee, daughter of Mr. Lee, page of the back-stairs; this lady was the Queen's god-daughter, was perpetually with her, used to read the Bible to her some hours every day. Every one remembers,
"
Henrietta of Bourbon, come and draw off my boots.
"
Set a beggar on horseback, and he will ride to the d
l. It is to be feared, one is almost tempted to say hoped, such low-bred tyrants will ride
or fly
to
him.
As a wife; when a young woman, she always resolved, if she ever did marry, she would
labour
to be, what her excellent mother was universally said to be,
"
The best wife in the world.
"
The Editor has often said,
"if she had been married to BELPHEGOR
Vide
"The Devil upon Two Sticks."
, she would have
tried
to have made him a good wife, that the poor Devil might, at least, have served out his time on earth."
As a mother; if God vouchsafed to entrust her with the
great blessing
of children, which she humbly hoped he would, to be indefatigable in attending to their souls, their minds, their manners, their persons, and their fortunes. It pleased the Divine Goodness to prosper her labours in every instance but the
last,
certainly in her estimation the
least.
She applied to one considerable gentleman, whom, she flattered herself, gratitude (for what he had twenty-five years before deemed
great
favours) would have induced to have introduced her son to Mr. Pitt; who could, had he been introduced, and she doubts not
would,
have effectually served him, and himself at the same time; but she found verified,
"Put not your trust in
any
child of man
Psalm cxliv. ver. 2.
."
This gentleman, exceedingly intimate with the Premier from early youth, wrote the Editor, (for Dr. Berkeley said he
could not
write to him,)
a very
polite letter of DECLINATION—in it speaking of his gratitude for Dr. Berkeley's favours. But she did put her trust in HIM who has never
yel
failed her, and to whom she daily offers praise, for having provided, in
his own
BEST way, for her beloved Son; who used often to say,
"What is to become of me, if my health does not permit me to go to the bar?"
To which his mother constantly replied,
"Never fear, trust God's word:
Yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread
Psalm xxxvii. ver. 25.
. I have not the smallest doubt, if it pleases GOD to spare your life, that the descendant, in fact (as your father, mother, and aunt are out of the question) the
only
descendant of Bishop Berkeley and Mr. Cherry, will
ever
be suffered to want either the convenieces or the
comforts
of life, necessary in the station of life in which Providence hath been pleased to place you. You know how
often
I have repeated to you the speech of the late Admiral Haddock to his children on his deathbed; and how much
oftener
one of my favourite texts, A
small
thing that the righteous hath, is better than
great
riches of the ungodly
Ibid. ver. 16.
."
So fearful was the Editor left her children, when they grew up, should be tempted to marry some girl, whose thirty, fifty, or an hundred thousand pounds had been obtained by
gambling, contracting, will-making,
and various other
honourable
methods of obtaining a vast fortune, ever hoping money so gained might
never
be brought by
marriage
into
her
family—So strongly and so early did she inculcate this and some other important matters on the minds of her children, that one little angel, who took its happy flight before it had lived eight years and a half, one day said,
"Mamma, I have been thinking that if you do not live till I am old enough to marry, I shall never marry at all."
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"Why not, my dear?"
Little boy.—
"Why, I am resolved you shall choose my wife for me; then I am
sure
she will be a good one
The Editor cannot possibly, although from the mouth of a poor child of seven years old, add the compliment made by the sweet little creature to his mother.
."
The Editor, ever a friend to that holy institution, ordained by God to
complete
man's felicity even before he fell, replied,
"Oh! my dear, if you pray to GOD, he will direct you to a good wife."
The little boy shook his little head, and said,
"No, no; if you die, I will NOT have a wife; that will be the safest way for me, I am sure."
The repetition of this curious dialogue at dinner, the children not present, being gone off to school, afforded great diversion.
Many persons will probably laugh at the Editor, for frequently talking to her children as if they were grown up. She followed, in that instance, the plan pursued by her wise mother, who, never expecting to live to see her daughters grow up, gave them various rules of conduct, that, could she have ensured her life, she might rather have told them at fifteen than at eleven. One the Editor, as she thinks it very wise, will here set down.
"If ever you marry, and are not blessed with good health, always keep it to yourselves, unless you are too seriously ill to keep about. Nothing wears out a man's love like hearing a woman always mewling and languishing, and crying, 'Oh! my head aches sadly, my stomach is disordered, I am
nervous
to-day,"
&c. &c.
The Editor, had her daughter lived, would have added,
"Never weary your husband with the faults of the servants, or any family matters, of which the lady, if wise, should bear the burden, always taking care to make home as pleasant as possible to her husband."
That children at a very tender age attend seriously to what their parents say, particularly if they love their parents, may be proved by looking into Dodwell's
The Editor cannot here omit heaving a sigh over the amiable daughter-in-law of this learned man, one of the three celebrated beauties at the Public Act at Oxford in 1733, before the Editor's birth; the lovely lady of Archdeacon Dodwell, whom a very gracious Providence sent through a very deep snow on foot (one of her horses being lame) to the Editor's mother's, on the afternoon on which her angelic spirit took its happy flight to the realms of bliss, almost in an instant. Good God! what were the sufferings of the Editor and her Sister on that dreadful night? How much sorer, but for that lovely friend, who never quitted them until some time after the funeral? Sweet spirit! thou art receiving thy reward for that painful labour of love to the daughters of thy kind, thy beloved, revered friend. This lovely lady left several sons and three excellent daughters; two happy wives, the third a most amiable mourning widow; the eldest, wife of
Ridding, Esquire, of Southampton; the second, wife of the Reverend
Holland, minister of the Duke of Somerset's parish in Wiltshire. The Editor often, when residing at Magdalen Lodge, called on to wonder at the excellent character of his Grace, then at Christ Church, constantly replied,
"that
she could not
wonder, as Mr. Holland was there on the strictest friendship."
The third, the lovely mourning relict of the uncommonly amiable Reverend J. Southcombe, of Devonshire. In the possession of one of these worthy ladies, whom the Editor has not seen for some years, is probably a very curious little toy, to which perhaps the Editor may, in
some
measure, owe, what her friends and acquaintance used to style her very elegnt, correct taste in dress. It is certain she has
turned
many young ladies into
beauties,
by directing them to dress as became their face and person. It is wonderful all girls of sense do not attend to it, without
entirely
departing from that ABSOLUTE MONARCH FASHION. But to return to the toy, which she, the Editor, conceives to be
now
(if not always) an
unique;
for at no toy-shop, since she went to town at eighteen, could she ever pick up one. It is a silver case, somewhat larger, somewhat thicker, than a crown piece; on one lid is elegantly painted a beautiful young man and woman, only decently covered. The case contains about ten or twelve different fine dresses painted on isinglass, which, laid on the young couple, sometimes exhibited them in one dress, sometimes in another. The Editor well remembers, in one they appear as a chimney-sweeper and his wife; but the astonishing alteration that dress produces on the human features cannot be conceived by those who have not seen this little, perhaps two hundred years old, curiosity; for the Editor never met with any person who had seen such a thing as this, excepting those who have seen the one here described.
life, by Brokesby, at the age of five; and Mr. Newton's life, in his letters, at the age of six.
The Editor could now, she believes, write down verbatim her excellent father's description of the infernal regions to her, one Sunday evening, when she was not quite seven pears old. It is, she well knows, the beginning
"The FEAR of the LORD is the
beginning
of WISDOM."
As LOVE is the
fulfilling
of the Law, &c. Bishop Taylor says,
"Think what it will be for your soul, when it quits the body, to be
dragged
by devils,"
&c. and the pious Dr. Flavel says,
"If you could hear what a
shriek
your POOR soul will give,"
&c.
of what is now her sole delight,
"The LOVE of CHRIST,"
for rescuing her from misery, so finely painted by her pious parent.
Admiral Haddock, when near his death, thus addressed his family:
"My dear children, considering the situation I am in, and the advantages I have had, I do not leave you as large fortunes as you might, according to the world,
reasonably
expect; but what
I do
leave you, I promise you, my dear children,
will prosper, will wear well;
for I have the comfort of knowing, that it is not watered with the tears of one seaman's widow or orphan."
Wise, happy
Admiral! Two or three very remarkable instances might be adduced from his family, to shew that the second commandment is not
yet
repealed, the promise of,
"Shewing mercy, &c."
as well as,
"
Visiting to the third and fourth generation
The Editor grieves to hear, about two years ago, that one of the granddaughters of the excellent Admiral had taken for a second husband, that tyrant,
, late Major in the
Regiment of horse; to whom the spirited old fish-woman at Canterbury administered a good handful of Scotch snuff, when the amiable Major was endeavouring to make his escape from the Riding, escorted by the then Mayor and Alderman Smith to avoid being rolled in the kennel,
properly
prepared for him by the Editor's worthy old neighbours, on account of his
amiable
conduct to the poor soldiers. He has
now
NO soldiers under his command; but he has, alas! a poor, ill-fated Lady. The account of his treatment of the
said
poor Lady, and the only servant he allowed her with a poor infant BRAT of
his own,
about eight months old, by a family of the Editor's acquaintance, who passed some weeks at a watering-place with them, thrilled the Editor and Mrs. Frinsham with horror. They united in honouring the conduct of Miss
, a young lady about seventeen, whom compassion to her poor mother keeps with her often for many weeks together. May GOD reward her with as kind an husband as her OWN father was!
,"
&c.
The late Lord
got a clause inserted in the Militia Act, some years ago, as Dr. Berkeley and several Kentish gentlemen told the Editor, on purpose to enable a very highly respected friend of the Editor, Captain Haddock, the good Admiral's second son, to qualify him to hold some commission in one division of the Kentish Militia—His attention to the men, and their profiting, none can forget, who frequented Canterbury Cathedral about twenty years ago, when they were quartered in that city.
The Editor cannot here forbear relating a curious anecdote of this excellent gentleman. Very many years ago, when we were at war with Spain, and some considerable town was taken, the Churches were despoiled of their fine pictures; four or six very large exquisitely fine ones were purchased by a Captain of a man of war, lying near the city, and at his return to England presented to Admiral Haddock, who had a good collection at Wrotham-Place, the Admiral's seat: they remained in the drawing-room many long years, the admiration of all whose eye can be delighted by fine paintings.
A few years ago, on the death of the very worthy
Haddock, Esquire, the good Admiral's eldest son, the estate, house, &c. devolving to the Editor's pious friend; he wrote over to the Church in Spain, whence the fine pictures had been pillaged when the town was sacked, desiring to be informed by what method he might restore them to the temple whence they had been torne. The righteous offer was gratefully accepted; and Mr. Haddock has, to his real unaffected piety, the delight of thinking, that, instead, of
robbing
God, he has restored what even his ancestors did not wrest from the temple of God. Oh, that all who have robbed GOD in Tithes
It is wished that there was a new edition of Sir Henry Spelman's History of Sacrilege; which the Editor studied hard at sixteen years old, and so inculcated its doctrine on her Son, that nothing would have induced him to have any thing to do with them.
would make restitution! Our poor Clergy of the Church of England would not then be so straightened, even those with what are called good livings, of three or four hundred pounds
per annum,
as they now are. What is three hundred pounds
per annum,
after taxes, &c. are paid, to keep and dress decently a gentleman, his wife, five children, (to be educated) and three servants?
"If in this life
only
they (the Clergy) have hope in Christ, they are of all men most miserable,"
says St. Paul.
On the Editor's congratulating her friend on his worthiness, his
happiness
on so doing; he replied,
"My dear Madam, I only wonder that my father and brother
left
it for
me to do;
but, I dare say, it never occurred to them that it was practicable, or I am sure they would not have failed to do it."
What makes Mr. Haddock's merit double is, that he loves fine pictures of sacred history, as well as the Editor, and is an excellent judge of painting; and had a small collection before he became possessed of Wrotham-place, when he resided at Canterbury, where Dr. Berkeley and the Editor became acquainted with him, his worthy lady, and family.
It has been already mentioned that Mr. Berkeley used to say, that
"The Editor laid all the faults, aukwardness, &c. that any man committed, on his MOTHER, excepting what related to him as a scholar, bad Greek or Latin."
The Editor has, through life, asserted and maintained, against
some
of her friends, that there are
certain
elegances to be learned in the house of a father, in a certain rank of society,
before
the age of fifteen, which, if not learned
before
that age,
are never
attained; certainly the dining-room, the drawing-room conversation of persons of good education, must necessarily be
very
different from the table-talk of good honest people in the parlour behind the shop in an Alley in Cheapside; or in Cities where the Grammar-school is supported by the Dean and Prebendaries, as at Canterbury, York, Gloucester, &c.
The Editor's Canterbury chairman's son is, she hears, a very worthy Divine; the son of Mr. B
h's footman is a very learned Divine; and Dr. Berkeley told the Editor, a very few years ago, that
"the very learned Mr. Naylor, upper master of the King's-school at Canterbury, told him, as did some other gentlemen, that the best scholar in the school was the son of Dr. Berkeley's butcher, Stephen Couchman, then eighteen, fit for the University; but his mother would not suffer his very rich father to send him thither; but made him stay at home, knock down oxen, and carry out meat."
The Editor saw him, with a basket on his shoulder, during her last visit to Canterbury. This youth will be tempted to
curse
instead of
bless his
mother. The sons of such, sometimes very worthy persons, if sent to St. Paul's, or Merchant-Tailors-School, may be at least as good,
often
better
Latin
and
Greek
scholars, than the sons of noblemen or gentlemen; BUT they cannot have listened, the three holyday months of the twelve, to refined, elegant, cultivated persons' manner of expressing their ideas and sentiments. It is not possible that the wife of a butcher, or baker, &c. should attend to the
manner
in which her son pronounces the vowels, the
few
vowels introduced into our English language: the melting them all down, as the Editor frequently remarks to her friends, may make a very good
hodge-podge;
but SHE prefers, the component parts separate. The Editor well remembers that when the WORTHY Mr. Blacowe was, for his ZEALOUS services at Oxford, preferred by the Ministers of George the Second to a Canonry of Windsor (sure it had been
wiser
to have exalted and
hidden
him in some less elegant place); a very learned, refined, cultivated friend of the Editor's said,
"The man reads like a
bargeman.
"
To which the Editor replied,
"He reads like a
low-born
man, for he has been taught only
two
of the five vowels."
—
"What do you mean?"
—
"Why, he melts the E, the O, and the U, all into one; so has only A, with which in
reading
he
constantly
couples W, and, except when used for
ego,
always metamorphoses I into U; 'He
gUrdeth
himself, &c.' and the '
GUrdle
of his
lines,
' for '
loyns;
' 'He
makUth
the
cloWEds.
' The U he turns into EW, 'TREWLY, God is loving unto Israel."
—
"Well, to be sure,"
replied the gentleman,
"he does just what you say."
The late agreeable H. B
B
, Esquire, when dining with Mr. Blacowe's next-door neighbour, used to say,
"C
r, is Blacowe at home? if he is, I must mind and not take a glass too much, for fear I should say something and have an
informaWgion
against me."
The Editor's father having taken incessant pains with his girls, (they lost him, alas! when the eldest was just eleven years old;) the Editor bestowed the same attention on her children, which undoubtedly adds wonderfully to the beauty both of speaking and reading; and she found a most
incomparable
coadjutor in the exquisitely elegant Dr. Beauvoir, who, as Mr. John Hey, above named, frequently told the Editor, was wonderfully
strict
in making the boys at the King's school mark their vowels in speaking English so
very
sharply; admiring much, how accurately Dr. Berkeley's children pronounced them. Dr. Beauvoir was
really
a fine gentleman, as well as a
very great
and elegant scholar, (of the former the Editor was a judge, her amiable partner of the latter;) his father and mother both, as the Editor has frequently been told,
"exquisitely elegant persons, of antient families."
Dr. Beauvoir was an exceedingly grateful man to the family of his kind generous patron, Dean Lynch; and also to the Editor, for the little attentions bestowed on his daughter, Mrs. Hammond, such as sometimes crowding her, an eighth, into her coach from a country as well as a city rout. Dr. Berkeley used goodhumouredly to say, (for he was ever ready to oblige, as well as serve all,)
"
My
coach
is
the CANTERBURY HACK."
Yet, on Mrs. Berkeley's last melancholy visit there, she found that
some
of those, with whom she had frequently crowded her coach, and been reproached by Mrs.
and Miss
for so doing, could not find an uncrowded place for her, supposing it good for an infirm, tender, half-blind, aged matron to walk about that antient city in the dirt and rain.
The Editor thinks that she cannot bid adieu to Canterbury without making mention of the conduct of some of old and new friends there; of the lovely studied attentions of the throughly amiable Mrs. Piercy—of the NEW, sweet Mrs. Weston; and to Dr. Luxmore, from whom Mrs. Berkeley, an entire stranger, on the strength of the character given of him by her dear Son, presumed to ask a favour for a friend, which he most politely, most amiably granted.
To the little Auditor, for NOBLE gratitude to the Widow of the gentleman to whose indefatigable zeal he obtained that lucrative situation, when little more than a
boy, for ordering the thirteen
rings
for his patron, instead of being guinea rings, to be moidore,
i.e.
twenty-seven shilling rings. On Mrs. Berkeley enquiring if those of any former Prebendary or Dean had been
so
costly? He replied,
"No, but that the widow of a worthy Apothecary, lately deceased, had ordered such for her
cousins.
"
To which Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"That, as, Dr. Berkeley was
not
an
Apothecary,
nor the Prebendaries
her cousins,
guinea ones might have done."
He said,
"He had also ordered one for
himself.
"
Ulysses exclaims,
"Gods! how the sons degenerate from the sires!"
Mrs. Berkeley really believes the father of this little man to be one of the most generous of men; of what is
his own,
he presented to his brother six thousand pounds. Mrs. Berkeley cannot avoid contrasting this provident
little
batchelor with his near neighbour and brother lawyer. Mrs. Berkeley, having some law business to transact, applied to Mr. Cummyn
The Editor earnestly wishes, that she could send Mr. Cummyn over to Ireland, that she may not be obliged to send
herself
into an English Cottage—for, in a Castle, or in a
Cavern,
she must pay the butcher and baker every Monday morning. The Editor always did, from fifteen years old, close the account of her cloaths, as well as of her house, on the last day of the old year. The cloaths account, many years of late, excepting two doleful years of mourning, did not amount to more than ten pounds; this year to little more than four; heelpiecing shoes, mending clogs, and a little black ribband, tape and thread, all regularly entered; including one pound one for a permit to hide with powder her poor, old, frizzling locks, which she has done but twice since May. Alas! why will not Mr. Pitt pity poor aged Widows, and aged Maidens? It is shameful to make poor, old creatures pay a Guinea—to
prevent
their frighting the CROWS.
, brother of Captain Cummyn, who accompanied Admiral Byron to Patagonia; who executed the business speedily and well. On Mrs. Berkeley's calling one morning, to desire her bill, he observed,
"That it was really so trifling that it was not worth while to charge any thing."
On Mrs. Berkeley's remonstrating with him, he very politely, amiably replied,
"That it had been discharged before it had been contracted, by Mrs. Berkeley's attention to his wife and daughter."
They were, alas! trifling. Mrs. Berkeley was of too little importance in the world, to benefit any one much: however, finding that although she could
not
get money
out
of the Auditor's hands, eleven pounds, until she had proved Dr. Berkeley's will, she could not possibly get any into the hands of the worthy generous Mr. Cummyn, she found amongst her things a little offering, which he was so obliging as to accept as a
souvenir
of an old neighbour.
On Dr. Berkeley (then in Scotland) announcing Dr. Beauvoir's marriage with Miss Sharpe, he said to his son,
"Berkeley, you do not seem
much astonihed
at it."
On which Mr. Monck Berkeley replied,
"Why no, my dear Sir,
I am not astonished at all;
for, if a lady wished for an agreeable companion, I do declare, I do not know where she could
possibly
have found a more agreeable man than
my
old master; and I am very glad he has got the lady, that he may not
toil
on, as he used to do with
us idle
dogs."
Mr. Berkeley revered those who, in his youth,
laboured to
FORCE him to learn. Mention is made in the Mémoires de le Duc de Saint Simon, of one of the Princes of the Blood, who
never would forgive
his preceptor's not having
compelled
him to study in his youth. He was certainly a man of
strong
understanding, if not of
learning.
The Editor feels that, had not her Parents bestowed the best education on her that money could procure, she never could have loved them living, or respected their memory; if
she
did not profit by it, the fault was
her own.
Mr. Monck Berkeley was quite of his mother's mind. A rather diverting anecdote, shewing Mr. Monck Berkeley's ideas concerning education when a boy, is here subjoined.
The very grateful agreeable Mr. Taswell, Rector of Aylsham, in Norfolk, wrote to Dr. Berkeley, saying,
"That he meant to wait on him for two or three days in his way to town, and he hoped Mrs. Berkeley would permit him to bring his little girl, who was going to town to visit an aunt."
The day before their arrival Mr. Monck Berkeley said to his father,
"I suppose, as soon as ever breakfast is over, and Mamma has been to the larder, and ordered dinner, she will take Miss Taswell up stairs, get the French and Italian grammars and the maps, and teach her
all
her lessons over, and examine her
throughly.
"
Dr. Berkeley was wonderfully diverted with his
son's idea,
(not then thirteen years old, as Mrs. Berkeley always told her children,
"that as soon as ever they entered their
teens,
the words
Papa
and
Mamma
were to be laid aside for
my Father
and
Mother
when speaking
of
their parents—
Sir,
and
Madam,
as usual, when speaking
to
them;"
) and exclaimed,
"You monkey, do
you think,
because your Mamma
worries
herself every day of her life to
teach you,
that she will plague herself to teach other children? No, no; nothing but her
violent
love of
you
could make her slave as she does. Your mother's delight is in
learning,
not in
teaching.
I wish to God you had your mother's rage for knowledge: it would be a happy thing for you."
Mrs. Berkeley certainly had that rage from her very early youth, and it continued with her until she lost her idol. It is not yet quite extinct; the flame is out, but the embers still glow a little.
A wonderfully, well-informed, respected friend, the Lady of the late Governor
, being in the Editor's room (many years ago) mentioned something in Astronomy that was new to the Editor; she sprang out upon the stair-case, and called out to Mrs. (then Miss) Frinsham,
"
Sister, sister,
come hither this minute, and Mrs.
will make you as wise as SOLOMON."
Mrs. Frinsham, dressing for dinner, said,
"I am without my cloaths."
—
"
Never mind your cloaths,
but come directly."
The worthy lady laughed so violently, that it recovered Mrs. Berkeley from her extacy of joy on gaining some addition to her delightful, if not useful, knowledge. It has often been the subject of mirth to the three friends. Mrs. Berkeley, also dressing, disengaged herself like lightning from under the hands of her maid.
But to return to the uncommonly sensible, amiable, very highly accomplished Miss Taswell.
She
needed no instruction from Mr. Berkeley's mother. Her own excellent father, throughly sensible of the blessing of a good education, has spared no pains, no cost, to bestow it on his daughters. The young lady above named, her father a few months ago, when he visited the Editor, told her, he was going to lose. Happy the young gentleman who gains her. The Editor knows him not; but, if he is not a happy husband, she is
firmly
persuaded that the fault must be
entirely
in himself.
The Editor has known and admired the merits of Miss Taswell since she was
seven
years old: at that very early period, by the wise care of her mother, she was absolutely better qualified to conduct a
moderate
sized family, than most of the
Misses of seventeen are now.
The Editor often wishes to be told what it is that modern young ladies are taught; but nobody that she meets with can tell her, except it is a little music, whether they have ear or
no
ear matters not; and to speak a sort of gibberish, something in short that is not English, for English very few of them can speak, fewer write. The Editor now sees no beautiful worked gowns or aprons; all is COBBLE-stitched, which the dairy-maid could perform as well as Miss
The Editor is sometimes asked,
"HOW SHE
would have
young ladies educated?"
Her reply is,
"As the Lady of Sir Richard-Carr Glyn was. One of her amusements, when about twelve years old, was putting poor little girls to school to learn to work, walking out of a summer evening to see how they had worked, calling on the sick poor in their cottages, relieving their necessities, reporting their situation to her worthy parents."
Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley dining one day at Barston, with the very sensible, worthy, Mr. and Mrs. Harvey, parents of the late
, of the present brave, and to the Editor obliging Admiral Harvey, he favouring her with the perusal in MS. of his tremendous voyage with the late Lord Mulgrave; the Editor met the lovely little lass going on one of these pleasant walks. Mrs. Berkeley used to tell her son, many years after,
"that, if he had a good long rent-roll to produce, she would have advised him to go and make his bow to the excellent Miss Plumtre."
The Editor heard from her Son that the daughters of an amiable Duke and Duchess are educated
"
selon mon goût;
"
and she hears from some of her friends, that the Lady Greys, daughters of Lord Stamford, are excellently educated; as of her own knowledge is Miss Ormsbey, niece of her amiable friend Mrs. Owen, niece to the late Lord Godolphin. About a week ago the Editor received a letter from a very antient,
very worthy,
Baronet, whom she has known since he was eleven years old, requesting
her
"to
recommend a
GOOD
wife to him.
"
The Editor, laying down the letter, exclaimed,
"I fear Sir
has lost his wits."
In the
wise
days of the WISE KING, we read that they were
rather
scarce. What a request to make to a poor forlorn old-fashioned creature, quite retired from life,
"the world forgetting, by the world forgot."
The Editor has been several times asked,
"what can have induced her to quit the gay neighbourhood of Windsor, and
bury herself
ALIVE in the little dull town of Chertsey?"
Her constant reply,
"that she may not be called upon to
bury
DEAD"
the last
near
(if not the last dear) relative, that the wisdom of PROVIDENCE has spared to soothe her woes, and
smooth
her passage through the
ugly
vale of years to the tomb. Mrs. Berkeley assures her enquiring friends, that it is impossible the air ever should be stagnant, with Mr. Fox within one mile on one side, and Sir Joseph Mawbey on the other. The Editor has not yet seen either of these sensible men: probably they do not visit aged matrons. That her spirit cannot stagnate with so
very judicious
an Evangelical a Preacher as the Reverend Mr. White, curate of Chertsey. Nor is it possible the little wits that affliction, illness, and a premature old age, have left her, should stagnate, whilst she is frequently favoured with the visits of her and Dr. Berkeley's wonderfully witty friend, the learned Reverend E. W. Whitaker, of Thorpe-house. This gentleman has as much wit as his celebrated father, the Serjeant; and he has, what, alas! his learned, witty father had not. All the country is rejoicing that Mr. Whitaker has taken out his dedimus. He has already diverted the Editor and her sister with one or two JUSTICE
adventures.
Add to this, the acquisition of Lady and Miss Young, mother and sister of sir William Young. She, therefore, flatters herself that she shall not just yet become an
absolute
vegetable.
.
The Editor admires the wisdom of Colonel
, who a few (five or six) years ago, carried his daughters to York for the winter. Some one said,
"I see, Sir, you have brought the young ladies, that they may have a little
pleasure.
"
—
"No, indeed; I have brought them that they may get a little
profit,
that they may spend their mornings at Mrs.
(name forgotten, a famous pastry-cook, &c.) in order that they may know how to make good wives, if ever they marry, and, by understanding the management of a family, try to keep their husbands out of a
jail.
If their mother pleases, she may take them to some diversions in an evening sometimes."
The Colonel is a wise man; probably his daughters will not
"
hang on hand.
"
The Editor does so
loath
the present
horridly
ugly, bold,
indecent
It is so prostituted in these
equallizing
days as is quite diverting. During the Editor's residence at Magdalene-lodge, she went one evening to the house of a gardener, to speak about some fruit, (his wife a laundress;) she saw a very tall girl,
"
arrayed in purple and fine linen,
"
a fine muslin dress, and a most sumptuous lilac bandau, (
odiously
tied
behind,
instead of elegantly on the left side,) large bows, and the ends hanging down
quite
to the ground. Struck with so much finery sweeping along on the floor of a very small red-bricked kitchen, Mrs. Frinsham asked,
"who is that?"
The good laundress replied,
"Her father is Porter of
College: poor
young lady,
she has lost her
mamma,
and she is very fond of coming to visit my daughters."
How are young ladies
fallen!
dress of the
young females;
she cannot, will not, prostitute the pretty elegant words young ladies, to bestow them upon beings resembling Swift's YAHOOS.
God Almighty, when speaking in the Holy Scriptures of any thing remarkably lovely, condescends to compare it to a beautiful Virgin; certainly the most lovely being created in this lower world—not a modern English young woman;—virgins
they
will probably remain, even were war to cease,
"and the
fire not to consume our young men.
"
OUR maidens would not, however given
to,
be
taken in
marriage
Psalm lxxviii. ver. 64.
.
The Editor, one day at the Oaks, hearing three young men on a visit to her son, two of high birth, the other has attained much in his profession of arms, talking of the charms of the
Belles, the Editor said,
"What signifies
talking
and
sighing
over them? You had better marry and settle down quietly."
One replied,
"Why, my dear Madam, one cannot afford to marry, the young ladies are become so horridly expensive."
He has ventured on a
Country
Baronet's daughter, very prudently educated by a wise worthy mother; and the Editor pronounces her Ladyship a very happy woman, if it is not her own fault; for
unites with the gentleness of the dove the prudence of the serpent, and he has a noble estate. She trusts that he does not suffer her Ladyship to dress like a Yahoo.
Whoever remembers Twickenham forty years ago, if they had not the felicity of visiting Mrs. Isham, eldest daughter of Sir Justinian Isham, must have envied those who did visit her. This agreeable worthy lady is introduced here on account of a repartee of hers to her father, when it is probable young ladies dressed so as to make conquests of worthy sensible men. Alas for sweet Mrs. Isham and a most amiable young gentleman,
she
did! BUT, by the
perverseness
of a father on one side, and the covetousness of an uncle on the other, it was
decreed
they were
not
to be united. The gentleman died of a
broken heart
very soon; the lady survived about forty years, resolved never to marry. The
lovelorn tale,
too long to be inserted here, is never related by the Editor without filling her eyes with tears, after which she amuses herself and her auditors by
execrating
the
father
and
uncle.
After the death of Lady Isham,
ald Sir Jus
(as he was always styled) thought,
very unwisely,
he would
abridge
the young ladies of their
annual
visit to London. They gave several broad hints. At length the abovenamed lady said,
"Dear Sir, I hope you will let us go to town this spring."
Sir Jus.—
"To town, girls! What should you go to town for? No, no; you are very happy here in the country."
Young Lady.—
"But we want to buy some new cloaths, Sir."
Sir Jus.—
"
New cloaths, indeed!
Why the Scripture tells you, that the KING'S DAUGHTER was all-glorious
within.
"
Mrs. Isham.—
"Yes, Sir; but it also tells us, that
her cloathing was of wrought gold;
and we wish to resemble her outwardly, as well as inwardly."
The wit of the young lady prevailed, one cannot say over the
wisdom
of the father. To do justice to Sir Justinian, finding, that, by his parsimony, he had doomed his lovely daughter to perpetual celibacy, he bequeathed her a much larger fortune than he gave to any of his other younger children; but, to be sure, one must say, that, had Botany Bay been discovered, he deserved to have been exiled thither; and the sensible, amiable Mr. R
's rich old uncle ought to have been hanged outright, without benefit of clergy, for forcing a rich fool into the arms of his nephew. Alas! the actors
of
and
in
this tragedy are all now retired behind the scene!
It always provokes the Editor to hear a stupid father or mother telling poor girls that they are
happier
at their elbow, than at the race-ball. No, let young people have a reasonable share of
innocent
amusement. Why should man be more rigid than God, who says, by his Prophet Jeremiah,
"Thou shalt again go forth in the dances of them that make
merry!
"
It cannot therefore
be
SIN.
The Editor never suffered Mr. Monck Berkeley to call her Mamma after he entered his teens, telling him it was like a lamb, but, when speaking of her, always "My Mother;" of course, from the time he could articulate, "Madam," when speaking to her.
The Editor holds in detestation the idea of children, of whatever age, calling their parents
Mr.
or
Mrs.
when speaking to them; insomuch that, sometimes, when the Editor, after Mr. Monck Berkeley was grown up, has been inattentive to what her Son was saying to her after he had called
Madam
two or three times, he would say,
"Well, Madam; if you will not listen to me,
I protest
I will call you Mrs. Berkeley."
It has always had the desired effect, procuring an answer;
"And I
protest,
if you do,
I will knock
you down."
The last ridotto before the Editor married, at about eight in the evening, thus late by her own request, the famous Mr.
, hair-dresser, attended her, to try to make her wonderfully curling hair, like an African's, keep straight, as was the fashion then, for a few hours. Observing the poor man ready to faint, she asked,
"if she should order the servant to bring him a glass of wine."
On its arrival, the Editor asked,
"if he would have a bit of toast."
He replied,
"She was very good; and if it would not be too much trouble to Mr. Joseph," (a very worthy grey-headed servant of Mrs. Frinsham and the Editor before her marriage,) "he should be very glad, for that he had not tasted bit or sup since eight in the morning—had been flying over the town to ladies."
The Editor pitying him, he said,
"He was used to it all the Winter, in a greater or less degree—that he seldom got hom to dinner till six o'clock, a
ton
hour now—that he often begged Mrs.
(his wife) not to wait for him."
This so struck the Editor, that the next day she conjured Dr. (then Mr.) Berkeley, that if ever she became his wife, (which she did on the Easter Tuesday following), he would never call her MRS. BERKELEY, but his WIFE, when he spoke of her, and by her Christian name when he spoke
to
her, wishing to be
"some how,"
as we Berkshire folks say, distinguished from her hair-dresser's
lady,
who a few years after, by the death of a rich old miller, his uncle, kept a chariot, and saved Mrs.
the trouble of waiting dinner for him. He then ceased to wait on the ladies. He was an excellent hair-dresser—the Editor hopes he made a good Esquire.
POSTSCRIPT.
THE EDITOR takes this opportunity of publishing her heartfelt gratitude to several excellent friends, who have most generously, most kindly, most amiably, assisted her in various ways, since her being left forlorn and desolate, to struggle, to wade though much intricate, unpleasant, some
quite unexpected
business.—Her gratitude to her old excellent friend, Sir Richard Hill;—to Dr. Berkeley's old friend, the Dean of Hereford;—to the throughly amiable hearted Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury;—and to the very grateful Reverend Charles Sawkins, Student of Christ Church, have been already noticed.
The Editor wants an abler pen than her own to express what she feels for the exceedingly great kindness of that unwearied friend, Commissioner Hey of the Customs; with whose exquisite wit the Editor's spirit has not been regaled for many years, until an opportunity presented itself of shewing, what the Editor has long known, that brilliant as that gentleman's wit is, his worth exceeds it, as numbers benefited by it can testify. The amiability of that gentleman's heart was ever admired by Dr. Berkeley. What does he now feel towards him and every kind worthy friend of his perplexed Widow!
The excellent, generous Mr. Wilberforce, the Editor, although very highly obliged to his goodness, has never yet seen.
To the very obliging, polite Mr. Edwards, Bookseller in Pall Mall, the Editor is much indebted, for very judicious, kind advice, given in a matter of which the Editor had not a competent knowledge, and of which Mr. Edwards was an excellent judge.
The Editor is likewise much indebted to the very worthy Printer of Mr. Monck Berkeley's Poems, and to his Compositors, for the patience they have shewn in
deciphering
the
crowded, interlined,
generally ill-written sheets of this Preface, in which are few errors of the
press,
although many of the
pen.
The Editor, when writing a common letter in haste, sometimes leaves out three words of a sentence, occasioned by a vile trick contracted in early youth, of softly saying her sentence as she is writing; and, dull as her wits now are, they reverse the old Proverb,
"of not letting one's tongue run before one's wit;"
for the Editor wishes that her pen could only keep pacc with her wits: slow as they now are, it would save her friends, the few who are still
visited
by her letters
The Editor means here to adopt, rather to
adapt,
a Scottish fashion. The people of North Britain have many clever, some elegant ones. Of the latter, is the always going dressed in a black gown or coat, the first visit after the family visited have lost a near relation. The Editor has constantly practised it since her return from Scotland. Just before the Editor set out for Scotland she was driven by her dear Son several miles in the phaëton, to make one of these distressing visits at the house of a—not very distant relation, where they met half the
"
fine folk
"
of Berks. They were fine in a double sense, as they were persons of fashion, all clad in red, blue, green, &c. ladies and gentlemen. Lady
was very elegantly, very gaily dressed. Mr. Berkeley and his Mother, of course in mourning, and the mourning of both was internal as well as external. On driving out of the court yard, the Editor, as if she had taken a peep at Scotland, said to her Son,
"My dear Berkeley, it has really sickened me to see so many gaudy colours in this house of mourning."
One of the former is an article in the Edinburgh newspapers. After the death inserted,
"It is hoped his or her relations will accept
this
notification of his or her death."
The Editor having been obliged, on account of the tender health of her last near, and exceedingly dear relative, her excellent sister, to quit the clear, fine, sharp air of Datchet Terrace, for the mild soft air of Surrey, has taken a house at Chertsey, where she expects to be quite beggared by postage. One penny for every newspaper. Well, what is that? Why, thirteen shillings
per annum
addition for the Saint James's Chronicle; one penny with every scrawl she puts
into
the post, and one penny with
every
letter that she gets by the post, frank or no frank. The names of her two kind
pocket
M.P.'s, as she always styles her two excellent old friends Sir Richard Hill and Sir Robert Laurie, avail no more than were they, instead of two most excellent Senators, the two heroes of an old ballad sung to the Editor by her mother's maids when she was a girl, which begins,
"Robert and Richard were two pretty men;
"And they lay a-bed till the clock it struck ten," &c.
The Editor, unless her new neighbour Mr. Fox, or somebody, can get a post
to
Chertsey, must, if GOD spares her life, once a quarter, insert in the Saint James's Chronicle,
"
This is to certify those whom it may concern, that Mrs. George Berkeley is still living at Chertsey, Surrey.
"
She has, this day (December 12, 1796), received eight letters. Besides the postage, she pays a penny each to the civil old man, who brought them
from
Stains, that is eight-pence; and, as every one must be answered, eight-pence more to carry them to Stains; so that she is now fully resolved seriously to tell all her friends, that she cannot afford to receive or answer their kind letters, although they should be franked. As to those of her foes, she will not suffer her servants to take in a letter in an unknown hand. The franking bill and paper tax will soon reduce FEMALES to a state of barbarism again, as the Editor conceives. The Editor is resolved to advise all her female acquaintance to give up letter-writing; even her few young friends, to wait and give
vivâ voce
the account of their
conquests, cruelty,
&c. &c. accounts of lovers old and new, to their friend. Dr. Berkeley always said,
"If the Minister once gets the House of Commons to give up franking it is over with them. Like Sampson, they become weak like other men."
Since sending this to press, the Editor is told by her servant, that the letters, when carried to the civil, humble Postman
The letters are all deposited in a very large heap, on a neat, clean, white dresser, whence one may as easily
take,
as
lay,
a letter—but the Editor has no Bank Bills to
send off.
, who always came, like the roll-boy, &c. with one knock, until the Editor advised him to feel his
own
consequence, and give two
smart
raps, as
other
Postmen every where do, and as he now does. The worthy man said,
"He hoped people would not think it
presuming
in him."
Good, humble man, perhaps he may sometimes be charged with a letter—from the COUNTESS OF PUDDLEDOCK, (vide Faery Tale,) or some such great Personage, to some Chertsey trader,—or perhaps a sheet to the Editor,—who, if on a Saint's-day, can hardly get time before three o'clock, when she
must
eat her dinner; and the post sets off for Stains at
five
o'clock: so letter-writing is here handsomely taken leave of by the Editor; and for the St. James's Chronicle, she will order them to lie till some neighbour goes to town, who will bring them postage free—sit down, and read a batch together, as she has heard is done in the East Indies; for which she has often pitied the
poor,
rich Nabobesses. They may now pity
her.
It must hurt the revenue, the abridging girls of writing.
"What
reams
of paper, as Lady B
r used to say, did the Editor and her Ladyship's lovely niece
waste,
in writing to each other!"
Her Ladyship had no
great
talents for letter-writing; and here the Editor ABJURES it, and advises all her acquaintance and friends to do it, except some friend will take charge of a letter, and then, as is frequently the case,
forget to deliver it.
Since writing the above, the Editor finds that the clever way of getting to, and sending letters from, Chertsey is with a yard of ribbon or small piece of cloth, &c. for, what with the opposition coaches and waggon, the carriages that pass and repass from London to Chertsey, are going nearly, the Editor believes, quite half a score times every day, Sundays NOT excepted, which makes it exceedingly convenient indeed, and very reasonable. Blessings on opposition! may all the inhabitants of Chertsey and its
environs
say. Bishop Berkeley used to say,
"It is
over
with
England
when there is NO opposition.
But
it should be kept under."
, a vast deal of trouble—and herself also, if she has leisure to run them over, the lamenting and correcting her nonsense.
The Prophet exclaims,
"Are there none amongst all the sons that she hath brought up, to take her by the hand to guide her?"
The Editor replies,
"No, not one."
There are four Irish gentlemen, every one men of large fortune and appointments, whose
only
home, for very many years' residence at Eton and Harrow School, (for the three months holydays of every year,) was the house of their relation, Dr. Berkeley.
To the Etonian, a gentleman of many thousand pounds a year, for ages in the family, his sweetly amiable father constantly took care to
make
Dr. Berkeley's Irish debtors pay with tolerable punctuality. If they did not, by the generosity of his excellent, kind relation Mr. Monck of Grange Gormond, father of the Marchioness of Waterford, it was pretty much the same to Dr. Berkeley; Mr. Monck saying to his amiable brother,
"Whether Dr. Berkeley's people pay or not, remit his money regularly on my account; they will pay some time or other."
Such favours can never be obliterated from a grateful mind. The three others had
no
such claim, nor any claim—and on their arrival at Harrow School in the year 1766, their uncle said they were to remain seven years, the year round, holydays and all, as school-boys. The Editor felt for them, and besought Dr. Berkeley to let them come to him. He replied,
"I will not have YOU tormented with all the BRATS of my Irish relations, turning yourself into a
boarding dame.
"
Mrs. Berkeley conjured Dr. Berkeley to send the coach to fetch them for three or four days, that she might see what sort of geniuses they were, and, if they were well behaved, a little mutton, &c. would not be much expence in a family of thirteen or fourteen persons. Accordingly she prevailed—as women generally do, with wise men, if their aim is worthy, and they set
rightly
about it
Soon after Dr. Berkeley's marriage, a younger brother of Dr. Joshua Berkeley, now Dean of Tuam (whose only
English
home, during his stay at Westminster school, and long after, at Christ Church, Oxon, was Dr. Berkeley's house), came with his worthy eldest brother, and his youngest, to visit Dr. Berkeley at Bray. The youth, for whom Dr. Berkeley had procured a studentship of Christ Church, fell ill of the small-pox; and Dr. Berkeley's mother, then at his house, thought it
better
that the Editor, who had never had the small-pox, should leave the house, rather than Master William Berkeley, although Mr. Falwasser the Apothecary assured her there was not the least danger attended the removing the youth. It very nearly cost the Editor her life; she lost her infant; and the taking a ready-furnished house to reside in for three months, scouring,
spoiling
beds, curtains, &c. lest the Editor should get the small-pox (that, in her family,
direful
disease) cost Dr. Berkeley an hundred pounds. He SENSIBLY felt the
only
return he met with from his uncle, or either of his learned sons.
.
Mrs. Berkeley is sorry to be obliged to say, that neither of these gentlemen, who used to weep
The late amiable Mr. Henchman, of All Souls, coming in one day, saw Charles
, Esq. with his arms round Mrs. Berkeley's neck, sobbing, and the tears flowing plentifully from the Editor's eyes, exclaimed,
"What is the matter? Is not this very extraordinary?"
To which Dr. Berkeley replied,
"No; it is always the case when they leave us. They love my wise, I believe,
better
than their mother. I am sure
she is an excellent mother to them;
and the coach has been at the gate this half hour to carry them to Harrow."
This gentleman paid attention to Mr. Monck Berkeley when in Ireland; and on Mrs. Berkeley's writing to him a few years ago, requesting him to make enquiry in Dublin, concerning a young gentleman, son of a Canterbury neighbour, just then married to an Irish lady, of good family, and, as the event has proved, merit; he obligingly complied—and in one of his letters
politely
said he had not forgotten favours received at Dr. Berkeley's. The Editor's friend, Mrs. D
, says that Ireland is
"
the land
where all things are forgotten."
This lady has or had one
vaut-rien
friend, an English woman, who marrying greatly in Ireland, as most English women do, gave herself high airs, and forgot her English friends. She took care that the late excellent Mrs. G
l should not forget her; for she drew upon her regularly for an annuity that generous woman had settled upon her when a
poor English
beauty!!!
bitterly when leaving her to return to school, ever wrote to Dr. Berkeley on the loss of his excellent Son, or to the Editor since, to offer to assist her in her Irish affairs.
Mrs. Berkeley feels herself indebted to the goodness of Charles-Berkeley Kippax, Esquire, great-nephew of Bishop Berkeley, whom the Editor never saw until about three years before the death of Dr. Berkeley, and whom she, with all her rhetoric, could not persuade Dr. Berkeley to invite to his house at holyday times, he saying,
"You shall not be
devoured
by my relations. Kippax has uncles in England."
To this gentleman she has, since her loss of Dr. Berkeley, been obliged for some assistance in her Irish affairs, and she has endeavoured to shew her gratitude otherwise than by mere words.
The Editor, before she finally closes this Postscript, wishes to repeat to her few remaining friends in distant parts, (for, alas! numbers have, within a short space, gone to those distant shores whence they
cannot return
until TIME shall be no more,) her change of abode since the writing and printing the Dedication
Mr. Monck Berkeley, early in life, made, to himself, a solemn promise, that he would never write a Dedication during his life, lest, as he used to say, the Devil should tempt him to flatter with his pen, knowing he would not with his tongue.
; that—although she cannot now boast of keeping, as she used to do when resident at the Oaks, the
best
and
cheapest
inn at Canterbury, where she had often the pleasure of returning the amiable attentions paid to her Son in town by persons to whom neither his Father or Mother had the honour to be known, and as they
sometimes
found the
pleasure
of being acquainted with—she resides at present at Chertsey; where, when she receives any money from Ireland, to pay the butcher and baker
every
Monday morning, she will be happy to see any
real
friend, and
poor
desolate females, whether widows or maidens, who are too poor to be courted, too old to be flattered—they need not
dread
being
crowded
with company. An amiable friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley's youth frequently does the Editor the honour to say,
"that he should esteem it an honour if she would spend some weeks at his seat, with himself and his lovely lady."
The Editor wickedly, it is wickedly as she is persuaded he is sincere, laughs, and says,
"
Invite
on; press, Tommy. You are very safe, I assure you; for I shall never visit you."
If the Editor's life should be spared until next summer, and she can prevail on her sister to accompany her, she means to go for one week; as, were it not so distant, she would be happy to accept the throughly polite invitation of Mr. Monck Berkeley's highly respected old Eton, St. Andrew's, friend, the very amiable, very grateful (for slight favours received at St. Andrew's), Mr. Hume, son of the late Lord Bishop of Sarum, nephew to Lord Kinnoul. Mr. Berkeley always spoke in high terms of Mr. Hume's worth when an Etonian. The Editor rejoices to hear that he is so happily married. Long may he enjoy his felicity on earth! late exchange it for higher felicity!
THE EDITOR TO HER CORRESPONDING FRIENDS.
THE Editor having publicly declared war with one of her favourite amusements from ten years old, at present her only remaining one, letter-writing, rather letter
scribbling;
unluckily for her, for her friends, she
too
early in life lighted on that passage in one of Dean Swift's Letters,
"that he never leaned on his elbow, when writing a letter, to study or think what he was to write, but set down just what came into his head, or occurred at the moment."
The Editor
then
thought it
very clever;
so it might, perhaps, for such a brilliant genius as Dean Swift, but not for Miss Frinsham. At fifteen, however, the habit was
unluckily
contracted, and every one who has ever redde only
once
Dr. Johnson's delightful VISION of THEODORE, must remember the astonishingly beautiful description of HABITS. Perhaps good ones, in early life, are
almost
as easily contracted as bad ones, at least so a learned
beathen
Philosopher tells us: but
he knew not
the
doctrine
of ORIGINAL SIN, although all thinking impartial Beings must
feel
it in themselves.
Mrs. Berkeley here takes leave to recommend to those Friends to whom she may not yet have recommended them, as she knows she has to many, to purchase, and read,
every
day, two little books—BOGATSKY. When recommending that excellent little volume (the York edition is correct) to her old neighbour, Mr. Bristow of Canterbury, to fell, he assured her,
"that BOGATSKY was
all the fashion;
that vast numbers of LADIES (not Gentlemen) bought it."
Mrs. Frinsham uses wittily to say,
"The reason that Men do not kneel at Church, or attend to their souls out of Church, is, because GOD has made
them
LORDS of the Creation."
Why is not that emblem over every altar in every country church, as the Editor has seen it in some few little obscure village churches, particularly in that of
West
Peckham in West Kent, surrounded with a beautiful nimbus.
Children, babes
of sense, would then ask what it was?
There has long been a train laid by the Socinian and Arian
Friends
of Satan to undermine good Dr. Watts. There was a hint in a set of Bampton Lectures several years ago, that
latterly
that pious man was not quite so strenuous, &c. as formerly. The fact is, for many years his fine faculties (too much used) failed, and villains got in and asked him ensnaring questions, which he forgot before he answered. It had been happy had he done as poor, pious,
very
weak, Bishop Latimer did, when examined by the PIOUS,
charitable
Papists of
bloody
MARY:
"I am become old and foolish. I won't answer a word to any question you ask me. Go, and read what I printed when I was in vigour; and, if you don't like it, burn me for that."
And so they very kindly did, shortening his then dull journey to glory.
As this sheet is not written for the Publick at large, but
entirely
for Mrs. George Berkeley's Correspondents,
i.e.
her kindly curious friends, who want to know
"what
sort
of place she has
thrust
herself into;"
she here,
sine postage,
thus writes: Her dear friend Mrs. Duncombe has,
"many a long year ago,"
celebrated the beauties of the environs, the
exteriour
of Chertsey: if she will be pleased to insert her account in the Gentleman's Magazine, she will oblige her numerous friends, and delight many readers of that very sensible work. For the
interiour,
the Editor has already described the excellent Preacher; and in all times
hitherto
CHURCH has the precedency of State. The Editor will follow
"
the good old way.
"
The building has but one AILE, so it will not probably
fly
away; and she hopes the DEMOCRATES will not pluck its one aile and level it with the ground; for Mrs. B. had rather hobble to it on the
little
On Mrs. Berkeley asking Mr. Whitaker, how it came to pass, when almost every little town in England was well paved, that this had escaped being
"
in the fashion;
"
he replied,
"Bless me, my dear Madam, did
you
never hear
how it came to be
so paved?"
Mrs. Berkeley foolishly expecting to hear, by Romans, or Saxons, or Danes, earnestly said,
"Oh, no;
do pray tell me.
"
"Why, the
tradition
is, that the DEVIL paved it
himself,
that people might not go to Church."
Mrs. Berkeley's father used to say, that it must certainly have been the Devil who built the Church at Great Marlow, quite at the extremity, indeed, out of that very long town, close to the Thames. An odd circumstance occurred one Sunday, almost forty years ago. Mrs. Berkeley, on a visit there, of course at Church, a barge stranded, just as the worthy Dr. Cloberry was devoutly reading the third commandment, a perplexed bargeman, without the sacred walls, uttered the following words, distinctly heard by all the congregation,
"G
d d
n your hands, why
doan't
you pull that rope?"
The inhabitants of Marlow then had one most excellent custom; it were to be wished that it were practised in other places. During Divine Service, at no fixed regular time, the Churchwardens, attended by other proper persons, take up their white wands, walk out of Church, and walk through the town, inspect the alehouses; and Mrs. Berkeley conceives the Marlow Publicans do not resemble
one
at Cookham, who used to shut up his
front
door, and receive a vast deal of
good
company through his garden, at his
back
door. But his
landlord
was one of the WORTHY Cookham Brewers, risen from being
humbly thankful
for a horn of fine ale when working hard at Dr. Berkeley's at Bray as a Cooper—to
making
—ale at Cookham, and, together with a Dissenting Baker, during the Sequestration after Dr. Berkeley resigned the living of Cookham, although he rented the house of his successor, shewed their love of power in a very extraordinary manner indeed; the Brewer sending repeated orders that Dr. Berkeley's cows should not be in the church-yard, the cattle have no other way to get at the Thames to drink; and the Baker bringing his linen up a ladder over a wall repeatedly to dry them on the premises, which he said were become his; not in the drying-ground appropriated for that purpose, but tying his ropes to the two finest mulberry-trees in Berkshire, with which Mrs. Berkeley regaled all her neighbours far and near, rich and poor, and would as soon have suffered her maids to have dried her linen on them, as to have washed it in her Dresden china: but beggars set on horseback
generally
ride
briskly.
Whether ABRAHAM and LEVI considered themselves
great folk
as descendants of the Father of the Faithful, or as COOKHAM
Parish officers,
Mrs. Berkeley knows not, but conceives the latter. Mrs. Berkeley, telling the late very sensible worthy Mr. Stone, Carpenter, of Cookham, and Churchwarden, that he had never sent his cloaths to dry, or sent for fruit, or made the Vicarage Garden a publick walk, as Mr. Withers, the Curate appointed by the Parish did, he shook his head, saying,
"Good Madam, that paper from the Archdeacon's Court was only matter of form: there was no need for us to take care of any premises that Dr. Berkeley was in possession of."
Dr. Berkeley and this worthy man, between them, had taken care of his soul: he collected the Offering at the Altar on Sunday, looking, good man, as if really dead; and expired in peace the next Tuesday. On being advised on Sunday not to go to church because he was dying, he replied,
"I know it, and therefore I will go."
His health had been long in a very declining state. He was a very throughly honest, just man, as I well know, he having done all Dr. Berkeley's work for many years; and I, of course, always overlooked and paid his very reasonable remarkably just bills.
round pebbles, than walk
smoothly
over its foundation, as she did the last time she was in France over a Cathedral, where she had some few years before worshiped GOD in
her own way,
whilst a noble organ was playing the service during the celebrating, not L'OFFICE DE SAUVEUR, in which she could well join. To tell you that we have no organ at Chertsey, would be to tell an untruth; as Mrs. Berkeley hears, by report, that the Presbyterians have so far given up the ideas of their ancestors as to suffer the
"
Devil's whistle
"
to be played constantly in their Meeting-houses in many places, adopting, 'tis to be feared, the
Popish
doctrine of doing and
hearing
EVIL that good may come, drawing thereby many from the Church of England worship. However, to console US in the Parish Church for the want of an organ, we have a most extraordinary Clerk, who, no doubt, conceive that his prayers are as prevalent as those of ELIJAH THE PROPHET. On my arrival here, Mrs. Frinsham told me that we had a very extraordinary Clerk indeed; but that she was told
she would, in time,
get used to
his
mode of praying. She expressed her wonder that it did not perplex the Officiating Clergymen. She would not tell me what it was, saying,
"I should hear for myself."
Arriving here on the Saturday evening, I, of course, attended Divine Service twice on Sunday, as also on weekdays and the following Sunday. Having been taught, from early youth, always to follow, never precede the Clerk in the Confession, Psalms, and Responses, I was exceedingly puzzled indeed when I came to the Litany. I rubbed my eyes, wiped my glasses, but all in vain, to find out what the poor honest Clerk said, as the words WE and FOR are
so very
different in their sound, and, thanks be to God, my ears are as quick as my poor eyes are dull—very remarkably quick always; that it was not, till several times after giving the utmost attention, that I discovered that this good man, probably conceiving that HIS prayers, as Clerk, being louder than the rest of the Congregation, are
better
heard in Heaven, he very kindly, in the Litany, instead of saying,
"
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord,
"
says, FOR I beseech Thee to hear US, good Lord. Most of the great Churches in town have what is called a Clerk in Orders; I believe they seldom officiate themselves, but generally by deputy; but if they do, although in Priests Orders, I fancy they do not supplicate for the Congregation as this
zealous
Clerk does. There are several other curious
varieties,
but this may suffice to shew how
happy
we are in a Clerk. Pews are here exceedingly scarce; and the good Lady who
rented
this house before I took it, when she quitted the town, bequeathed her
non
-right in the pew in which she sat to a
little valiant Sea-officer,
not now in employ. He, perhaps, considering himself as at sea, crowded himself and three cousins in with Mrs Frinsham and myself (the pew is small for four persons); blustered so violently, and swore in Church, and at length prevailed, by his eloquence
or
his oaths, on the
respectable
Vestry (after all the gentlemen were retired), to write me a very curious letter indeed (it is carefully preserved by Mrs. Frinsham amongst her
odd
curiosities), forbidding me to sit in the seat any more,
they
having given it to Captain BLUSTER, and his uncle the Coal-dealer, who are much
too genteel
ever to go to Church in an afternoon, or on weekdays. I was beginning to fear we must attend Divine Service as used to do the excellent Mrs. Yorke of Pirton, my mother's aunt, who, for some years before her death, being a cripple by the gout, was constantly lifted in and out of her coach to take the air, or make a visit, but could not drive into the Church; she was therefore regularly carried to Church twice every Sunday, and every Saint's day, Wednesdays, and Fridays, in her sedan-chair, placed in the aile, and the poles drawn out, not to incommode persons passing to their pews; but, having at present no sedanchair, it occurred to me, that, unless the amiable Prelate of this Diocese was wonderfully altered for the worse in a few years, he would be happy to assist an old friend. I accordingly wrote to him, stating our hard case. His Lordship honoured me with a very polite answer, inclosing one to the Churchwardens of Chertsey, recommending it to them to provide me with a pew; which they immediately did, near the little Captain's, where we hear him talk, but not
now
swear and curse.—So much fore cclesiastical matters; only remarking, that the title bestowed on the Curate of Chertsey, as Mr. White told us, is the
Journeyman
Parson. I have often heard my Mother and Archdeacon Dodwell's mother say, that the Clerk of Shottesbrook, a master shoemaker, used to roar out, in the Psalm, I am a
journeyman,
as all my Fathers were; and Mr. Cherry's comment was,
"Frith always struts when he hollows it out, feeling his
own
superiority over David, who, he conceives, never attained to being a
master
workman."
We never hear an oath, or see, or hear, a drunken person, man or woman, in the street.
Mr. Whitaker told Mrs. Frinsham and Mrs. Berkeley, that the reformation in the manners of the
lower
class of people in this place, within these last eight years, since Mr. White was curate of the place, is quite astonishing to all the neighbourhood. The higher and middling ranks of people, in most places, are too
wise
and too
genteel
to be
anxious
about the salvation of their immortal souls!!!
Perhaps a few weeks spent at Dover by the great boys and girls, and some of their parents, might suggest to them, that it would be better to walk next the kennel, and
"leave the wall to elder persons;"
as the very worthy Mrs. Neal, of the tea-warehouse at Dover, taught her wonderfully civil, clever, little girl, of eight years old, who, shewing slipped behind, to give me the wall at every turning.
Enquiring the way once of a sensible-looking little charity-school girl, she said,
"I will wait upon you, Madam, and shew it you."
She received, as she merited, my kind thanks. We set out;—she turned back to the little girls that she had quitted, slipped off her pattens, saying,
"Pray take care of them; I shall walk quicker without them, and not hinder the Lady."
It was impossible for the Lady, who ever delighted to pay attention to real humble merit in humble station, and try to benefit the possessors, to avoid rewarding her little conductress, and enquiring who she was. She did not reply, as washerwomen's, &c. children in these equalizing days generally do,
"I am
Mrs. Draggletail's
daughter."
She replied,
"My name is Susan Ellendor, Madam. My mother is a widow, and keeps a publick house;"
I think, the Flying Horse. This being the last time I was at Dover, I have not learned, but hope, that the sensible, civil little Susan is now a worthy servant in the family of some gentleman who has a worthy lady, who takes a
little
care of the souls of her servants, as, I trust, will all the friends to whom I address this farewell epistle.
ADIEU, my good Friends: May we ere long meet in a country where neither Mr. Pitt, nor Mr. Pond, nor any Mr. can tax
poor
letter scribblers.
ELIZA. BERKELEY.
THE EDITOR'S APOLOGY,
For the Errors of herself and the Devil; i.e. the Printer's Devil.
THE learned acute Dr. Young says,
"
Flaw in the best—The many flaw all o'er.
"
To which party the Editor belongs has been by this time pronounced: by many, perhaps, as in most other cases (where sentence is pronounced without seeing the
whole
of the evidence), the judgement
may
be wrong. She conceives, as in most other things, fortune, station, &c. &c. she is in the
middle
way. That she
appears
sometimes to have written
superlative
nonsense is most certain, for which she is
not
famous.
"But this sentence is absolute nonsense,"
says a Reader;
"
no one can
make
head or tail of it.
"
Agreed, good Reader: yet the Editor
did not write
it nonsense; but her once good hand, now, when writing in haste, degenerated into a very small scrawl, must have often puzzled even the
poor
Devil, or the Compositor. A witty clerk of an uncle of hers, a very eminent Barrister, used to say,
"My master writes
three
hands; one that
I
can't read, one that he can't read
himself,
and one that the
Devil
can't read."
The Editor, from an ugly trick contracted in very early youth, always speaks in a very low voice what she is writing; and, although her pen moves very quick, yet, the little
redrag,
"the unruly member,"
moves
still
quicker; by which means she frequently leaves out three or four words in a sentence, which she is obliged to interline. She never whilst writing tittles the third vowel, crosses her
t,
or makes any stop but at the beginning of a new paragraph. All this is left
to be done
after the letter, &c. is finished; and, like most other things postponed, is frequently
not done at all;
which, to those unacquainted with her horridly heedless manner of writing, makes her letters
very
valuable Etruscan MSS.
The Editor thinks she may now proceed, without being guilty of
injustice,
to
accuse
the Devil. Whenever the Editor has had occasion to use the word
perpetually,
the
Devil
knows, or perhaps
does not
know why, the word (as lately in an article in the Gentleman's Magazine
See the Tale of Woe, in the Magazine for August 1796.
) is constantly printed PERSONALLY; which makes it in some instances
very extraordinary
nonsense indeed.
In some places the note is introduced into the text, and the poor text
cast down
into the note; as it is at the bottom of p. cccc; where the last three lines are superfluous, but were intended to have accompanied the little anecdote of poor unhappy Lady Vane, in p. ccccvii.
Mentioning a very beautiful little painting of Cheltenham Church, taken from the Well, by Miss Hamilton
One of the elegant, throughly amiable daughters of Lord Archibald Hamilton, during the Editor's melancholy
séjour
at Cheltenham, during the last direful illness of her son, and the tremendously alarming illness of dear Dr. Berkeley, at Cheltenham. These angelic-hearted young ladies insisted on regularly escorting the Editor from the Spa to her own door every morning, as she regularly drank the water (and would do it every year, for two months, in autumn, if she could afford the journey). The Editor has above mentioned
her objection
to taking a footman, to attend her in a morning. She has for some years been receiving severe reprimands from her
dear
TRIO, Father, Son, and Sister, for DARING to walk, except in her garden, alone, lest she should, half, more than half blind, run her simple
head
against a horse's
tail,
as she once did. The Poor Editor used to plead,
"that she never was
so
watched in youth by her mother; why
submit
to it in her old age by her son? Yet so it kindly was, still kindly is. To be followed by her very worthy careful servant in
London,
she has no objection;
but
to see a female followed by a footman at
Chertsey,
would make it supposed an OATLANDS lady was in town."
, at the request of the Editor, and which hangs constantly within ken of her
short
-sighted-eye, to soothe her wounded heart, of a size answering to the frontispiece
designed
by her dear Son, and engraved for his beautiful Elegy on the death of Miss M
; the
poor
Devil has turned the word
beautiful
into a
handsome
drawing; which raises the idea of vulgarity in her mind—perhaps, as a Berkeshire woman, having in early youth heard the lower people of that beautiful county ridiculed for frequently saying,
"A
handsome-bodied man,
or woman, as you shall see, Sir!"
The Editor fears that most of the errors of the press must go uncorrected; as although, thanks to the mercy of God, she has still eye-sight sufficient to scrawl by day-light, and read a sensible, clever book by candle-light, she cannot
six
her eye, by
any
light, to count lines, and find out in
which
the error lies, without injuring her eyes very much. The casting up her
(now)
very small weekly book of accompts strains her eyes, more than reading or writing five hours
de suite,
when she has not occasion to fix them.
The Editor has been from very early youth, by her nearest, her dearest surviving friend, told,
"That she is of a temper
too
sanguine—that she
never
ceases to hope, in despite of disappointment repeated, and
re-repeated.
"
The Editor has ever found it pleasanter than to go quietly into the Castle of GIANT DESPAIR, (vide Pilgrim's Progress, the delight of her very early childhood—the new edition of which with the excellent notes by the very pious, and surely very liberal-minded Mr. Burder, Dissenting Minister at Coventry, improves and gladens her declining years; if the Editor was rich, she would dispense as many of an incomparable little work of his, intituled, "THE GOOD OLD WAY," as the ZEALOUS Democrats did of Tom Paine's
Rights
of Man. As it is, although that incomparable little tract is sold as low as
one
penny, she half beggars herself in distributing them; having generally some in her pocket, for rich and poor, who will accept them
As also Sir Richard Hill's German Catechism, with two exquisitely fine very short Family Prayers (the marrow of good Bishop Hall's in his Jacob's Ladder); the morning, with the Lord's Prayer, &c. being offered in less than five minutes, the evening one in less than four—a little portion of time for the busiest person to let his servants bestow on HIM who bestows twentyfour hours, in which to work, play, eat, drink, sleep. The soul needs food, at least as much as the body does!!! His Present for your Neighbour. His NATURE and GRACE. Mr. S
's Way to be Happy in a Miserable World. Christmas-Box for the Heart. (All sold by Matthews, No. 18, Strand.) To say nothing of the Society's Books, at Messrs. Rivingtons, St. Paul's Church-yard. The Friendly Call to the Holy Communion, by the late excellent Peter Dobree, Esquire. It is pity that the name of that devout Christian is not now printed in the title-page; it would save the Editor much trouble in writing it there.
. Reading that
wonderful little
volume, she is ready to retract having so often joined that witty Monarch Charles the Second, saying, that
"Presbyteranism was not the Religion of a GENTLEMAN;"
in Mr. Burder, it appears the Religion of a most liberalminded man)—But to return to that cheering temper of the mind, HOPE. The Editor has really so very often
hoped
that every page of
very
many would be the last of her
LONG Preface, that she is almost led to DESPAIR. Gratitude for amiable attention, she knows not how to avoid celebrating, as perhaps, few persons feel more sensibly, more gratefully, amiable, unmerited attentions, paid to herself and those she tenderly loved.
THE Editor wonders at herself, that, in mentioning the great amiability of the
noblesse
of Scotland, she could have omitted to notice the very pleasing politeness of Lord Glasgow to Mr. Monck Berkeley, during his
séjour
at St. Andrew's.
As the family were sitting at tea
en famille
in Mrs. Berkeley's dressing-room, the door opened, and the servant, Mr. Wrightson, announced Mr. Bower to Mr. Berkeley. Mr. Berkeley sprang up, saying,
"My dear good fellow, I am very glad to see you with all my heart. What can have brought you hither?"
Mr. Bower.—
"I came, Sir, to pay my duty to my Father."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"Who is your Father?"
Mr. Bower.—
"He tells me, Sir, that he has the honour to be known to Dr. Berkeley and to you, Sir."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"What! not Patrick Bower?"
Mr. Bower.—
"The same, Sir. I should not have taken the liberty to have waited on you, Sir, but that my Lord Glasgow, hearing that you were at the University here, charged me to wait upon you with his best compliments, and to tell you that he hopes you will visit him next vacation at
."
The Editor must add here, that Mr. Bower, the bookseller of St. Andrew's, was a very worthy man, and, as she used frequently to say, as civil as an English tradesman; a very rare thing in Scotland, where the traders are, in general, the most uncourtly, she believes, of any under the canopy of Heaven, the Dutch
The late Mrs. Donalon, of Chelsea, an old friend, once a FLAME of Bishop Berkeley's, being in Holland, and going into a shop to purchase some holland; it not being just what she wanted, she went out of the shop. Walking along the streets, she received a most
violent
blow on her back, which, but for a good pair of stays, must have injured her. Turning round, she saw the Mistress of the shop looking like a Fury, who said,
"
this is to teach you not to give people the trouble to undo their goods, and then not buy them,
",
adding some opprobrious Dutch name. The Editor often wonders at the
patient
civility of London Traders, with her
tiresome idle
Country-women, who are morning shopstrollers. She always herself requests traders
not
to shew her their new-fashioned wares, as she, whether she wants them or not, knows that she
cannot
(therefore
will not
) afford to buy them.
always excepted. The French and Flemings are in general rude; the English are certainly the civilest, the most
patient
of men. Every one has heard the wager laid, to try if it were possible to wear out the patience of Mr. Mann, the great woollen-draper
Mr. Kaye (the Dean of Guild of St. Andrew's, answering to our Mayors in England), who had visited England, was a most liberal, obliging, and even polite trader, Mr. Monck Berkeley always made it a point with his English friends to deal with Mr. Kaye, the great woollen and linen draper at St. Andrew's. As a proof of his elegance, whenever the Editor bought a chequed apron for any poor old Scotch woman, value half a crown, or three shillings, Mr. Kaye would constantly, on her laying the money on the counter, present her with some white sewing-silk, in a paper, saying,
"Madam, be pleased to take your discount:"
Oh! wife Scottish Traders to give it!
"I will not trouble you with half-pence, i.e. BAWBEES."
, brother to the Ambassador at Florence some years ago. The Editor one day in the shop of an old huckster at St. Andrew's, she is sorry to say that he was an
Episcopal
of the name of Noarey, a young gentleman of very remarkable, gentle, sweet manners, as before remarked; the young Laird of Logie Almon entered the shop. Seeing the old wretch engaged in serving either the Editor or her Sister, he politely forbore to ask for the article he wanted. The old wretch thus addressed him (his hat cocked like a Kevenhuller, bolt upright, in a parallel line with his surly shoulders):
"Well, young man; why do you stand there? What is that you
wants?
Why doan't you tell, instead of standing there?"
The Editor
instantly
replied,
"I don't know what Logie Almon wants, as his politeness to the Ladies in your shop prevents his telling whilst you are serving them; but I can tell you what you want; and, if this young gentleman and you were at Eton, what you would get, as you richly deserve—your
fierce
hat thrown into the fire, and your saucy self well rolled in the kennel."
The old Hottentot
growled,
and Mrs. Frinsham and the young Laird laughed very much.
The Editor, whilst in Scotland, used frequently to afford great diversion to dear Dr. Berkeley, her Sister, and Son. The latter used to divert their friends in England with his Mother's
labours and troubles,
about spinning, and weaving table-cloths, napkins, &c. saying,
"
My Mother
really turned herself into a very gewd
Scotch weef,
counting her spinning when come home, measuring, marking for bleaching, just as if she had been
booarn a Scot.
"
Mrs. Berkeley, going one day to purchase some fine Dutch flax, the man was wonderfully surly and saucy; Mrs. Frinsham said,
"You are the rudest being I ever saw in my life. Were I the Lady, I would go without flax till the
resurrection
sooner than purchase it of such a
wretch
as you are."
He replied, (his hat cocked, and his arms a-kimbo,)
"Why, now, there is nothing in the world that I
likes
so much as affronting a woman; I always did; and if she is a
Laady
The Editor one day purchasing something in the shop of two brothers at St. Andrew's, of the name of Millar;
David,
the eldest, an absolute savage;
Tom,
the younger, a very civilized man; Mrs. Berkeley, ever from a child delighting to say obliging things when it could be done (as it
very often may
) without
any
flattery, said,
"Tom, you are as civil as an English Trader;
you
would
do
in England."
The Editor believes he had desired her not to trouble herself to put her parcel into her pocket, for that he would send it to her house. An elderly woman in the shop, waiting to be served, exclaimed,
"
Good Leard!
I never saw any thing like
Lady Berkeley
in my life."
Dr. Berkeley, by the lower people of St. Andrew's, was, from his short cassock, which in both kingdoms he, in undress, constantly wore, esteemed a Bishop; and Mrs. Berkeley, by that rank in St. Andrew's (who had never heard the address of
vile Queen Bess
to Bishop's wife), constantly styled
Lady Berkeley.
In her own country, when thanked by a starving poor creature for an apron or gown, she ever disclaimed the title of
Ladyship,
adding, if people have NO sense, she
will put some into them!
The Editor, who had not before observed the
gewd weef,
replied,
"My good friend, it has been frequently said in England, that if persons had but
one
spark of understanding, Mrs. Berkeley would
strike it out
for them. BUT it was reserved for Scotland to compliment her
endeavours
to do what GOD ALONE
can do, bestow
understanding."
The fact was, this woman, a dealer in tea and
other little
smuggled matters, had a very
uncommonly strong
understanding, which Mrs. Berkeley, on learning her name, sound that she had instructed her to use: to be sure, the best tools are useless to the cleverest Artist, unacquainted with the mode of using them.
, I likes it ten times the better."
Mrs. Frinsham said,
"You are a brute then;"
and walked out into the street, saying,
"My dear Sister, come away."
Mrs. Berkeley, however, stayed, and purchased her flax, as it was the best in the city. He had a lad, about fourteen, the civilest gentle creature one could see; his name forgotten. He lived in North Street, and was a true disciple of the brutal John Knox.
The Editor does not recollect the name of Lord Glasgow's very beautiful seat
Kelburn, she believes, or Rowallan.
, although Lord
Balgonie
lent her a charming Elegy in MS. written by Mr. Bower
Mr. Bower was private tutor at Eton to Lord Glasgow. The wise lady his mother took a house at Slough, to be near her son. The Editor conjured Dr. Berkeley, when his Son went to Eton, at least very soon after, to leave Canterbury, and go and reside at Cookham, that both parents might, in their different departments, superintend the education of their then only child. But, alas, she could not prevail.
on seeing the monument, in the great wood of
, of the late Lord Glasgow, his noble pupil's excellent father, as it should seem, by the character given.
Mr. Bower, the bookseller, presented the Editor with his son's Elegy on the death of sweet Lady Helen Boyle, aged fourteen. The beautiful little red print of that lovely creature Mrs. Berkeley has put into a frame, and it now hangs in her dressing-room: but, in frequent removals, she has lost the pleasing Elegy; or perhaps has lent it, and it has never been returned, a too common case with the Editor.
Mr. Bower, on taking leave, again repeated,
"His Lordship charged me to say, how happy you would make him, if you would visit
."
Mr. Berkeley replied,
"His Lordship does me much honour. I certainly will not be in that part of Scotland without doing myself the honour to pay my respects to his Lordship."
When Mr. Bower was gone, Mrs. Berkeley said to her Son,
"Why, Berkeley, I did not know that Lord Glasgow and you were such great friends at Eton. I never heard of his Lordship as one of your CON
An Eton phrase.
."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"Nor was he, my dear Madam."
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"Why, Mr. Bower pressed you so repeatedly from Lord Glasgow, as he said, to go to visit his Lordship, as was wonderful to me."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"Why, my dear Mother, my Lord and I were always very good friends. Soon after he came to Eton it fell to
my
lot to give his Lordship a sound drubbing; and I believe his Lordship felt himself obliged to me for it; and we were ever after very good, although not particularly intimate, friends. I believe his Lordship's good sense led him to feel himself obliged to me for the
said drubbing.
And Bower is the only Scotch tutor I ever remember to have been loved or
respected
in my time at Eton; they were, in general, strange animals. Good God! what a wretch the poor Fitzroys had for a tutor! He had nearly killed one of them, but that the boys forced into the house and interposed."
Mr. Berkeley was intimate with one of the Mr. Fitzroys; the Editor does not recollect which of the gentlemen. Poor amiable Mr. Bower, not long after this, was unfortunately drowned, bathing in the sea at Scarborough.
The election of the Sixteen Peers coming on during Mr. Monck Berkeley's residence at St. Andrew's, Dr. Berkeley kindly permitted him to go to Edinburgh. Going one day into Holyrood House, a Scotch Peer
The Editor thinks, but is not absolutely certain, that it was the present Earl of Morton, who, she has frequently heard her Son say, was a very amiable man. She is very certain that it was NOT the son of her old friend in early youth, the very sensible worthy Countess of L
.
, educated at Eton, met him, and instantly exclaimed,
"BERKELEY!
what can have brought you hither?
"
Mr. Berkeley.—
"I hope to see your Lordship elected one of the Sixteen."
Lord Morton.—
"Aye, my good Friend, that remains to be proved;—I doubt not."
Mr. B.—
"I hope YES, my Lord: will
one
vote be of any service to your Lordship?"
Lord M.—
"To be sure it will."
Mr. B.—
"Well, then, I promise your Lordship I can help you to one."
Lord M.—
"You help me to one, my dear Berkeley! how is that possible?"
Mr. B.—
"Stay till you see, my Lord, whether I am a man of my word."
Away flew Mr. Berkeley, with his wonted alacrity to serve a friend, or a strange, or even a foe, if he thought them worthy; and returned, escorting his tenderly beloved, his sincerely respected friend, the late amiable Lord Loudon, whose delight in Mr. Berkeley's sweet society, considering the disparity of their years, was wonderful.
Some of Mr. Berkeley's friends in Edinburgh used laughingly to tell him,
"that, although
he
might never be a Peer
himself,
his
Son,
if he had one, might; for that certainly if he, like the great Earl of Cork, would wait ten years, he must infallibly marry Lady Flora Campbell, the present Countess of Loudon."
The sweet Countess of Loudon, then about five years old, would nestle and crowd. On being asked,
"What she wanted?"
she used to reply,
"Why to sit on Mr. Berkeley's knee, if he can take me up, or else to stand by him."
Her Ladyship was not singular; all children, quite strangers, constantly made up to Mr. Berkeley, his father, and his grandmother Mrs. Frinsham; and little ones in arms, the Editor has frequently seen struggle, and even cry, to go to Dr. Berkeley and to her Mother. But one child in the world ever paid the Editor that compliment, excepting her own babes. Mrs. Berkeley does not love little children. She should esteem her
nature
more if she did. She
pities
the poor little pewling disagreeable animals. A kitten can divert one; but the
untaught
offspring of the Lord of the creation cannot. So much for the DIGNITY of FALLEN Human Nature!
An odd accident happened not long after Mr. Monck Berkeley's return to England. The very amiable Mr. Gipps, M.P. for Canterbury, ever ready to oblige and serve his friends, permitted Mr. Monck Berkeley to have his letters from his Scottish friends addressed under cover to him.
One day, when the Editor was dressing for dinner, she heard a visiting-rap with the utmost
sang-froide,
very certain that Mr. Wrightson would not let any one into her apartment
in the morning.
Presently open flew the dressing-room door; and in flew Mrs. Gipps, out of breath, saying,
"I beg your pardon for
forcing
my way in to you; but I hear that Mr. Berkeley, with whom is
my
business, is gone to dinner in the country, so I must entreat you to make my apology to him. When I went up to dress, I saw a letter lie on my table, the seal upwards. Never minding that it was a coronet, I
scratched
it open. The folding of it hid the words, 'My dear friend,' and 'Edinburgh,' and the date. I began, and redde about half way down the first side. When I came to these words, 'I am most happy that I have it in my power to gratify myself by immediately complying with your request; and I can with truth say, that, were all my Chaplainships now vacant, my dear friend Mr. Berkeley"
—
"Here,"
added my very sensible, very obliging neighbour,
"I stood aghast, turned the letter, and saw on the back, 'To George-Monck Berkeley, Esquire.' I was ready to faint at what Mr. Berkeley
must
think of me."
The Editor here answered for her Son, that the only sensation it would occasion to him, would be that it had caused a moment's distress to Mrs. Gipps, who proceeded to assure Mrs. Berkeley,
"that she had not redde a tittle after she came to the name Berkeley;"
of which Mrs. Berkeley was fully convinced. Whilst Mrs. Gipps was accusing herself of being a great fool; which no one else could ever do, she being blessed with an exceeding strong understanding, which descends to her two fine little boys, blessed, the Editor believes, with the best mother-in-law in the three kingdoms; Mrs. Berkeley prevailed on her good neighbour to stay and pin on her gown; which, having begun to undress, was literally only fastened by one pin, such was her haste to exculpate herself from what very few would have suspected her of. It afforded a pleasant laugh at the next Canterbury rout.
The distressing letter was locked up, unredde, until Mr. Monck Berkeley's return at night, when he proceeded to read—after
"were all my chaplainships now vacant—my dear friend Mr. Berkeley should fill them every one as he pleased."
There followed some polite obliging encomiums on Mr. Monck Berkeley's worth, wisdom, and good judgement. The very elegant young gentleman mentioned in the Note on the Poem on SINGLETON ABBEY, the very worthy and Reverend H
R
, was just then gone into orders, and wishing for that elegant ornament to the clerical habit, a SCARF; and not choosing to wear it, as many SPRIGS
Boys of twenty-two and a half are
generally
by the Editor styled SPRIGS. She has no dislike to any other Sprigs;
tout au contraire,
she is persuaded that she should not have remembered so accurately as she now does the face, figure, and dress of her Aunt Mrs. Cherry, who died many months before the Editor attained her
fourth
year, but that one day, in the garden at Mr. Frinsham's, the Editor, not
daring
to touch them herself, requested her Aunt to gather her a
le if
from one of the orange-trees. Mrs. Cherry amiably took out her knife, cut off a good large sprig with an orange as large as a small wallnut and several blossoms on it; then took a cauking-pin out of her pincushion, and pinned it on her frock on the left side. The Editor still feels the pleasure her poor little simple heart felt; no elegant finery since has
so
delighted it as when the
orange-spring
was placed near it. It is, surely, wise to gratify children (who must
unavoidably be
so
often,
if
wisely
educated, contradicted) in any
little innocent gratification.
The Editor recollects with pleasure the extacy of joy she once occasioned her beloved son to experience during what she always calls the
rabbiting
age with boys. Happily girls have it not; but there is a time when ALL the boys she has ever known are
rabbit-wild, wild
with nursing and rearing rabbits for the cats to eat, as so
nursed,
their flesh is
too strong
for a beggar to eat. Mr. Monck Berkeley flew into the room, saying,
"Oh! my dear Madam! if you
will not give,
or
lend me
THREE shillings, I shall break my heart. Here is a man has brought me
the finest
buck-rabbit that
ever was seen;
but he
will not
let me have it under a
crown,
and I have
but two shillings
in the world!—What can I do?"
—His mother thought
a crown
a vast sum to be paid for a
rabbit.
The poor child's eyes filled with tears, he said,
"
Then I must give it up; I shall never have
SUCH
another
OFFER
as long as I live.
"
The purse was taken, the money given, and the fine rabbit carried in triumph to the Seraglio. After some weeks he died, and, wonderful to relate, the creature, in its fur, weighed nine pounds and a half.—The Editor laments that she has not now even a single myrtle or a geranium to nurse, when she is disposed to idle a little, by way of relaxation, when her eyes are enflamed with reading and writing. She has often expressed her astonishment to her beloved Partner and others, that so WISE, so SUPER-
excellent
in almost every thing, as surely is the Church of England, should admit fox-hunting, &c. &c. boys into the Ministry at that early age, when they read in the Sacred Scriptures, that the Saviour of the World, GOD incarnate, entered not on his Ministry until thirty years of age, nor his precursor, John Baptist, until he was nearly twenty-eight, to make a poor shatterbrained idle boy swear that
"he will devote himself wholly to the winning of souls, &c. that he will be instant in season and out of season; &c."
of Divinity do, unauthorized either by Noble-Man, or those Noble Bodies the two Universities, Mr. Berkeley had, with his wonted amiability, without mentioning it to his friend Mr. H
R
, written to his noble friend, Lord Loudon, requesting his Lordship to appoint him one of
his
chaplains, which he instantly did. Mr. Berkeley always, after the
melancholy
death of Lord Loudon, wore a locket of his hair, a
melancholy
picture, set in gold, pendant from his neck by a strong black ribbon under his outward waistcoat, until within a very few days of his own happy exit, when too weak to sit up, except on a sopha.
Mr. Monck Berkeley, one day on his arrival at Cookham from Oxford, sitting after dinner, Dr. Berkeley asked,
"What company he had in the machine to Maidenhead?"
He replied,
"Very sensible, agreeable company."
Dr. B.—
"Probably some gentlemen of your own acquaintance."
Mr. B.—
"No, not one; but I had a very pleasant drive."
At length, after a short silence, Mr. Berkeley said,
"Well; if ever I marry, and should have a daughter, I think I will have her baptized ELIZA LAWRENCE."
Dr. B.—
"Eliza LAWRENCE! what do you mean, child? are you going to sleep after your
long
journey?"
Mr. B.—
"No, my dear Sir, no; but I can't help supposing, that there must be some
spell
in the thirteen letters which compose those two names united. You know my Mother and we all admire Miss Eliza Lawrence of Canterbury. By some accident, Ritchie forgot to take my place, and so I was obliged to come in the Worcester machine, in which I met a Miss Eliza Lawrence, daughter of a Worcestershire
Or Shropshire, the Editor forgets which.
clergyman, I really think one of the cleverest, most sensible women I ever met with in my life. I began talking like a
fool,
as young folks often do. She took me in hand, and shewed me
what
a FOOL I was. I never was
better
trimmed, even by my Mother; therefore I think there must me something powerful in
those
names; and, if I had a girl,
I should like
that she should be blessed with a
fine strong
understanding,
I assure you,
my dear Sir."
THE Editor having at length finished her
too
long Preface, it only remained for her to determine whether it should be
Pre
-or
Af-fixed
to her Son's Poems. She much wished it might be the latter. Just at the time when she was to have determined the matter, it pleased the ALLWISE DISPOSER of ALL events in his wisdom to
recal
to himself one of the sweetest spirits ever breathed into the nostrils
See the second chapter of Genesis, verse 7. In this alone does the Editor humbly conceive that man differs from the more, much more, than
"the half-reasoning elephant,"
the astonishingly wise, well-reasoning Newfoundland dog. Mr. Monck Berkeley had one, who understood and acted as wisely as any Philosopher could have done, as several servants of Dr. Berkeley's, now living, well know, particularly in two very remarkably striking occurrences. Lord Monboddo has proved, in his second volume of
Antient Metaphysics,
"that dogs can remember, can reason, can reflect; but that they have not consciousness,"
i.e. they have a soul as well as Man, sometimes a wiser soul; but they have not a spark breathed into Man, the BREATH of JEHOVAH.
"Let us make Man,"
&c. See Genesis, chap. ii. verse 7. Whoever gives themselves the trouble to read that verse in the Hebrew will more plainly see, that no human being can enjoy perfect happiness until re-united to JEHOVAH.
of any descendant of
fallen
ADAM—Mrs. Frinsham, the
only,
the
excellent,
the
generous,
the INCOMPARABLE Sister of the Editor; whose character may be drawn in very few words, by comparing her with two great men of the last century. She had as much reserve
That reserve wore off near twenty years ago.
and wit
When going from home to make a visit of a few weeks to relations or friends, on making her courtsey to her Mother and Sister, she used to say to her Mother,
"Your most obedient, Madam;"
to her Sister,
"Adieu, my dear Miss Frinsham. I hope you will both be very happy whilst I am gone; but I am sure you will
never laugh
till I come home again."
It was very true; she had a never-failing fund of wonderfully agreeable humour amongst her
intimate
friends. Mrs. Frinsham and her Sister made it a point, after they quitted school, never to leave their excellent Mother one night alone.
as BUTLER, as much worth, piety, and politeness as BOYLE
A short sketch of the character of Mrs. Frinsham appeared in the Obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for January, 1797, drawn by the elegant pen of her's and the Editor's beloved, respected, accomplished Friend Mrs. Duncombe, of Canterbury, of whom frequent grateful mention has been made before in this Preface. For this last favour the Editor feels herself most sensibly obliged, gratified, and consoled.
. Her exceedingly, naturally, tender delicate frame, stricken by the late
intense
cold, which fixed on her lungs after about a fortnight of extreme
external
suffering, yet not uttering one impatient word, or breathing one impatient groan, resigned her sweet spirit into the hands of that God, who, she happily felt, had
lived,
had
died,
to redeem it from never-ending misery,
utterly
renouncing all merits of her own; and, as has been better expressed by the very pious Divine who attended her sick—dying bed, and preached her funeral sermon
Not preached to celebrate the uncommon virtues of the dear departed saint, but to benefit the survivors—the grand and great-grandchildren of the tenants of her eminently pious ancestors, and the descendants of the domestics
Some few years ago there were fix or seven worthy persons who kept their own carriages, whose fathers, grand-fathers, or grand-mothers, had been servants, some menial servants, to Mr. Cherry, at Shottesbrook House; enabled to do so by GOD's blessing on their own honesty and worth, which they still attributed to the great care taken by Mr. Cherry, his excellently-pious mother, and his lady, to the souls of their domestics, many of them the children and grand-children of faithful old servants. Some years ago, at a watering-place, a gentleman asked the Editor,
"who an elderly man was, that he saw walking sometimes with Dr. Berkeley and herself?"
adding,
"Sure, Madam, he has known all your family for generations.—What exceeding fine horses he has to his elegant carriage! Yet he does not seem to be a man of
much
fashion."
To which the Editor replied,
"That he was a very old acquaintance of her's, a man of worth."
It was not
necessary
for her to add, that his father had taken very good care of Mr. Cherry's fine horse at Shottesbrook, although it was the case.
of her excellently, less
celebrated,
pious parents. The Editor rejoices to hear that the place of her nativity is at present blessed with an
Evangelical,
as well as very learned Preacher, although a young gentleman a very old fashioned pastor, taking the advice of
poor old
SAINT PAUL,
"be instant in season,"
&c. Epistle to Timothy, as an honest tenant of hers, who left her house this morning, tells her, saying,
"I believe, Madam, that there is scarce a day when the gentleman is not in two or three houses, instructing the
poor
people, and relieving them where it is wanted."
When he marries, the Editor hopes his lady will be, as indeed every lady, whether wife to a Doctor or a 'Squire, should be, mother, nurse, to the surrounding poor. They will
one
day find it to have been not only a pleasant, but a
profitable
amusement.
at Shottesbrooke
This Sermon, preached by the Rev. Mr. White, Curate of Chertsey, will be soon published. This excellent, judicious, Evangelical Preacher, has printed two or three Sermons on different occasions, but never published them. The Editor, asking why he had not, Mr. White modestly replied,
"that, as he was
only a Curate,
he thought no one would attend to them."
To be sure, he bears in mind that
"A Saint in crape is
twice
a Saint in lawn."
But let us hope that there are
some
FEW Saints not clad in LAWN who yet, in due time, may be
"
clothed in white robes, with palms
(if not
croziers
)
in their hands, &c.
"
, utterly refusing to hear her
"
alms-deeds and good works,
"
of which, to use the language of Saint Luke in the Acts of the Holy Apostles,
"
she was full,
"
very full indeed,
even mentioned to her; exclaiming,
"Oh! name them not; I have not had it in my power to do aught for MY SAVIOUR; HE has done ALL for me."
She breathed out her last gentle breath in praise to God her Saviour. The last words that she uttered, to be
distinctly
heard, were,
"Oh! my SAVIOUR-GOD, into THY HANDS do
I
commend MY SPIRIT.
It is supposed that she finished the text; for she lived about ten minutes, and continued speaking with her last breath, which, by the gesture of her exquisitely elegant hands
Mrs. Frinsham was so elegantly limbed, that the very witty, very polite, agreeable Mrs. M
c
e of Canterbury, once said,
"My dear Miss Frinsham, if Nature had formed me as she has you, I would certainly wear small cloaths, and never put on a glove."
Mrs. Frinsham danced a minuet so very finely, that if on a public day at Mrs.
More than thirty years ago it afforded heartfelt pleasure to the Editor to have it in her power to render a very capital service to the most sensible accomplished youngest son of that lovely, amiable, judicious educator of young ladies (then in India). It has been often asserted, that NO young lady, brought up by Mrs. Sheeles and the pious sensible Mrs. Gambier, ever lost their character, excepting a wretched little girl, who, long before she attained the age of fourteen, was one Christmas holydays, after she had been about a year in Queen's Square, SOLD by her vile Guardian to a vile
shire 'Squire, whose mother ill-using the poor VERY
weak
girl, contemporary with the Editor, she ran away from him. The poor creature, as many others have done, experienced the truth of the wise Spanish Proverb,
"bien et casada que tien ni Sugero ni Canada."
Mrs. Sheeles sadly lamented to Mrs. Berkeley, about thirty years ago, that she suffered herself to be persuaded by Lady
to take her daughters. No two Earls daughters in England have exceeded these two
ladies in a variety of
matches. Mrs. Sheeles was a most accomplished woman, of very good family, grand-daughter of the excellent Sir John Smith, cousin-german to the late
Lord Montford. It always rejoices Mrs. Berkeley to hear of the happiness and prosperity of her grand-children.
Sheeles's twenty different sets of company came, Mrs. then Miss Anne Frinsham was certain to exhibit to every different company. Her ear for music was so exquisitely accurate, that the Editor has frequently, in her youth, and a very little before her lamented death, heard her say, that, when at school, (always in mischief,) like, and perpetually with, her dearly beloved friend, the wonderfully sensible, highly cultivated, accomplished Mrs. A. Langley, of the Manor-house, York, she has repeatedly
tried
to dance out of time, but never could do it more than two steps, the third was not in her power. It used to be said by the governesses, teachers, &c.
"The eldest Miss Frinsham looks as if she would fly over the moon, the youngest as if butter would not melt in her mouth; yet Miss Frinsham is never in mischief, Miss Anne never out of it."
It was innocent mischief, although it subjected the two Miss Annes frequently to have recourse to their Common Prayer Book to learn a Psalm, sometimes to their Bible to learn a chapter by heart, esteemed a pretty weighty, although not a disgraceful, punishment, like the Fool's-cap or the Red-tongue. Schools well conducted are excellent places for children of both sexes surely. Mrs. Frinsham used through life to laugh, and tell Dr. and Mr. Monck Berkeley, when the Editor used to say,
"that
as a girl she
found no pleasure in
their escampades
to the parlour door at night,"
&c.
"Aye, she was a
poor, pusillanimous, stupid, little puss.
She would never get up after she was in bed, never slip out of the school-room. She never saw the kitchen at Mrs. Sheeles's in her life. She was a sad poor coward indeed."
, and the appearance of her eyes, seemed to be
praising,
rather than supplicating that Saviour-God whom she had laboured so faithfully to serve for very many years.
Although her outward sufferings were very heavy, all was bright within. No self-reproach for
broken
SABBATHS, for neglect of public worship on WEEK DAYS, one grand cause of the decay of Christian piety in this Nation, which the Editor, doomed, alas! to attend dying beds, has twice witnessed, to her great distress, not, blessed be God, either her Mother, Son, or Husband! Her sole anxiety was on account of her poor, now, alas! throughly forlorn, desolate,
trebly
-widowed Sister, left to struggle alone, with variety of perplexing businesses, without one near, dear relative to counsel and to soothe her; yet, blessed be the mercy of an all-gracious God, she was enabled to say to her almost idolizing Sister,
"Dearest of friends, I am not ALONE; for God is with me,
will
be with me. I have been constantly, as you know, praying to him from the age of seventeen, '
Cast me not away in the time of age, when my strength faileth, when I am grey-headed.
' And he has graciously promised ALL his
real
children, '
I
will NEVER leave thee, nor
forsake
thee.' And I may adapt the language of Holy David, and instead of saying, 'When my Father and my Mother forsake me, the LORD taketh me up.' But, when it pleases HIS wisdom to chastize his poor sinful child, by taking from her her idolized Son, her tenderly beloved Husband, her darling Sister; HE
will
take her up, and conduct her safely, she wishes she might presume to say shortly, to the realms of bliss, there to rejoin those lovely spirits, her dear happy TRIO, to part no more."
The lovely Saint was
exceedingly
consoled to find that the Giver of every good gift had, in the midst of
such anguish
of soul, vouchsafed such a measure of his
best gift,
FAITH. Mrs. Frinsham entreated her Sister to remember, what Mrs. Berkeley always admired in Brooke's Fool of Quality, that
"GRIEF hath not a more
deadly
FOE than
business;
that she, alas! had much, to which she entreated her to apply herself instead of mourning over her loss."
We all, in turn, feel that it is easier to preach than to practise; and the Editor feels the force of Our Blessed Master's words,
"Work whilst you have the day, for the night cometh wherein no man can work."
The Editor has laboured to work a little in the day, the time of youth, of vigour; for the night is come (rather early) upon her, when she finds, by melancholy experience, that she can do but
very
little—May that little all redound to the glory of GOD
her
SAVIOUR,
Amen.
Lord JESUS! say AMEN.
The Editor has several stone weight of papers to inspect of Bishop Berkeley's—his journal when in Italy, &c. &c. of Mr. Cherry's; of Archbishop Secker's; Miss Talbot's; Mr. Monck Berkeley's: and dear Dr. Berkeley wished her, at her leisure, to overlook and select from his numerous sermons (enough to make a dozen volumes), one volume to be published: about six sermons Dr. Berkeley got transcribed, during his last illness, to be printed, which, together with his four sermons printed during his life, will nearly make the volume.
The Editor feels some consolation in knowing that from very early youth one of her chief studies and greatest delights was labouring to oblige, please, and render happy, her ever from
infancy
tenderly beloved sister; and that the sisters never, through life, had a quarrel with each other, since the age, when, if there arose any dispute whose DOLL was
best
dressed, their wise mother used to call out,
"Oh! if there is any quarrel
I
am coming to make a
third.
"
which always
instantly
ended the dispute.
The Editor is perpetually, since her
last
lamentable loss, involuntarily recurring to those beautiful lines of the eloquent Dr. Young, in his first Night:
DEATH! great proprietor of all!
* * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * *
Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust
Thy
partial
quiver on a mark so
mean?
Why thy
peculiar
rancour wreck'd on
me?
Insatiate Archer! could not
one
suffice?
Thy shaft flew
thrice;
and
thrice
my peace was slain.
But then the Editor banishes those
half
-murmuring lines of the finest of Poets, by repeating the devout prose of Dean Hickes's "Reformed Devotions," (the Preparatory Office for Death, used by the Editor from her youth up, on the THURSDAY, instead of the Office for that day,) with which she now concludes this frightfully long Preface:
—
"Yet at the
last
GREAT DAY we shall
easily
discern a
perfect concord
in the
harshest
note, when out
adored
REDEEMER shall come in the clouds and summon ALL mankind to appear before HIM."
To which the Editor ever has, trusts she ever shall, most sincerely subscribe,
ELIZA. BERKELEY.
CHERTSEY,
January 26, fatal Month, 1797.
POEMS.
RUMORA; OR, THE MAID OF RAASA.
RAASA, by thy rocky shore,
Vocal to the Ocean's roar,
Cliffs, that have for ages stood
Barriers to the briny Flood,
Beneath your dark, your dismal shade,
Wandering wept a woe-worn Maid,
Whilst the pauses of the gale
Each she fill'd with sorrow's tale.
Bursting from the sable sky,
See the forked Lightnings fly,
Whilst their sad destructive light
Gilds awhile the gloom of Night!
Trembling to the blasts that blow,
Gazing on the gulph below,
Yielding to the ruthless storm,
Drooping mark yon Angel Form,
Round whose face divinely fair
Loosely streams her golden hair!
To the rock's sublimest seat
Fate has led her wandering feet;
Yawning wide the greedy Deep
Woos her to eternal sleep.
By the Lightning's vivid glare
Saw you not yon frantic stare?
By the Tempest's lurid light,
Mark her plunge to endless Night!
Struggling mid the boiling wave,
Nature, frighted at the Grave,
To the rude, the rocky strand
Faintly points her languid hand.
Cease, ye blasts, awhile to blow,
Drown not now the wail of woe!
Heard ye not yon piercing groan
That proclaim'd her spirit flown?
Whilst it soars on seraph wing,
Roaring waves her Requiem sing.
Still, by Raasa's sea-girt shore,
Blue-ey'd Maids her fate deplore;
From the cliffs sublime and steep
Cast thy Garlands in the Deep,
Marking thus the day's return,
Still Rumora's fate they mourn.
ELEGY.
TO ALMERIA.
HAIL, blissful scenes of early youth,
So sacred once to love and truth,
When my Almeria, matchless maid,
With angel charms, adorn'd the shade;
Regardless of each fond delight,
Though time pursu'd his steady flight;
Yet, as he flew, around his wing
Gay pleasure twin'd the wreath of spring,
Whilst Hope, fair daughter of the sky,
With golden tress and azure eye,
Benignant turn'd her gladd'ning lyre,
And bade my soul to bliss aspire;
But now no more along these plains
She pours her sweet seraphic strains;
No more Almeria wanders near;
In vain, alas! I seek her here:
Yet, as by fond remembrance led,
My fav'rite scenes I pensive tread;
There peaceful shades, yon conscious grove,
Restore awhile the joys of love.
Recalling thus the blissful past,
For ever sweet delusion last:
Nor let Oblivion's gloomy veil
From Mem'ry shroud the tender tale.
INVOCATION TO OBLIVION.
TO ROBERT MERRY, ESQ.
Better known to the world as the elegant author of the poems published under the name of Della Crusca.
OBLIVION! hail, thou peaceful pow'r!
Blest offspring thou of life's last hour,
Who, bending o'er the bed of woe,
(When Fate ordains the welcome blow,
Fixing to human griefs a bound,
Without the church-yard's hollow mound,)
Calm'st with thy poppy-cinctur'd urn,
The panting soul long us'd to mourn.
Alike thy draft Lethean drowns
The pride of kings, the care of clowns.
Now Death has chill'd the fever'd mind
Of him, the scourge of human-kind,
Who, his insatiate fame to feed,
Bade all mankind or weep or bleed.
Lo! at thy shrine the victor bows;
Thy poppies now entwine his brows:
Thais no more with angel charms
Awakes his hope, his breast alarms,
No longer bids him fondly gaze
On eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Unheeded now o'er Edward's grave
Fam'd Cressy's living laurels wave.
Unconscious of the foliage proud,
The warrior slumbers in his shroud:
Yet thou who thus of human pride
Stem'st the deep o'erflowing tide,
Who o'er ambition's blazon'd tale
Indignant throw'st thy sable veil,
Dost still in mercy soothe the woe
That bids through life the tear to flow,
Whom mis'ry urges to his tomb,
Obtain from thee a welcome doom.
At ease reclin'd within thy arms,
And deaf to faction's loud alarms,
See murder'd Mary calmly sleeps,
And, blissful change! no longer weeps.
Embosom'd in some unknown tomb,
Forgetful of his impious doom,
Sleeps the sad prince whose hapless fate
Through time's long course shall want its mate;
E'en Love, that tyrant of the breast,
At thy numb touch is hush'd to rest;
No longer through the Paraclete,
Of Heloise the last retreat,
His barbed shafts destructive fly,
For Abelard but once could die;
Around their sad united grave
In vain Love's airy pinions wave;
The vengeful pow'r, profuse of woes,
In vain attempts their last repose;
For all the bliss thy cup contains
Rewards at length thy former pains.
Ah! say, Oblivion! deign to say,
Can earthly song, can mortal lay,
From forth thy sacred well-fount pure
For me one blissful draught procure.
For Mem'ry oft upholds to view
The varied scenes through life we knew,
Recalls the blissful hours of yore,
And pictures joys that are no more.
Do thou those pangs in pity spare,
And grant, O grant all Nature's pray'r.
But, first and chief, Miranda's woes
Deserve from thee a long repose.
In pity bid remembrance cease,
And her's be dark Oblivion's peace.
Thy real worth they only know,
Whose hearts are rich in treasur'd woe.
To such more dear thy torpid sway,
Than all that meets the blaze of day:
Yet still in ev'ry age or clime,
In numbers rude, or flowing rhime,
From lofty domes that reach the skies,
From where the lowly cottage lies:
(Though lost, alas! in empty air,)
This is the universal pray'r:
"Howe'er my future fate be cast,
Do thou, Oblivion, veil the past."
TO MISS
A near relation of Mr. B's father, to whom her brothers were under great obligations for amiable attentions during their nine years' sojourn at Harrow School. She never paid the least attention to his parents on the ever-to-be-lamented death of their excellent son, for whom, when living, she was vain of boasting a friendship: her name is therefore erased.
OF DUBLIN,
ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.
EMBOSOM'D in the bloom-bespangled thorn,
The lonely Minstel wakes her strain forlorn,
And to the ear of Night unfolds her tale,
Of ceaseless sorrow, and of widow'd wail:
Thus, bending 'neath a more than common woe,
At Mem'ry's shrine thy tears incessant flow.
Yet why, ah, why, with cheerless gloom o'ercast,
Still ponder o'er th' irrevocable past?
Why, weeping, bend o'er Virtue's hallow'd tomb,
Whence Hope, immortal Hope, dispels the gloom?
To her mild sway thy tortur'd breast resign,
And make, dear maid, her balmy pleasures thine.
TO MIRANDA,
ON HER DETERMINING TO ASSUME THE VEIL.
WHY quits Miranda thus life's busy scene?
Why seeks she now the Convent's gloom serene?
Can, then, this giddy world no pleasure give,
That here the fair Miranda scorns to live?
Why, pensive maid, to routs, to lively balls,
Prefer the gloomy Convent's hallow'd walls?
Ah, stay! and let mankind adore these charms,
That ought to bless some favour'd lover's arms:
Yet, stop! methinks I hear Miranda say
(Whilst now she smiling reads my uncouth lay),
"Though vulgar souls may wonder at my choice,
May dare to censure with a common voice;
Yet I'm resolv'd, since in those shades no fools
Are led by Fashion's or by Folly's rules.
'Tis only in the dear sequester'd cell
Where peace is found, and where the virtues dwell;
Contented there my future days I'll spend,
There taught, in hope and triumph meet my end:
Then in some time-worn Cloister's hallow'd gloom
The sister Nuns will rear Miranda's tomb;
Whilst some pale trembling lamp shall ever burn,
To mark the spot where rests my mould'ring urn."
Thus speaks in accents soft the pensive maid,
Who to the blaze of day prefers the shade,
Who wisely shuns what Folly pleasure calls,
And flies for refuge to a Convent's walls.
Reluctant, I must own 'tis Nature's voice,
That calls Miranda to so sad a choice:
For, oft at eve I 've seen the pensive maid
Reclin'd beneath the yew-tree's mournful shade,
Hanging enraptur'd o'er some moving tale,
Whilst pleas'd she heard the plaintive warbler's wail.
If then, Miranda, you the Veil assume;
If you will seek the Convent's mournful gloom;
And the sad tale no abler Bard inspire,
Be mine the task to tune the plaintive lyre,
If verse like mine eternal fame could give,
Thy name, Miranda, should for ever live.
EPITAPH ON G. R. BERKELEY, ESQ.
TO MRS. GEORGE BERKELEY, HIS MOTHER.
SINCE now, dear Youth, this sad recording stone
Proclaims, alas! thy gentle spirit flown;
To thee, thou spotless, thou lamented shade,
By weeping friends be sorrow's tribute paid;
Yet, whilst a Brother's Muse attunes her lays,
And her aspiring love attempts thy praise,
Attempts to paint that pang her bosom knew,
When robb'd by Death of happiness and you;
Whilst to this tablet frail she gives the trust,
To bear thy virtues and protect thy dust;
Let none who mourn for thee desponding rave:
For Hope celestial, dawning on thy grave,
Gilds with serenest beam that distant shore,
From whose sad bourn mortals return no more.
EPITAPH ON AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
TO THE REV. GEORGE GLEIG, A.M.
MORTAL, whene'er by Contemplation led,
Thou seek'st these aweful mansions of the dead;
Here pause awhile, and view this humble grave,
Where no pale statues weep, no banners wave;
Here rests, secure from ev'ry human woe,
One whose sad fate commands the tear to flow;
Who, in the dawn of life, when all was gay,
Attentive heard seducing Pleasure's lay;
By the false Syren lur'd, she plow'd the wave,
Where ruthless rocks afford a certain grave;
By the rude storm despoil'd of peace and fame,
Your pity now is all she means to claim;
But, whilst celestial Pity, pausing here,
Shall kindly shed one tributary tear;
Let none, who virtue more than mercy prize,
Disturb the dust that near this willow lies:
For, though beneath this humble, harmless stone,
Sleeps one to human frailty often prone,
Yet Pity's self shall draw a friendly veil
O'er all the guilt that clouds her hapless tale.
As vernal air then breathing pure and sweet,
One anxious pray'r to Heav'n's high Mercy-seat,
Thither shall cherub'd Peace the record bear,
Whilst radiant Hope shall fix her anchor there.
IMPROMPTU
Written with one stocking on, the other off. Mr. B.'s very uncommonly tender attachment to his Mother, from his early infancy to the last breath he drew, occasioned his constantly asking his servant on entering his chamber,
"How she did?"
The man replied,
"Pretty well, Sir. She is gone out. Mr. Duncombe is dead—died at five this morning."
Mr. B. had been at a private ball the night before, where Mr. D. was with his daughter. In the situation above described the lines were written, as Mr. B. told his Mother when he gave them to her at breakfast, saying,
"As it is a strictly just character, it may for a minute soothe the mind of your dear friend Mrs. D."
, ON HEARING, AS HE WAS RISING IN THE MORNING, OF THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN DUNCOMBE, M.A.
INSCRIBED TO MRS. DUNCOMBE, OF CANTERBURY.
PEACE to the spot where his remains are laid;
May purest bliss await his friendly shade!
Nature by him had done her noblest part:
She gave a head, nor yet denied a heart.
THE VIRGIN'S MIDNIGHT HYMN
Mr. B. mentioning the bell constantly ringing as soon as the clock had struck twelve, as it does in many convents in France, to call the poor nuns to prayers in their chapel, Miss H
, one of the young ladies, barely then fifteen years old, exclaimed,
"Mercy on me, Mr. Berkeley! what do they say when they get into the chapel?"
To which he replied,
"My dear M
, I don't know; for they never let
me
in to hear them at that hour. I know what they
should
say: Pray to God, for Christ's sake,"
&c. The next morning, at breakfast, Miss II. found the Virgin's Hymn on the breakfasttable at the deanery. It was set to music, but the music cannot be sound.
,
SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY A CHORUS OF NUNS AT BRUSSELS, IN THE YEAR 1786, WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS THERE. INSCRIBED TO THE HON. MISS MOLESWORTHS, DAUGHTERS OF LORD MOLESWORTH, AND TO MISS HORNES, DAUGHTERS OF THE BISHOP OF NORWICH.
TO thee, thou great Almighty pow'r,
At this most dread, most solemn hour,
We virgins join in choral lays;
Do thou inspire our notes of praise;
And as to thee our strains ascend,
May Heaven's bright choir attention lend!
In pity bid our passions cease,
And bless us with thy holy peace;
All worldly pomps may we despise,
And fit, O fit us for the skies.
For Jesu's sake our crimes forgive,
And O! when here we cease to live,
May Angels pure our spirits bear,
Eternal joys with thee to share;
Then may we join the choir above,
And ever sing thy boundless love.
EVENING, A PASTORAL.
TO HENRY GRIMSTON
The chosen, the best beloved friend of Mr. B.'s youth; his amiable unwearied friend to his latest hour. This excellent young gentleman devoted nearly two years, about the close of Mr. B.'s life, in accompanying him to Bath, to the sea, &c. and spent a whole winter with him at Dr. Berkeley's in Berkshire. Mr. G. mourned at Mr. B.'s death as for a brother, as did several other gentlemen of his intimate friends.
, ESQ. OF YORKSHIRE.
PHOEBUS now with fainter fire
Gilds the hamlet's pointed spire;
Dews descending bless the soil,
Eve suspends the peasant's toil;
O'er the panzy-chequer'd plains
Whistling tread the jocund swains;
Marking now with glist'ning eyes
Smoak ascending from the skies,
Token of the housewife's care,
Earnest of their simple fare.
Pleas'd the toils of day are o'er,
Rich without the miser's store;
Blest with love and rosy health,
Anxious for no other wealth.
Careless of the coming day,
Each pursues his homeward way.
In no borrow'd charms array'd
Mark the lovely Milking-maid,
Poising well the foaming pail,
Trip along the pasture dale;
To direct her True-love's way
Loud she tunes her chearful lay;
He, descending from the hill,
Meets her by the clacking mill.
Homeward as they drive the cows.
He repeats his artless vows:
As the church they loit'ring pass
Rosy blushes tinge the lass;
If the theme the swain pursues,
Soon the priest shall have his dues.
Rustling from the noisy school,
Heedless of the ferril's rule,
Heirs to Nature's purest joys,
Mark the happy village boys,
(Foes declar'd to rest and peace,)
O'er the green pursue the geese;
Summon'd by their cackling cries
To the spot the housewife hies;
Arm'd with distaff, 'stead of steel,
Soon the foe her distaff feel:
Quickly scar'd, the truants fly:
Homewards now in haste they hie.
Guardians of the village wealth,
Foes declar'd to fraud and stealth,
Tenants of the chearful hearth,
Frequent cause of harmless mirth,
Welcome to their master's board,
Partners of his scanty hoard.
See before the wicket gate,
Curs parade in mimic state,
Heedless of the proffer'd bone,
Eager still to guard their own,
Each his faithful service pays,
And with threat'ning aspect bays.
Waken'd by the various note,
Echo quits her cave remote,
Wandering o'er the dewy plain,
Warbles still the varied strain.
Mark the village murmurs cease,
Night appears with balmy peace.
Each extend their silent reign
O'er the peaceful village plain;
Lovelorn maidens dream of bliss,
Sleeping yield the balmy kiss;
Coy, no more with rapture crown
Those on whom they us'd to frown.
Prudence, leagu'd with subtle art,
Sways no more the yielding heart.
Fancy now, with visions bless'd,
Crown's the cotter's peaceful rest.
SONG.
TO ALMERIA.
THOUGH since I lov'd an age is flown,
The blissful hour you still postpone;
Ah! lovely Maid, no longer frown,
But each fond hope with rapture crown.
Nor think, though lur'd by Angel charms,
That Time will linger in thy arms;
Oh! no; his scythe shall crop the rose
That on thy cheek divinely blows.
But ere the russian riot there,
To Nature yield, enchanting fair;
Nor more my ardent wish reprove,
For know, Life's richest boon is Love.
ELEGIAC BALLAD.
TO HENRY M'KENZIE
Author of "The Man of Feeling," &c.
ESQ.
DIMM'D were the beamy stars of night,
The moon had veil'd her temp'rate light;
The gale was rude, the gale was high,
And cheerless shew'd the low'ring sky;
All hous'd within an aged yew,
Whose boughs were dank with midnight dew,
Night's lonely bird, with sadd'ning strain,
Awoke the echo of the plain;
Whilst still the sweet responsive maid,
From forth her dark, unnotic'd shade,
Repeated slow the doleful tale,
And faintly gave it to the gale.
'T was then the church-yard's hollow sod
With frantic step poor Nancy trod;
She sought the spot where Henry slept,
And o'er his grave in anguish wept.
Fond Friendship's hand had planted there
Such flowrets wild as woodlands bear;
The cowslip sweet, the vi'let blue,
There drank soft Pity's falling dew;
The panzy pale, the wild rose red,
Were cluster'd round her Henry's head;
And, waving o'er the thron-bound grave,
The woodbine there its fragrance gave.
Beside the spot a willow grew,
Of love, like her's, the emblem true;
From that one votive branch she broke,
And thus the lovely mourner spoke:
" Who can the friendly charm impart
To heal poor Nancy's broken heart?
On this green grave she rests her head,
To weep her friend, her true-love dead.
Then from the tomb, dear youth, return,
Nor longer let thy Nancy mourn;
In pity quit the cheerless grave,
And from despair thy Nancy save.
He comes, he comes; I see him now
On yonder mountain's spiry brow;
At Nancy's call I knew he'd come,
To soothe her grief, and lead her home.
Ah, me! he's gone; he shuns these arms.
Can Henry scorn his Nancy's charms?
Ah, no! ah, no! my Henry's dead.
Then be this grave my bridal bed."
All o'er the grave her form she threw,
Her tresses sleeping in the dew;
On Heav'n she fix'd her azure eyes,
She sigh'd, she sunk, no more to rise.
Ye favour'd few, who know to love,
Who Sorrow's sacred pleasures prove;
To where these lovers sleep repair,
And Pity's self shall meet you there.
TO MIRANDA
This excellent Lady is lately become a widow, in the East Indies, by the death of Colonel
.
.
LOVE's gay Queen, who reigns on earth,
Smil'd, Miranda, at thy birth;
Pleas'd, she bid thy angel face
Beam with each bewitching grace;
Round your waist her zone she threw,
Charms divine thus giving you;
Cupid knelt, and, lowting low,
To your sway resign'd his bow;
Jove, who saw the temple fair,
Thron'd each human virtue there;
Pallas then, the work to crown,
Made her Aegis all your own.
VERSES ON THE DUTCHESS OF RUTLAND'S PREFERRING MR. PETERS.
TO GEORGE ATKINSON, M.D.
THOUGH Peters oft, with pleasing strokes of art,
Had sway'd the mind, and charm'd the feeling heart,
And had to mortal view those forms reveal'd,
Which distance infinite before conceal'd;
Yet Fame alone, (that Envy's self decreed,)
Fame was as yet his merit's only meed.
But Rutland, who forgave the theft of grace
He oft had made from her angelic face,
With liberal hand repaid the painter's toil,
And made him master of a fruitful soil.
No longer now the drudge of servile trade,
By Genius led, he 'll seek fair Belvoir's shade,
Whilst the celestial nymphs shall prompt the theme,
And Fancy's self shall gild his noontide dream.
At eve, when temp'rate shines the silver Queen,
Devoid of care he 'll tread the village green,
And, gazing steadfast on the vaulted sky,
Beyond the narrow bounds will dart his eye,
To where, deck'd in the majesty of light,
The cherub host shall check his daring sight;
Yet there, uninjur'd, shall he ardent gaze,
Whilst suns, unknown before, around him blaze;
Then to this nether world his hand shall give
Scenes, that like Milton's must for ever live,
Whilst all who Genius love, or cherish Art,
Will join with thee to bless the noble heart
That crown'd with competence his matchless toil,
And made him master of a fruitful soil.
ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF LADY JANE GRAY AND MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
TO JUDITH LADY LAURIE.
YE sister Queens, who early learn'd to weep,
Though now entomb'd in peace your ashes sleep;
Though now, sad pair, your gentle spirits stray,
Through the bright regions of eternal day;
Though now your tortur'd souls are hush'd to peace,
And gracious Heav'n has bid your sorrows cease;
Pity shall call the tear from ev'ry eye,
From ev'ry heart the sympathetic sigh:
Your cruel woes shall unborn bards inspire,
Whilst they with sorrow tune the warbling lyre,
And pour their curses on the bloody pair,
Who gave to early fate the regal fair.
When tender virgins shall your page peruse,
Their tear-dimm'd eyes will all their lustre lose;
Full many a willing tear they 'll pensive shed,
And pay that mournful tribute to the dead.
Whilst truth shall boast to many a future age,
Your honour'd names in hist'ry's fairest page;
There, injur'd pair, your worth shall stand confess'd,
Your fate lamented, and your mem'ry bless'd.
ADDRESS TO THE WINDS.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A LADY DURING THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER.
TO MISS MUNROE.
YE ruthless winds, whose boist'rous sweep
Awakes to rage the boiling deep;
Who mock the seaman's fruitless toil,
And Ocean glut with frequent spoil;
To me restore the favour'd youth,
Who, kneeling, vow'd eternal truth;
Whose tender tale, devoid of art,
Has charm'd my soul, and won my heart;
O! swift from India's venal strand,
Conduct him to his native land;
His wealth to you I here resign,
His tender heart alone be mine.
TO MIRANDA, ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER-IN-LAW THE EARL OF L
.
WHILST, sacred now to secret woe,
Thy frequent tears, Miranda, flow,
The pensive Muse resumes the strain,
And fondly tries to soothe thy pain.
Where'er our wand'ring footsteps stray,
If Fate, or Chance, direct the way;
If Hope dilate the heart of youth,
Or Age pursue the hermit Truth;
Each passing hour this moral shews,
Who prays for Life, but covets woes;
Yet still from Death we froward turn,
And, frighted, view the peaceful Urn;
O'er Friendship's grave desponding weep,
And mourn for those who only sleep;
Whilst, brib'd alone by grief and pain,
To this vile spot that Hope we chain;
Which Heav'n ordain'd on cherub wing to soar:
A pledge of joy when Time shall be no more.
THE MAIDS OF MORVEN, AN ELEGIAC ODE.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MARY VISCOUNTESS RUTHVEN, DAUGHTER OF THE EXCELLENT EARL AND COUNTESS OF LEVEN AND MELVIL.
WHERE fair-hair'd Oscar's laid to sleep,
A thousand drooping maidens weep;
Their golden tresses now they tear,
And wildly give them to the air;
Hark! now they raise the song of woe,
See how their tears in torrents flow;
And whilst his dirge they plaintive sing,
With echo sad the caverns ring;
See Malvina bends, and weeps
O'er the turf where Oscar sleeps;
Mark that sigh; it was her last:
Now her sorrows all are past.
With Oscar now she treads the sky;
Lo! she wings her flight on high.
Maids of Morven, cease to weep,
For Malvina's hush'd to sleep.
With Oscar now in air she flits:
In Odin's hall with him she sits.
Banish grief, let sorrow cease,
Since their bodies rest in peace.
Cease, lovely Daughters of the Dale,
O'er Malvina cease to wail.
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF SHAKSPEARE.
ON MRS. B
'S VISITING HIS TOMB IN COMPANY WITH THE WRITER OF THESE LINES, AUGUST 13, 1787.
TO THE REV. H
TODD, A.M.
SWIFT from the radiant realms of light,
To Avon's stream direct thy flight,
And see, unaw'd by midnight gloom,
Eliza seek thy laurel'd tomb:
Now see the flame that gilds thy urn,
At her approach more splendid burn:
See banish'd now the gloom profound,
For beauty sheds its light around.
Whilst Genius waves his torch on high,
Triumphant pointing to the sky,
Then smiling hails the blooming dame,
The rival of no vulgar fame,
Around her Shakspeare's hallow'd tomb
Let Nature scatter all her bloom;
There, planted by the tuneful Nine,
There shall the verdant laurel shine;
The primrose pale, the vi'let blue,
There, there shall drink the morning dew;
Whilst Fancy fair shall deck his bier
With ev'ry flow'r to Genius dear.
STANZAS
WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE.
TO MISS LEE
Author of "The Recess.".
FAIRY minstrels, haste away,
Here attune the pensive lay;
Where these roses crown the sod,
Avonia's Bard awaits his God.
Though Avon's stream for ever flow,
So sweet a Bard it ne'er shall know;
Child of Nature, void of Art,
How he knew the human heart!
When the magic shell he strung,
Echo, glad, responsive sung;
Whilst the cowslip's fairy train
Lightly trod the daisy'd plain.
And still at fall of dewy night,
By the Moon's uncertain light,
Whilst they move to airs divine,
Round his tomb they sweetly twine.
VERSES ON SEEING THE TRAGEDY OF THE REGENT
Mr. B. being just landed from a long and stormy passage from abroad, wrote five lines to his Mother, and retired to rest. On rising to eat his dinner at a miserable inn, he asked,
"If they had any book in the house."
Some one replied,
"A gentleman had gone away, and left a play-book behind him."
Mr. B. desired to see it; it entered with his dinner, which he left to take care of itself until he had finished that charming piece. He unlocked his writing-box, wrote the following lines, sealed and sent them off by post, then ate his dinner. Mr. B. sometimes said, when shewing them to his friends,
"I do not suppose that Mr. Greathead ever knew from whom he received them."
A lady of very high rank and very cultivated mind once asked Mr. B.'s Mother
"Whether early friendship had not led Mr. B. to see the Regent with such very partial eyes."
Mrs. B. replied,
"That she believed her son was not at all acquainted with Mr. G.; but that, had she been a poet, she would have said as much as her son had done."
.
TO BERTIE GREATHEAD, ESQ.
AWAKE, ye Nymphs of Avon's stream,
Of Shakspeare's verse the fav'rite theme;
No more within that sparry cave,
Whose mouth Avonia's waters lave;
On coral beds in grief recline,
But round your brows the laurel twine;
Again by Cynthia's pallid beam,
Be seen amid the glassy stream;
O chaunt again that Doric strain,
Ye learn'd of Avon's tuneful swain;
And with you bring the breathing lute,
For ages lost, for ages mute,
That Genius erst on him bestow'd,
Whose pictur'd breast with fancy glow'd;
For wak'd by notes that oft have charm'd,
Again by hallow'd frenzy warm'd.
Hark! Echo quits her mossy bed,
And scarce believes her Shakspeare dead;
Again, by Avon's silver stream
A Bard resumes great Nature's theme;
Spurning the rules of sordid art,
Guided but by a feeling heart;
From Nature's self the picture draws,
Confin'd by none but Nature's laws;
To Fancy's realm the daring wight
On eagle wing pursues his flight;
And wand'ring blest those bow'rs among,
Where Shakspeare's self unrival'd sung;
As straying 'mid the holy wood,
For you, fair sisters of the flood;
A blooming wreath behold him twine,
A wreath immortal and divine.
THE BANKS OF ALMOND.
(VIDE PENNANT'S TOUR.)
TO MARY LADY CLARKE OF PENNYCUICKE.
STILL was the night, and gently roll'd the wave,
When Almond's banks a pensive poet sought,
And free from care his rustic lay attun'd,
When, lo! by some superior pow'r compell'd,
The silver waves in equal parts divide,
And thence two lovely virgin forms arise,
(The fairest they of Caledonia's fair,)
Who thus with accent soft the bard bespeak:
" Be thine the task our hapless fate to sing,
Whilst we, O Bard, thy rustic verse inspire,
Still on these banks our pensive spirits stray,
And oft at evetide by the swains are seen.
In ages past we were for friendship fam'd;
Nor love, nor death, our friendship could destroy.
One happy youth, by both alike belov'd,
Was with our kindest, tenderest wishes bless'd;
Whilst he for each with equal passion burnt.
When from contagions dire we hither fled,
For us, on yonder hill, a bower he built,
And oft at evetide climb'd the steepy brae
A Scotch expression.
To meet the willing partners of his love;
But when at once the azure skies we sought,
O'er our remains a simple tomb he rear'd,
Then died, and join'd us in the realms of light.
Oh! from our tender tale this moral learn,
That real friendship lives beyond the grave;
And when from earth remov'd it seeks the skies,
It then for ever burns a flame serene,
And gilds the regions of eternal day."
The Almond's willing waves again divide,
And from his sight the lovely phantoms sink.
VERSES ON MRS. BILLINGTON'S APPEARANCE AT OXFORD.
TO THOMAS BARRETT LENNARD, ESQ.
IN ages past the sweetly-flowing strain,
By Orpheus pour'd along the verdant plain,
Disarm'd the tiger's fierce relentless rage,
And could the lion's horrid wrath asswage:
Secure from harm amidst the bloody throng,
The love-lorn bard attun'd his plaintive song.
Next old Amphion prov'd the pow'r of sound,
And bade his walls defenceless Thebes surround.
Such were the wond'rous feats of former days,
And such the force of long-forgotten lays.
Though now at Musick's voice no ramparts rise,
No lion fell in magic thraldom lies,
Yet still its sweet resistless pow'r remains,
We feel its force in living vocal strains.
For, hark! how worthy of Apollo's praise,
Eliza tunes her softly-thrilling lays!
And whilst full many a proud aspiring fane
In echo sweet prolongs the cheerful strain,
Behold, forth issuing from the portals wide,
Display'd in many a long and sable tide,
The letter'd sons of holy science come,
By music lur'd to quit that peaceful home,
Where tranquil pleasures crown the passing hour,
And Wisdom dwells unaw'd by tyrant power.
Behold how round Apollo's shrine they throng,
And list enraptur'd to the swelling song.
But mark!—Swift passing through the buoyant air
Yon gloried car a nobler tribute bear!
See Handel, source of sweet majestic strains,
Direct his flight to these his favourite plains.
Behold him now with mute attention pause,
Now join, with rapture bright, the just applause.
Since Handel then approves the lovely dame,
And stamps his fiat on her lasting fame,
From lov'd Parnassus' height desced, ye Nine,
And round her brows your brightest laurels twine.
THE POWER OF LOVE.
TO ROBERT BERKELEY, ESQ. JUNIOR, OF SPETCHLEY PARK, WORCESTERSHIRE.
ALTHOUGH the Muse in ev'ry age
With Cupid's wreath has deck'd her page,
And, tutor'd by the wily boy,
Has tun'd her lyre to themes of joy.
Yet History, sweet recording maid,
By Truth allur'd, forsakes the shade;
And as adown the stream of time
She steers her course with port sublime,
She pausing points to many a grave,
Where, Love, thy willows weep and wave,
Through sad Voclusa pensive strays,
And Nature's tender tribute pays.
INVOCATION TO CUPID.
TO FREDERICK REYNOLDS, ESQ.
DECK'D with rays of purple light,
Hither, Cupid, wing thy flight;
Through the pure unclouded sky
Let thy shafts unnumber'd fly.
Bid the warblers of the grove
Bow before the shrine of Love;
And with thy resistless dart
Pierce, O pierce each youthful heart.
Hark, how round thy hallow'd shrine,
Sweetly chaunt the tuneful Nine;
O'er the green enamel'd plains
Pouring all their magic strains.
Phoebus now with fervid rays
Lights thy altar's holy blaze;
And, touching soft his magic lyre,
Joins the sweet Aonian choir.
INSCRIPTION FOR A GOTHIC NICHE LINED WITH IVY,
IN THE GARDEN OF DR. BERKELEY'S PREBENDAL HOUSE IN THE OAKS AT CANTERBURY, WHERE MR. BERKELEY USED TO SIT AND READ GREEK. THE LADIES OF THE FAMILY NAMED IT
"THE GREEK SEAT."
TO THE REV. DR. BERKELEY, PREBENDARY OF CANTERBURY, CHANCELLOR OF BRECON, &c.
MORTAL, thou who view'st this cell,
Scorn not here awhile to dwell;
Hence is banish'd noisy sport:
This is Contemplation's court.
Hermits here, in days of yore,
O'er their beads were seen to pore;
Screen'd within this friendly shade,
Erst has wept the lovelorn maid.
Oft within this ivy'd seat,
Tenants of the green retreat,
Bards have shunn'd the glare of noon,
Here have hail'd the rising moon.
Here with glitt'ring visions blest,
Have they sunk to downy rest;
Here have wak'd this truth to know,
Wild ambition leads to woe.
Whilst around your eyes you turn,
From this cell one moral learn;
Far from Fortune's flatt'ring gale
Cautious spread your little sail.
See yon once aspiring fane
The magnificent ruins of St. Augustine's Monastery are seen in a most beautiful point of view from Dr. Berkeley's garden in the Oaks.
,
With ruin sad bestrew the plain,
Whilst within the fretted tower
Night's lone bird selects her bower.
Yet the zealot's ruffian hand,
Speeding ruin o'er the land,
Spar'd this rude, this humble cell,
Where Contentment chose to dwell.
Those who from the prelate's hand
Tore the crosier's jewel'd wand,
Bad the shepherd by the brook
Keep secure his beechen crook.
THE BIRTH OF BLISS.
TO THE HONOURABLE GEORGE LESLIE, SON OF THE EARL OF LEVEN, &c.
WHEN first in Eden's roseate bow'rs
Adam mark'd the lonely hours;
Though in life no pain he knew,
Yet from life few joys he drew:
Still the social passions slept,
Hope alone her vigil kept;
Thus in Eden's hallow'd shade,
Sweetly sang the blue-ey'd maid:
"Tenant of this happy plain,
Stranger, blest, to ev'ry pain,
Still imperfect is thy state,
What is life without a mate?
Rising with the second morn
Lovely woman shall be born;
Blest with her thy breast shall know
Charms divine from love that flow."
Pausing here, the blue-ey'd maid
Ceas'd to sing in Eden's shade.
Charm'd by strains so sweet, so blest,
The common father sunk to rest;
When appear'd the second dawn,
Pleas'd, he trod the verdant lawn.
Seated 'neath a woodbine's shade
Soon he saw the perfect maid;
Each in mutual wonder gaz'd;
Love within each bosom blaz'd.
Rosy blushes tinge the fair;
Smiling cherubs bless the pair:
Each transported with their lot,
Join to bless the nuptial knot
To a more sequester'd shade
Adam led the blushing maid;
Lock'd within each other's arms,
Gazing on each other's charms;
Each exchang'd a balmy kiss,
Giving thus a birth to bliss.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE FRONT OF SINGLETON ABBEY
This name was chosen by Mr. B.
.
TO MISS MALTHUS'S
Several very beautiful accomplished young ladies, and some with highly cultivated minds. The eldest of them very little turned of twentytwo years, used to declare that they would not wait to be derided by the gentlemen as
old maids,
if any GENTLEMAN can give such names. That they would prepare some fine old abbey, join their fortunes, and there reside, excluding all men whatever, before the time arrived that English, not Irish, gentlemen usually leave off their attentions to the ladies. In bare justice to Irishmen, of fashion, it must be said,
their
politeness is as perfect to the matron of sixty as to the nymph of sixteen: they are too correctly well-bred to talk nonsense to a dowager, or a matron. Mr. B. declared that it would be impracticable to exclude ALL gentlemen; that they must have a receiver of their rents, &c. and that he insisted on having
that
office. A very elegant amiable young gentleman, educating for the church, and of which he is now an ornament, being a most excellent parish minister, the Reverend H. R. Master of Arts, assured them that they must have a chaplain. These two favoured youths were therefore to be admitted. Mr. B. said,
"If they would retire, it should not be into obscurity, for that he would write an inscription, and fix it up in large gold letters."
The idea occasioned much innocent mirth. Most of the sixteen are happily married. It is the fault of the remainder that they are still fit for SINGLETON Abbey.
, THE BELOVED, THE RESPECTED FRIENDS OF HIS EARLY YOUTH.
KNOW, Trav'ller, in this sweet, sequester'd cell,
No weeping maids, no slighted virgins dwell;
Within these walls are found a vestal train,
The loveliest maids that e'er adorn'd the plain;
Nor yet esteem this pile a specious tomb,
Where beauty pines in never-ending gloom;
No mattins here disturb the morning sleep,
No lovelorn maids forsake their couch to weep;
Along these walls no gloomy torches burn,
Nor sad disclose where rests some mould'ring urn;
Before no sculptur'd saints they prostrate weep,
Nor at their shrines the midnight vigil keep;
Here dwell the Graces three, the Sisters nine,
And them alone these maidens deem divine;
By fancy led, they sought these pleasing shades,
And are what vulgar mortals call Old Maids;
Yet many a native charm they still possess,
Unborrow'd from the gaudy art of dress;
Still on each cheek the bloom of youth appears,
And prudence is their
only
proof of years.
THE FAIRIES.
TO MISS GRIMSTON, YOUNGEST SISTER OF THOMAS GRIMSTON, ESQ. OF GRIMSTON, YORKSHIRE
The Conqueror found the lineal male ancestor of this truly respectable, uncommonly worthy amiable family seated at Holderness. The present Thomas Grimston rebuilt the house at Grimston about ten years ago, and on finishing it kept open house several days, when the poor and the distressed, ever objects of the peculiar care of this excellent family, were most nobly remembered indeed. On the first day of the gala, after dinner, Mr. Grimston wrote to town an order to liberate from Newgate an old grey-headed villain, who had defrauded him of a very large sum, saying to his excellent brother, H. Grimston, Esq.
"I cannot enjoy any of this gaiety while I know that poor wretch
, wicked as he is, is in Newgate."
The letter written by H. Grimston, Esq. is carefully preserved by the writer of this note. But they are the grand-children of the eminently pious amiable Lady Le Gard, mother of the late worth Sir Digby Le Gard.
"Train up a child,"
says Solomon,
"in the way he should go."
A happy proof of this inspired advice is daily felt by all around this excellent family.
.
HOUS'D within the cowslip's bell,
As the simple milk maids tell;
Shunning there the glare of day,
Fairies pass their hours away.
There they keep their mimic state;
There the fall of night await;
Then along their fav'rite hill,
Or beside some haunted rill.
Whilst around dull mortals sleep,
Mystic vigils there they keep,
With some wild fantastic rite
Greeting still the pow'r of night.
THE IMMORTALITY OF VIRTUE.
TO MRS. FRINSHAM
A lady for whom Mr. B. had the very highest respect; as have all who have the happiness of being
intimately
acquainted with her.
.
FROM these numbers as they flow,
Shepherd-maids this moral know;
Soon shall Beauty's brightest bloom
Moulder in the cheerless tomb;
Charms that light the blaze of love,
Soon the force of time shall prove;
Vainly beams the glist'ning eye,
Quench'd in dust each star shall lie;
Yet when Death's destructive dart
Chills to rest the beating heart,
Virtue's flame unquench'd shall burn,
Cheer the grave, and gild the urn.
TO A NIGHTINGALE IN CLIFDEN WOOD.
TO MRS. D. MONCK, OF COOKHAM.
SAY, sad tenant of the grove,
Whence the pains that now you prove?
Why, within your throbbing breast,
Why is Sorrow still a guest?
Sleeps in death your murder'd mate?
Weep'st thou his melancholy fate?
If 'tis that disturbs thy peace
Spring shall bid thy sorrows cease;
Then thy breast, that heaves in woe,
With Love's bright flame again shall glow.
Yet, sweet mourner, still complain,
Nor, though bless'd, forbear thy strain;
For, sweetly sad thy warblings flow,
And charming is thy song of woe;
As at eve he treads the plain,
Oft it soothes the shepherd swain;
When he seeks the conscious shade,
There to meet the village maid;
He with rapture hears thy lay
Issue from the hawthorn spray;
And with mine unites his praise
Of Philomela's tender lays.
FAREWELL STANZAS ON LEAVING COOKHAM
Cookham and Taplow were at that time inhabited by a number of such families as few neighbourhoods could then, can now, boast; many gentlemen of great learning, many ladies, mothers and daughters, with highlycultivated minds, by which is not meant that they had a smattering of Latin or Greek. With these Mr. B.'s family lived in great intimacy.
, IN THE SPRING OF THE YEAR, 1781,
WHEN MR. B. WAS NOT QUITE EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD, TWO YEARS AFTER HE LEFT ETON-SCHOOL.
TO MRS. MALTHUS.
YE nymphs and swains, so innocently gay,
Who dwell where Thames rolls on his silver way;
Where'er in Cookham's lov'd retreats you stray,
To you a wand'rer gives his parting lay;
Nor will he e'er forget those blissful days,
Where on your banks he tun'd his artless lays;
To you his Muse this parting tribute pays,
And sings, but sings unbrib'd, your modest praise.
But now a long farewell, ye nymphs, ye swains;
With you no more I tread the verdant plains,
No more with you I share my joys, my pains,
Nor shall you hear again my plaintive strains:
But ere, lov'd Thames, thy flow'ry banks I leave,
Where oft I've hail'd th' approach of sober eve,
Do thou, whilst Fate permits a short reprieve
Dr. Berkeley put off his journey to the university of St. Andrew, whither he accompanied his son, from February, when he meant to have set out, until April.
,
Do thou, dear Thames
The pleasure-grounds at Dr. B.'s house at Cookham go quite down to the Thames.
, this parting wish receive;
"O! ever gently flow, thou hallow'd stream!
O! may thy waves be still the Muse's theme!
When on thy banks pale Cynthia sheds her beam,
"O! there may Fancy gild the Poet's dream!
THE AUTHOR.
TO ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ.
TO sing of beauty and its pow'r divine,
Let other Bards invoke the tuneful Nine;
Another theme demands my humble lays,
A theme illum'd by Truth's resplendent rays;
To no fictitious scenes the Muse shall rove,
Nor seek, by frenzy led, the Delphic grove;
Alas! the mournful scenes we mean to shew,
In real, not in fancied life we know:
The ills from Genius' source that daily spring,
My pensive Muse in plaintive strains shall sing.
All hail! ye brethren of the tuneful art;
Whether ye lull the ear, or charm the heart;
Whether beneath some half-roof'd shed you lie,
Unpity'd live, or unlamented die;
Or if (severer fate) your sacred lays
Proclaim some titled Patron's fulsome praise;
O list awhile to my untutor'd song,
And bless those numbers which to you belong.
In early youth, when all our joys are pure,
And pleasure wooes us with a harmless lure;
When, blest, and thoughtless of our future fate,
Around the cheerful hearth we lively prate;
Whilst tales of goblins stern, and fairies kind,
Impress with pleasing awe the infant mind;
Or, if serener skies to fields invite,
We chace, with anxious steps, the may-bug's flight;
Or else with pigmy hand the mead despoil,
And cowslip's chaplet weave with curious toil;
E'en then, the hapless breast that Genius lights
With double rapture hails these first delights;
To Fancy's sway he yields his guileless heart,
Unaw'd by fashion, and unspoil'd by art;
To him who Fancy's magic influence knows,
With brighter glow appears the blushing rose;
By Nature form'd to relish all her sweets,
Her daisy'd meadows, and her green retreats.
At length to school remov'd, the happy boy,
The mother's earnest of much future joy;
Forsakes the scene of dear domestic bliss,
The father's smile, the mother's ardent kiss;
Nor quits he yet without some falling tear
Those fields his infant joys have render'd dear.
At first, the clamour of the buzzing schools,
And classic Lily's salutary rules,
With terrors new his infant mind appall,
And present fears his pristine joys recall;
But when the dry grammarian's toils are o'er,
And Ovid opens all his tender store;
With kindred flame his ardent bosom glows,
His version pure the rising genius shews;
And the pleas'd master sees, with flatt'ring hope,
The early efforts of a future Pope.
Now partial friends predict his rising fame,
With hand unweary'd fan Ambition's flame;
At length some guardian care removes the youth
To those blest scenes of wisdom, and of truth,
Where holy Science holds her peaceful reign,
Where Genius wanders o'er the classic plain;
On Isis' verdant bank he shapes his way,
'Mid scenes that heard a Warton's virgin lay;
Or lingers, Cam, beside thy sedgy stream,
Of Mason's matchless verse the darling theme.
Here Science wooes him with her tempting lore;
He pants while she unfolds her mental store;
With eager soul seizes the valued prize,
Ambition prompts him, and his prospects rise:
Still where, devoid of care, the stripling roves,
Beside the stream, or through the nodding groves;
Each lively thought the hallow'd Muse inspires;
Big with idea, glowing with her fires,
He gazes round. Genius adores the youth,
And leads him smiling to the shrine of Truth.
Perchance, lov'd Isis, by thy gentle stream
The wahdering youth pursues his wayward theme;
And as thy waves in slow succession glide,
To mix with Ocean's undistinguish'd tide,
With fond expectance waits th' eventful hour,
That yields departure from thy much-lov'd bow'r,
With hopes of fame his hapless bosom glows,
Nor more, Content, thy peaceful empire knows.
Now glittering visions in his sleep appear,
The splendid premium, and the patron Peer;
By Hope deluded, and Ambition led,
The willing Muse he vows for life to wed.
With her he seeks that splendid sink of vice,
Where Peers, instead of Poets, have their price.
The Drama now his constant thoughts engage,
With eager eye he rifles Shakspeare's page,
And hopes, like Murphy, to adorn the stage.
But though, like him, he matchless pow'rs possess,
Though Phoebus' self the fond attempt should bless;
Yet ere his numbers meet the public eye
A thousand deaths the hapless Bard must die;
Condemn'd to torture by good Larpent's pen,
Who cuts by patent, and may come again;
Larpent! who dare the pouring wight arraign!
Lo! Genius struggles in his torpid chain.
Near him Apollo veils his heav'nly fires,
And ev'ry Muse with Larpent's name expires.
At length arrives the dread, the aweful night,
When the maim'd infant sees the burst of light.
The boxes fill'd with noisy froth—the pit
Replete alone with malice and with wit.
With vulgar dissonance the gall'ries arm'd,
By nought but Edwin's monkey visage charm'd,
In senseless clamour their huge prowess shew,
And fright with noise alone the
Ton
below;
Yielding rich harvest to the critic flail,
Nurse Prologue then repeats her wonted tale.
At length to ev'ry gazing eye appears,
Who opes with Nature's key the source of tears.
Critics, though stern, awhile their voice suspend,
Till, charm'd by Siddons, at her shrine they bend;
Yet what avails the tribute Nature pays?
Her tenderest tear is but her noblest praise;
The sons of sordid wealth and splendid pow'r
Feel but the sorrows of the passing hour:
For, mark the name 'mid glory's glitt'ring roll,
Where Mis'ry scowl'd not on th' aspiring soul.
Know those who wept o'er woes his fancy fram'd
Withheld the bread an Otway's hunger claim'd.
Ill-fated Otway, o'er whose melting page
Soft Pity's tear shall fall in ev'ry age,
If ghastly Famine, with unhallow'd pow'r,
Triumphant mark'd his last expiring hour.
Ah! who, by Genius bless'd, yet curs'd by Fate,
Can for his sorrow hope a shorter date?
Yet list, ye hapless sons of magic verse,
While your deep woe my humble lays rehearse,
From Fame's bright source let Hope refulgent shine;
For, yours alone is great Apollo's shrine:
A shrine to which the fool shall never bend;
Or, off'ring there, the god shall ne'er befriend.
The time may come, when England's rocky shore
Shall prize the balance of the world no more,
When some proud victor o'er this happy land
Shall impious stretch the tyrant's fated wand,
Whene'er, o'er Britain doom'd to reign no more,
Her shrine removing to the Western shore,
Sweet Freedom, heav'nly maid, shall wing her way,
And to new worlds disclose her lustrous day;
The Nine lov'd partners of each former flight,
Disdaining still to own a tyrant's right,
With her shall seek the bless'd, the favour'd clime,
Where each shall wait the aweful close of Time.
The jealous guardians of your well-earn'd fame
Shall to the tawney tribes your worth proclaim.
And, whilst around new empires rise to view,
Their mingled praise shall still belong to you.
Yet what avails this bright, this flatt'ring thought,
By Hope inspir'd, nay, more, by Reason taught;
Since, ere her pillar Fame begins to raise,
The fated Bard thy debt, O Nature, pays?
When all the varied ills of life are o'er,
And slighted worth is doom'd to feel no more,
When hears'd in death the woe-worn Genius sleeps,
Then o'er his grave a grateful country weeps,
And loads with costly pile the hallow'd spot,
Where all that Famine spar'd is doom'd to rot.
STANZAS ON PAINTING.
TO THE REVEREND WILLIAM PETERS, LL.B.
A panegyric in prose from a
feeble
pen on the
wonderful powers
of Mr. Peter's
pencil
would be a vain attempt. Perhaps it may be equally vain to attempt doing justice to the exquisite amiability of that worthy gentleman's heart, and the very refined elegance of his manners. He was most sincerely beloved, and respected, by Mr. Monke Berkeley, who, in a letter introducing Mr. P. to his father, Dr. B. says, Pope has given his
true
character in few words:
"The noblest work of God."
Mr. P. painted a picture of his friend, which was by Mr. B. presented to his mother. It is, by some of the best judges of painting, supposed to be the finest portrait ever produced by any pencil, ancient or modern. It preserves that wonderful depth of thought, and that exquisite benevolence which so strongly animated the countenance of Mr. M. B. The letter to Mrs. B. which accompanied the picture, proves that Mr. Peters wields his pen almost as ably as he does his pencil.
WHEN first in Greece the Arts were young,
And Muses wild rude numbers sung,
That pow'r of Genius dawn'd on earth,
Which o'er the tablet's polish'd face
The lines of Art began to trace,
'Twas Beauty gave it birth.
When Persian charms Apelles drew,
The force of Beauty then he knew.
Now see the Youth unconscious gaze;
Now see the lifeless tablet bear
The graces of the living Fair,
And Love's bright passion blaze.
Obedient now to Painting's call,
The Passions come attendant all:
Now Joy supreme, now deep Despair,
Alternate fill the glowing scene;
Now Madness wild, now Grief serene,
Now Vengeance rages there.
How drear the scenes that Rosa chose!
His pictur'd fields no bloom disclose;
Nought but the dark and dreary pine,
Or rocks immense of height sublime,
Coaeval they with hoary Time,
The marks of Pow'r Divine.
But who thy glowing scenes can view,
And crown thee, Claude, with honour due?
Or who the sacred source can trace,
Whence Raphael stole the spark divine
That through his forms is seen to shine?
Or Rubens caught his grace?
When Peters bids the canvas glow
With shapes but little known below,
O! say, when cherub'd forms divine
In all their native glory shine;
Say, where the bounds of magic Art?
Genius, though station'd here below,
No sublunary bounds will know,
Like Peters still 'twill seek its theme,
Beyond pale Cynthia's quivering beam,
And charm the feeling heart.
ODE TO LOVE.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY DUDLEY AND WARD.
ALL hail to thee, resistless pow'r!
Before whose shrine all Nature bows,
And fondly breathes her ardent vows!
Hail, parent of the blissful hour!
Hail, theme of Sappho's trembling lyre!
Hail, theme of Petrarch's plaintive strain!
Hail, mystic source of joy and pain!
Hail, theme of Nature's woodland choir!
With mazy dance, and breathing song,
The joys around thy altar throng.
Though, amid thy smiling train,
Jocund pleasures tread the plain;
Yet mark yon spectre's gloomy air,
Who, whilst the Graces fondly twine
Their roseate wreaths around thy shrine,
Insidious plants the cypress there.
Say, Cupid, now what phantom drear
Approaches near,
On whose torn breast
The serpent rears his scaly crest,
Tearing, with venom'd tooth,
The seat of life and truth;
Whilst through the gaping wound black gore,
In sullen tide, is seen to pour.
Thy matted hair,
Thy frantic stare,
Thy green eye fell;
These, jealous fiend, thy name will tell.
See, as the Loves disporting round,
Dance to the rebeck's jocund sound,
With rage inspir'd,
By vengeance fir'd,
Whilst, horror-struck, the Graces gaze;
See madly through the Daedal maze,
As coupled now with writhing pain,
In hurried step he treads the plain;
And, spurning, Love, thy wily song,
Disperses thus thy frighted throng.
O! thou who, 'mid the roaring wave,
An early fate to Sappho gave;
Who lur'd with Syren strain,
And promis'd joy,
The Grecian boy,
To plow the wint'ry main,
Though quench'd in night
Thy faithless light,
That beam'd on high,
And let a lover die.
Amid the elemental war
He ask'd in vain the dove-drawn car,
That erst thy goddess-mother bore
From Neptune's realm to Paphos' shore:
But deaf to Hero's ardent pray'rs,
But heedless of a lover's cares,
And deaf to sad Leander's cries,
You sought, false pow'r, serener skies.
Then, Heloise, thy victim fell.
Ah! see her stretch'd in yonder cell.
By all thy fiercest passions borne,
Berest of hope, through thee forlorn.
Attentive hear each groan, each sigh,
And mark the lamps that dimly burn
Around her lover's holy urn.
Now pouring slow
Sad notes of woe,
See Petrarch seek his Laura's grave.
Hark! how the saddening strain
Wanders o'er Vauclusa's plain.
Thine are his lays,
And thine the praise
Thou kindledst first the fatal fire,
Then tun'd to grief his plaintive lyre.
Round Laura's tomb,
With cheerless gloom,
Thy cypress sad is seen to wave,
Whilst Pity's self slow pausing there,
With Lethe's blissful balm,
The mourner's pangs could calm;
But yonder groan, that pierc'd the air,
Proclaimeth all thy reign despair.
Since such thy pow'r, since such thy deeds,
Since gor'd by thee each bosom bleeds,
From me thy shafts, dread Godhead, turn;
Ne'er shall my breast devoted burn.
Thy cup Circean freely give
To those who wish with thee to live.
Thy arts I spurn, thy joys despise;
Minerva's smile alone I prize.
ODE TO CONSCIENCE.
TO MRS. YEARSLEY
This celebrated poetess, this sensible woman, denies the existence of conscience.
.
FOR ever hail thou great celestial pow'r,
To whom belongs the subject—earth;
Thou dread companion of the lonely hour,
Who claim'st with man coeval birth!
To curb the passions as they rise,
To fix our hopes beyond the skies;
To thee, dread monarch of the mind,
Has Nature's God this solemn trust consign'd.
At night's still hour, when guiltless bosoms know,
The joys that blissful dreams bestow;
O! hither call that solemn tribe
Of days, of years, now long o'erpast;
Whose voice not Eastern wealth can bribe,
Whilst shrinks the soul through fear aghast,
With accent deep as midnight knell
Each impious deed let Mem'ry tell;
And trembling guilt appall'd shall hear,
The twofold voice of Conscience and of Fear.
On the raven's boding wing,
From the dark domain of woe,
Where the streams of sorrow flow
Hither all thy terrors bring;
Of murther'd ghosts,
By vengeance led,
Let countless hosts
Surround the bed.
Where, terror struck, thy frantic victim lies,
And for each death he gave, a thousand dies.
Let horror paint that vengeful hour,
When stern Eliza felt thy pow'r.
Beside whose dying couch was seen
The ghost of Scotia's murther'd queen;
And where distain'd with blood
The injur'd Essex stood,
Pointing to that distant shore
Where the tyrant reigns no more;
Whilst furies stern their gloomy torches wave,
And sink her, trembling, to a hopeless grave.
ODE TO TRAGEDY.
TO MRS. SIDDONS.
O HALLOW'D source of fancy'd woe,
Around thy shrine the streams that flow,
From Pity's sacred source arise,
Now lost in horror, chill'd we gaze,
And see thy hand the dagger raise;
The fated victim dies!
Where the pale body lifeless lies,
Sweet Pity yields her throbbing sighs,
And though deserving of the doom,
Yet falls he not without a tear,
Which, shed by Virtue o'er his bier,
Bids hope dispel the gloom.
When first the Muse in Grecia sung,
To comic strains her shell she strung,
Then pleas'd alone with shepherd lays;
But O! when Genius pour'd her light
Along the gloom of early night,
To thee belongs the praise.
By ev'ry tragic bard of old,
Of whom th' historic page hath told;
By every dear departed shade,
By mighty Shakspeare's honour'd dust,
And by thy Otway's laurel'd bust;
Descend to earth, sweet maid.
Still Britons feel thy glowing rage,
Illum'd by Shakespeare's magic page;
Still o'er thy Otway's verse we mourn
When impious Cawdor's guilty queen
With murder stains the horrid scene.
O! how our bosoms burn.
When fair Monimia weeping pleads,
And when her hapless husband bleeds,
Whilst tears bedim her radiant eyes,
Sweet Pity's self descending there,
Attempts to soothe the hopeless fair
With sympathetic sighs.
When, catching frenzy from thy page,
Immortal Siddons treads the stage,
The Fairies stern awhile refrain,
A while their scorpion lust restrain,
And, pleas'd, behold the scene of woe.
Uncertain, if our tears and sighs,
From true, or fancied ills arise;
But, ah! the sweet delusion o'er,
Again they steep their snakes in gore,
And bid our sorrows flow.
ODE TO GENIUS.
TO THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, A.M. PRECENTOR OF THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH OF YORK.
GENIUS! thou pow'r fublime and bright,
Thou radiant spark of heav'nly light,
Sent from above our toil to cheer.
How in Shakspeare's hallow'd page,
Glowing with poetic rage,
Thy magic strokes appear!
Spenser seiz'd thy trembling lyre,
How he felt thy sacred fire
Let his matchless numbers tell.
Goblins stern, and Fairies kind—
Airy offspring of the mind—
To them he tun'd his shell.
Milton too, that bard divine,
Bow'd before thy sacred shrine
Of cherub'd hosts, and heaven's high throne,
Soaring bold on eagle's wing;
O, how sweetly did he sing!
But, ah! he sung alone.
Inspir'd by thee, majestic Young
Of Death and Fate sublimely sung;
And while he tun'd his solemn lyre
By pale Luna's fickle light;
How he charm'd the ear of Night,
And bade our souls aspire!
Then Collins chaste, and Theban Gray,
Gave to thee the ardent lay;
Pleas'd, you heard their numbers flow.
Mason's verse you now inspire;
Charm'd, you tune his matchless lyre,
And dwell with him below.
PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, ON OPENING THE NEW THEATRE AT BLENHEIM, OCTOBER 1787.
TO THEIR GRACES THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.
THOUGH each theatric wight, in prose or rhyme,
Condemns of course the drama of his time;
'Tis better sure than when, in tilted cart
Each tragic hero mouth'd his thund'ring part.
The Muses then—their brains a little crack'd,
Were fairly subject to the
Vagrant Act.
But, mark! how greatly chang'd their
present
state!
Victims no more of law, caprice, or fate;
Thrice-welcome now to Shakspeare's native isle,
Where Genius hails them with a fost'ring smile:
Whilst Spenser's princely race erect their shrine,
'Midst scenes for ever sacred to the Nine.
These scenes, of old how fam'd for beauteous dames!
And Blenheim
now
the palm of beauty claims.
Within
this
shade, as say the tales of old,
As Hull in pensive verse hath sweetly told,
HERE Nature's fairest rose was seen to bloom,
Till jealous rage decreed an early tomb.
Where her cold ashes rest, let no stern prude,
In all the pomp of vestal pride, intrude.
By Pity's tears embalm'd, still lives her name,
By mercy screen'd from infamy and shame.
His lyre to strains uncouth HERE Chaucer strung,
And o'er THESE plains his Gothic stanzas sung.
And erst within this dark embowering shade,
The stern Eliza dwelt—a captive maid.
Then free from murd'rous deeds and crimes of state,
And guiltless
then
of sainted Mary's fate.
Here Wilmot too, the witty and the gay,
Repentant—saw the close of mortal day.
Oft o'er his urn shall British Genius weep,
And there in watchet weeds her vigils keep.
Nor Love's soft wreath alone shall Woodstock claim,
Nor rest on GENIUS all her hopes of fame.
HERE, ere on Cressy's plain the victor fought,
Great Edward's soul the flame of glory caught.
And HERE, when peace return'd to Britain's shore,
When Marlb'rough bade his thunders cease to roar,
And Albion triumph'd o'er unnumber'd foes,
'Twas HERE her guardian hero sought repose.
To crown with wealth her Marlb'rough's glorious toil
A grateful country gave THIS classic soil.
She bade yon dome arise, and by its name
Prolong'd her mighty warrior's lasting fame;
Then round her godlike Marlb'rough's glory'd shrine
Bade all her brightest, greenest, laurels twine.
And HERE, through countless ages shall they bloom,
And shed around a consecrated gloom:
For still to Britain shall THESE scenes be dear,
Since all the milder virtues flourish HERE.
Like vernal suns, with genial warmth they glow,
And soothe the pangs of poverty and woe.
But, sick of worthies and their fame, ye fair,
Perhaps ye wish to know our bill of fare.
Spoken before
Who is the Dupe?
Know, then, fair Cowley's Muse will paint a wight,
Who thinks that Learning's always in the right.
But, sure, of tonish life he little knows
Who worships scholars, and who laughs at beaux!
Which of the bucks that shine in Pleasure's round
Was e'er a scholar or a critic found?
By Fashion's rule the sweets of life they cull,
"Gay by constraint, and elegantly dull
See Hobhouse.
."
They ne'er o'er Homer's thund'ring verses pore;
And Tully's self they deem an arrant bore.
When such the charming youths our isle can boast,
What chance has Learning with a reigning toast?
For both our sakes, ye Fair, I hope our Bard
Has on the softer sex been somewhat hard:
For, if the picture she presents be just,
Then—books farewell!—consign'd to mould'ring dust;
For, who the toils of Learning will pursue,
If unprotected and ungrac'd by you?
Spoken before the
Lyar.
This night our laughing Muse will paint a youth
At constant war with Heaven-descended Truth.
Yet still she hopes, by Candour's rules you 'll try her,
Nor kill with frown severe one harmless Lyar.
PROLOGUE TO BONDS WITHOUT JUDGEMENT, OR THE LOVES OF BENGAL.
SPOKEN BY MR. HOLMAN.
WITH shaft satyric shot from Phoebus' bow
'Gainst Wisdom's foes to aim th' unerring blow,
To check the rising follies of the age,
May well be deem'd the Province of the Stage.
Here, whilst their gentle breasts indignant burn,
Here Fashion's offspring may some moral learn.
This night on India's shore our scene we lay,
Though not for want of game so far we stray.
When here in vain on Beaux our Beauties smile,
Enrag'd they vow to quit the tasteless Isle,
And, though 'gainst venal love they loudly rail,
Yet, blushing, for the Land of Husbands
Mr. B. received a smart trimming from his Mother for being prevailed on by
to write this Prologue;—she constantly asserting, that the unportioned industrious daughters of gentlemen, who go to India to obtain a comfortable settlement in life, only resemble the
idle
lasses who go every night to Ranelagh. Both mean to get
good
husbands; the Ranelagh misses generally fail; the sea-nymphs seldom; for men of sense and worth rarely choose a wife that cannot spend an evening at home, who, according to Dr. Young,
"Deem one moment unamus'd a misery," &c. &c.
No man esteemed women of sense and merit more than Mr. B.
sail,
Whilst Neptune's self indignant bears the weight,
And with reluctance wafts th' unworthy freight.
When India's guilty shore these damsels reach,
Unnumber'd Nabobs throng the golden beach,
Who, whilst their feeble frames scarce stand the gale,
Explore the beauties of each living bale.
To you, ye Fair, belongs th' important cause,
'Tis you must vindicate blest Hymen's laws;
For, if from th' East this fashion we import,
And Arcot's customs lead the British court,
To Flutus soon your ancient sway must yield,
And vanquish'd Love shall quit fair Albion's field.
Were this the case, should some rich Heiress start,
Whose countless thousands charm each throbbing heart,
The fond enraptur'd youth who wish'd to win her
Must e'en go flirt with Christie or with Skinner.
The Peer, by adverse dice compell'd to wed,
From ways and means to Hymen's altar led,
May ask his friend, "Pray where bought you your rib?"
Whilst he replies, "Why, faith, I dealt with Squib;
And, as your courtship I am somewhat slow in,
I got her at the hammer—"Just a going."
On you, ye Fair, who haply scorn the plan,
To seek so far that faithless creature, man,
Who, spurning Plutus and his sordid art,
For Love alone exchange the generous heart,
On your support our anxious Bard relies,
And hopes to take his plaudits from your eyes;
For, if your critic frowns do not confound him,
He smiles at all the Nabobs that surround him.
THERE BEING A VERY BAD TRANSLATION OF THAT CELEBRATED PETIT FRENCH PIECE, "NINA;"—MR. B. WAS REQUESTED BY A PERSON OF QUALITY, A NEAR RELATION OF HIS FATHER'S, TO GIVE A BETTER: HE DID IT IN SIX HOURS, SO COMPLETELY WAS HE MASTER OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. IT OCCURRED TO HIM TO ADD, WHAT THE JUSTLY CELEBRATED MR. DUNSTER TERMED THIS EXQUISITELY BEAUTIFUL SONG.
SONG.
SUNG BY A CHORUS OF PEASANTS.
TO THE HON. MRS. HOBART.
GRIEF and Mis'ry, hence away,
This is Nina's wedding day;
All her sorrows now are past.
May her joys for ever last.
Joy attend this happy pair;
He is brave as she is fair.
Guarded by the God of Love,
May they ever constant prove!
LUCY, OR THE BANKS OF AVON.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN, AND NEVER MEANT BY MR. B. FOR THE PUBLIC EYE
These lines are printed from the first foul copy, preserved by his Mother without Mr. B.'s knowledge. Mr. B. perpetually burned numbers of beautiful productions of his early youth. Mr. B. came one morning into his Mother's dressing-room, saying,
"He had just met with a little poem that he thought she would like to hear, if at leisure."
He took his seat, and read as far as to the five last lines; then ceased, and asked how she liked it. Mrs. B. replied,
"Like it; my dear child! why the man was a great villain, and the poor girl a great fool. Who wrote it?"
Mr. B. replied,
"It is not quite finished."
He then read the five last lines, when Mrs. B. not guessing her son to be the writer, exclaimed,
"The moral is delightful, and makes it
all
beautiful; tell me, if you know, who wrote it."
He replied,
"An Eton boy;"
adding, in his sweetly musical voice,
"I am happy that you like it, my dear Madam; it is, in verse, what you have been inculcating on me from my childhood in prose."
—Mr. B. at a very early age wrote a wonderfully beautiful panegyric on the late Earl of Chatham. Nothing could ever prevail on Mr. B. to flatter
any one;
but he ever spoke, and wrote, obliging truths most elegantly.
.
WHERE gentle Avon winds its silver stream,
A moss-grown cottage rears its humble head;
There Lucy first the vernal air inhal'd,
And spent beneath its roof her infant years.
Like Avon's stream those years flow'd gently on,
Nor heav'd a murm'ring sigh for pomp or wrath;
Her Parents' toil to ease was all her care.
Their cott, with three small fields, was all their store;
This little all, by labour, not by fraud
Obtain'd, by bounteous Heav'n was kindly blest,
And ever did their frugal wants supply.
To Nature, not to Art, her charms she ow'd;
By all the hamlet were those charms confess'd,
Still had she liv'd, and still had happy been,
Had honour been young Edward's constant guide:
But Edward, tutor'd long in Fashion's school,
Lord of each pleasing art, each winning grace,
To visit Shakspeare's hallow'd Mulberry came,
By Lucy guided to the classic shade.
Beneath its ancient boughs he woo'd the Nymph,
And twice two moons on Avon's banks he spent,
Ere the sad Maid, by hapless love betray'd,
Yielded her virgin honour to his arms.
Ye Vestals stern, who oft a virtue boast
That springs unbidden in your frigid breasts,
Scorning weak Love, be still
severely
chaste!
Yet, spare; oh! spare poor Lucy's injur'd shade:
For once resemble HEAVEN, and pardon Her,
If ever
You
for HEAVEN's pardon hope;
For crimes
You
have, though not from Love they spring,
And had young Edward sought your cold embrace,
Then you like Lucy might have lov'd and fall'n.
Sad Lucy once possess'd, her arms he left
To pluck fresh roses in a distant clime;
And twice two years on transatlantic shores,
Edward, false Edward, spent, ere he return'd
To visit injur'd Lucy's native land.
She, like the plaintive bird, her love bewail'd,
And, ever sighing, stray'd on Avon's banks;
Like Avon's stream her tears flow'd ceaseless down,
For three long years her fate she sorely mourn'd;
The fourth, no longer able to endure
The pangs of hope delay'd, and blasted fame,
In Avon's stream the ruin'd Lucy plung'd;
Avonian nymphs the love-lorn fair receiv'd,
And deeply mourn'd a sister's hapless fate.
And now vile Edward came; to Avon's banks
His guilty steps he bent, and sought his Fair,
Who now on Avon's banks had ceas'd to stray;
But ere poor Lucy's well-known cott he reach'd,
He met the Sexton grim, who, jeering, said,
"Go to thy Lucy 'neath yon yew-tree's shade!
In bridal honours deck'd she waits thee there."
Guided by the pale Moon trembling he went,
But, ah! no Lucy there sad Edward found:
Nought but the stone that told her tale of woe.
Full long entranc'd in grief he speechless stood,
Then sheath'd his glitt'ring poignard in his breast,
And sunk expiring on his Lucy's grave.
From this said tale one moral may we learn,
That Virtue's paths alone are paths of peace,
And that the man who these pure paths shall quit
For Pleasure's gilded halls and roseate bow'rs
Through life's long course will ne'er true bliss attain.
THE RAPE OF THE WIG.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1782.
IT is necessary to prefix this short account to the following
jeu d'esprit
of Mr. B. then about eighteen. Some of the students used to say, that if Newbourn would wear a better wig his lectures would make a deeper impression on them, and talked of burning the vile caxon. One day the young gentleman since known at Bath by the name of Count E
, an early friend of Mr. B's at Eton school, visiting an English gentleman who boarded at Mr. Cook's, snatched it off the peg in the
trance,
i.e. the hall, where it hung; when he got into the street, he told his friend that he had got it, and was taking it home to burn it. Mr. B. who ever from a youth hated
mischievous
mischief, much as he
ever
loved innocent mischief, replied,
"Oh! no; do not burn it."
—
"What can I do then?"
"Why let your servant, or mine, who will, do it.—Better dress it nicely, fill it with powder and pomatum, and give it a new ribband."
It was a tail wig. This was agreed on. Some of the gentlemen suggested, that in the box in which it was returned, an apology for the
theft
ought to be made; and Mr. B. being ever a ready pen-man, was told he must write the card. He took up his pen with his usual alertness, and wrote the following lines. It was some weeks before the Author was known in the University.
IMMORTAL Pope the ravish'd lock has sung;
But, since his classic lyre is now unstrung,
Be mine the task the ravish'd Wig to sing,
While thus my untry'd lyre I string:
Accept, O Newbourn
This very worthy Gentleman's estate is called Newbourn. The young gentlemen among themselves used to call him Laird of Newbourn. He was sincerely beloved and respected by Mr. B. and all the English students. Most of those of large fortune and of fashion boarded at his house; and a most pleasant abode they found it.
, nor this Wig disdain;
Pray who this Wig from dressing could refrain.
'Twas friendship only did the theft inspire,
To make this Wig what students
must
admire.
Now Art with Nature gladly will combine
To make thy spouse esteem thee
quite
divine
Professor Cook was a very excellent husband: Mrs. Cook, most sincerely attached to him, used to wish him to pay a little more attention to his dress, of which he was remarkably negligent. He was most conscientiously attentive to his pupils. This worthy gentleman would never dine at General
's, because his public day was the Lord's-day. May he be imitated by many in both kingdoms, who certainly shew the Almighty's wisdom in prefixing the word REMEMBER to the Fourth Commandment. The excellent Lady Warwick, the beloved sister of that divine writer the Honourable Robert Boyle, says, in her sweet Meditations,
"The keeping HOLY the LORD's day is the hedge of Religion."
What would she have said had she lived in these days, to see stage-coaches, waggons, cricket-playing? &c. &c.—The late Penyston Powney, Esq. M.P. for Berks, father of Colonel P. during his life never suffered
any
waggons to pass through the town of Maidenhead. He once set a man in the stocks who defied his authority.
.
This Wig may now a constellation blaze,
Whilst wond'ring Herschel shall enraptur'd gaze.
When these you read, chance anger from your breast,
And pray be happy that your Wig is dress'd.
LOVE AND NATURE;
A PIECE IN ONE ACT.
PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, DUBLIN, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MR. BOWDEN, MARCH 1789.
THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND COMPILED BY MR. SHIELDS, OF CONVENT GARDEN THEATRE.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MONCK MASON.
PROLOGUE.
TO CHARLES BERKELEY KIPPAX, ESQ.
THIS night from happy Albion's sea-girt isle
(Anxious from you to earn one fost'ring smile),
A British Maid, much fam'd in days of yore,
Lands on Ierne's hospitable shore,
Eager, ye Fair, to gain one worthy end,
To serve at once a Genius and a Friend.
Of
Ton
and
Ton's
high laws she nothing knows,
Nor hopes the conquest of your modern beaux;
Yet, conscious still of some small share of worth,
She 'll chuse a mate of fortune and of birth.
If to this artless Fair an Earl should yield,
You then, in simple guise, may take the field,
And, trusting only to your native charms,
No more from France implore the loan of arms;
But if the timid maid should droop through fear,
Let your applause her sinking spirits cheer.
On such gay scenes she never gaz'd before,
And, though you deign to smile, will gaze no more:
Yet should your plaudits crown her humble toil,
She 'll plant your laurels in her native soil:
Till wak'd by Merit's and by Friendship's call,
She liv'd sequester'd in her Father's hall.
Unknown to all the joys of tonish life,
And fit for nothing but a modest wife,
She knew no pleasure but a Christmas dance,
And mov'd with native ease unknown in France;
Or else, with cottage maids on 'Hallow ev'n,
She danc'd with Fairies on the haunted green;
Or on the blazing hearth the nuts she strew'd,
And 'mid the flame her constant lover view'd.
Though past the age when simple sports like these
Were wont Ierne's blooming maids to please;
Yet Nature still, we trust, has pow'r to move,
And those who light will fan the flame of love.
From you the guardians of your native land,
In Freedom's cause who arm'd a gallant band;
From you our British maid has nought to fear,
For, though a Female, she's a Volunteer.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Lord Hauberk.
Lord Westmoreland.
Emma.
Eva.
Peasants, Servants, &c. &c.
LOVE AND NATURE;
A PIECE IN ONE ACT.
SCENE PARTLY AT LORD HAUBERK'S HALL, AND PARTLY IN THE NEIGHBOURING FOREST.
SCENE I.
BEFORE THE CASTLE GATE.
Enter a Number of Peasants, as going out to Work.
WHEN soars the warbling Lark on high,
And Phoebus paints the glowing sky,
With jocund hearts we reap the soil,
That ever grateful pays our toil.
And when the sultry work is o'er,
Well-pleas'd we view the wintry store,
Which princely Hauberk's lib'ral hand
So freely sheds around the land.
But see the Sun: he rises fast,
Full half the dawn is now o'er-past.
Then haste, ye rustics, haste away,
Nor waste in sloth the busy day.
[Exeunt.
Enter
Lord Hauberk
and
Lady Eva.
Sister! can you the riddle of my Emma's love
Unfold? Can you declare the hidden cause
Why vainly kneels each fond aspiring youth,
Whom same of Emma's charms hath hither brought?
That to unfold were far beyond the scope
Of such as deal not with the wizard tribe.
Not one of all the far-fam'd gallant knights
Who for your Emma's fame have broken lance,
Hath yet obtain'd the bounty of a smile,
To mark the path her Virgin Love hath ta'en.
'Tis strange, 'tis passing strange, that one in youth,
When Nature's self is prone to freest speech,
Should thus conceal from all the timid love
That surely burneth in her wily breast.
This morn Lord Westmoreland hath greeting sent,
And ere the close of day will sure be here,
To ask the boon of Emma's lovely hand.
A Peer he is, not poor in noble worth,
And held in good esteem by Henry's self,
Beneath whose conqu'ring sway full well he fought,
When haughty France beheld her lilies droop.
I'll to the Maid, and try to win her o'er,
That on this noble Earl she deign to smile.
Meanwhile see thou our bow'rs be gaily deck'd,
And crown the board with all that princely is.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A FOREST.
Enter EMMA.
'TIS sure the time my True-love chose; and yet
Not here! He is not wont to break his faith.
Perchance the tim'rous deer hath led him far,
And by its flight prolong'd the panting chace:
For Henry sure can ne'er to me be false.
And, with my Henry blest, how vain is wealth!
SONG.
What though within a hunter's cot
The Fates have fix'd my Henry's lot,
Though there no gems refulgent blaze
A shrine to Love we yet may raise.
At that blest shrine I'll ever bow,
And each new year repeat this vow,
That my fond flame through life shall burn,
Illume my breast, and gild my urn.
But, see! he comes to meet his own True-love.
Enter HENRY.
Sweet health and joy to Emma of the dale.
If Henry hath outstay'd the fixed time,
If here the Nut-brown Maid hath lonely sat,
The chace he pleads, and Emma's pardon craves.
Though Henry had outstay'd his time, yet Love
Had won his pardon, ere the crime was own'd.
SONG BY HENRY.
When from my lovely Emma torn,
Unheeded dawns the rosy morn;
The panting chace in vain I try,
For Emma still I ardent sigh.
To you the generous Gods impart
The blessing of a tender heart.
To Pity's sway your breast resign,
And be that tender pity mine.
At best, how great a Lover's pain!
But, oh! when doom'd to sigh in vain!
When once of radiant hope bereft,
The wretch has then no comfort left.
Say, Henry, why, with doleful gloom o'ercast,
Of Emma's love thus hopeless speak! O say—
It grieves me much, fair Maid, that sad despair
Must check the grateful bloom of Emma's love.
But vain the thought, that Hauberk's daughter fair
Will quit yon stately pile, with all its pomp,
To rove a wandering Dame with Hunter poor;
To dwell in arbour green, or cavern dark,
With one whom Nature's scanty bounty feeds,
Who owns no lofty hall, no wide domain,
But Nature's tenant dwells in forest wide.
Such life would ill befit a Lady fair.
So harsh a parley, sure, is not the right
Of one within whose artless breast sweet Love,
Devoid of every grosser thought, doth dwell.
The arbour green, by thee, my Henry, fram'd,
Were to thy Emma dearer far than hall
Of Baron bold, with costly gems o'erlaid.
This head, when pillow'd on my Henry's arm,
Would lose remembrance of my former state.
I'd dream of Henry's love and lasting truth,
Nor would my waking sense bely my dreams.
But say, when thickly falls the wint'ry sleet,
When loudly howls the blust'ring storm around,
When freezing snows shall silver all the plain,
Say, how will Emma mourn her distant home?
Indeed, good youth, you wrong your Emma much.
When howls the blast around, to thee I'll turn,
In Henry's arms a peaceful haven find,
In proud defiance of the storm without.
Whilst Mem'ry shall restore the happy day,
When first on Henry's form I grateful gaz'd,
When from his den forth came the rav'nous wolf,
Who all around his glowing eye-balls turn'd,
And mark'd this helpless frame his destin'd prey;
But ere the bloody deed the savage wrought,
By Henry's conquering sword the victim fell;
The life which Henry's ardent valour sav'd,
His love once lost, by me was little priz'd.
[Storm of thunder and Lightning.
Hark, how the aweful thunders roll around!
See, Emma, where the vivid lightnings flash!
Go; to the Castle straight thyself betake,
Lest some mischance arrive which Henry's arm
Cannot avert. I'll to yon cavern drear,
And herd me with the tenants of the den.
If Henry's love I hapless lose, O swift
May lightnings blast your Emma's worthless form,
For life without thee is no worthy boon.
Love to my Emma for this gentle speech,
For which my warmest thanks I grateful give.
And more of Love's sweet parley would we have,
But that the horn proclaims some hunter nigh.
DUET.
Then haste, ye hours, O haste away;
Love impatient waits delay.
Soon, O soon my Love restore:
From you, ye Fates, I ask no more.
Ye Fairy Pow'rs, in pity view
Two Lovers fond, and ever true.
In mercy soothe each throbbing heart,
And grant us soon no more to part.
SCENE III.
A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.
Lord
Hauberk
and
Emma
meeting.
Health to the Nutbrown Maid, to Hauberk's pride.
Lasting as life shall be your Emma's Love.
For which, sweet Maid, thou art most justly priz'd.
Yet much it pains my love, that thus in vain
Our martial youth their gallant feats display;
In vain for thee they hold the Tourney's feast:
In vain the victors claim one valued smile.
Say, Emma, whence this cold, this virgin pride?
Luckless I am, that thus my senseless heart
Should prove the source of grief to Hauberk's breast:
Yet, 'till I see the youth whom Fate ordains
My True-love for to be, I trust, kind Sire,
That force will ne'er constrain your Emma's Love.
My daughter dear, 'tis you, not Fate, must name
The chosen Youth. This night a gallant Earl
Holds revel in our hall. He comes to claim
The valued boon of lovely Emma's hand.
Let not, I pray you, stern refusal check
These hopes of mine, that now shoot forth afresh.
Much shall it pain my heart, thus to oppose
A Parent's will. But, if this Lord be not
The Knight whom once in magic steel I saw,
By wond'rous art reflected bright, you sure
Will leave your Emma free to hold her Love.
Still in this breast shall dearest Emma reign,
Nor e'er my will your virgin choice shall sway.
But grant this Knight be he whom erst you saw,
That Hauberk's line no longer want an Heir.
In two short hours we hope him here: till then
Farewel.
[Exit.
O, in what stern array doth duty meet
My Virgin Love! but Nature will prevail.
SONG.
No human pow'r can e'er control,
The freedom of a Lover's soul.
Each motive base it nobly spurns,
And bright with purest passion burns.
By duty led to Hymen's shrine,
We may our persons there resign.
Our hearts we yield to Nature's voice,
And mighty Love approve the choice.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
THE WOOD.
Enter HENRY.
SCARCE of the lessening day doth aught remain:
Yet Emma comes not to th' accustom'd oak.
How weak is woman's love! like some gay rose,
At breath of wint'ry blast, it droops, it dies.
Yet still each blissful hour that life can boast
From Beauty's smiles derives its welcome birth.
SONG.
Blooming joys, for ever new,
Lovely Maids, belong to you.
Yours the tear, and yours the smile,
That alike the heart beguile.
Wand'ring in this world of woe,
'Tis from you our pleasures flow.
Yours the dance, and yours the song;
You the charms of life prolong.
'Rest of love, say, what is life?
Barren toil, and noisy strife.
Yours, ye Fair, the magic pow'r,
With rapture's wreath to deck the hour.
Enter EMMA.
To be thus soon, is not my Henry's use:
But O! how welcome is he to these arms!
Why speaks he not? Sure Henry is not ill!
O say—
Alas, dear Maid! we now must part.
Part! part from thee! Use not so harsh a sound.
O never, never!—In thy arms I'll die.
But, from my Henry part!—It ne'er shall be.
Alas, it must! for, I have done a deed,
At sound of which thy gentle blood shall freeze.
I just have fought a gallant Knight, whom late
I chanc'd to meet. He to Lord Hauberk bore
Kind greeting from a noble Earl, who comes
To claim that hand which never can be mine.
This Knight in madd'ning rage I rashly slew,
And now must hence, an outlaw'd wretch to roam.
Therefore, sweet Maid, farewel! We meet no more!
But, when your Earl you wed, of Henry think.
O stay, in pity stay!—I 'll freely tread
With thee the howling waste, the desart drear.
Though yonder Knight you slew, yet take not now
With keener sword your once-lov'd Emma's life.
With thee all eartly woe I'll dauntless brave;
Sharp hunger's pangs, and pinching cold, in vain
Assail the breast where burns the flame of Love.
How dark, how drear soe'er the horrid scene,
It sheds around the cheerful light of joy.
Henry! be not so cruel to thy Love.
In vain you plead—Ah, say, deluded Maid,
Would you, whose mind is pure as winter's snow,
Assort with one distain'd by foulest guilt,
Whose nightly rest the murther'd sprites would break.
Say, Emma, would'st thou share the thorny bed,
Around whose sides, at night's dread hour, the ghosts
Of murder'd men would angry stalk, and to
Thy fearful sight disclose their gaping wounds,
Then call for vengeance on this guilty head?
If such dread ills await my constant Love,
They will not turn me from my Henry dear.
At night, when stalk these ghastly sprites around,
I'll soothe thy haunted mind, and bid thee rest:
And each returning day that dawns shall see
These hands to Mercy's throne uplifted high,
To ask the peace of those whom Henry slew.
Peace, gentle Maid; go meet thy destin'd Lord,
Whilst to you height I bend my guilty steps;
'Mid forests drear lament my horrid crimes,
Whilst Echo's self shall tremble to repeat
The murderous tale.
[Exit.
O cruel Youth! for this did Emma love?
How my head burns!—and O my heart it beats.
SONG.
How deep the sorrows of this day!
My faithless youth is gone away.
Had Henry lov'd the nut-brown Maid,
In arbour green with her he'd staid.
Cold is the grave, colder my love.
How great the pain that now I prove!
Her Henry gone! poor Emma, mad,
Will sit beneath the willow sad.
From rosy morn to dewy eve,
Beside a brook will Emma grieve,
Till o'er her sad untimely grave
The willow green shall weep and wave.
But I must hence: for, see! here comes the train
Of one who vainly hopes this heart to win.
'Twas Henry's once.—Ah, me! 'tis Henry's still.
[Exit.
SCENE V.
THE HALL OF THE CASTLE.
Enter Lord HAUBERK, Lady EVA, EMMA, Knights, &c.
Why looks my daughter sad? Say, dearest child,
Hast any grief a father's love can soothe?
No, my good Lord, save only that just now
I chanc'd to hear a Minstrel's ditty, sad,
Of Rosamond the Fair, who was conceal'd
In mystic bower by royal Henry's love;
Till that the jealous Queen destroy'd her swift
By wicked draught of pois'nous juice. Therefore,
My Lord, I wept, and sigh'd at hearing of
This grievous tale.
Since such the source of Emma's grief, we hope
'Tis o'er, and that she now will kindly look
Upon this noble Earl.
If such be he, as once in mirror bright
I chanc'd to see, your Emma's hand is his.
Enter Lord WESTMORELAND.
Most noble Lord, right welcome are you here,
Both to myself, and to my daughter fair.
'Tis he! 'tis Henry's self!
What means this speech?
This riddle, Sir, 'tis we alone can read.
Suffice it now to say, that Emma's love
Has long been mine: and, here, I kneeling claim
The promis'd joy of virtuous Emma's hand.
Though much you tried your Emma's constant love,
Yet still to her is gallant Henry dear;
Though not more dear than if, in forest wild,
With thee, dear youth, a wand'ring life she 'd led:
For then the flame of Love had purely shone.
Illum'd by that, the cavern drear had seem'd
Some stately palace fair.
TRIO.
How truly blest this happy hour,
So sacred now to Hymen's pow'r;
When Emma's self, by duty led,
No longer fears her choice to wed.
Whilst all unite with cheerful lay,
To hail this happy, happy day,
May Love the path with roses strew,
And each fond heart through life be true!
Grant, Heaven, the sun of joy, that gilds this day,
For countless years unclouded shine on all
Who here are come to hail this happy hour.
Since in yon forest wide I won that love,
Which more than India's boasted wealth I prize,
If such your liking is, within that shade,
This day, our bridal feast we 'll joyous keep,
Whilst all your hinds shall share a master's joy.
Ne'er shall refusal check so fair a thought.
And see, the toil of harvest o'er, they come,
To crown with festive mirth the joyous time.
Enter CHORUS OF PEASANTS.
Pomp and Grandeur, hence away!
Simple Nature claims the lay.
Quit we now the lofty dome,
For the shepherd's lowly home.
Pure the joys that shepherds know,
Far from pomp, secure from woe.
Though glory's wreath they never share,
War's dread ills they never dare.
Safe within the lowly vale,
Far from guilt and horror's tale,
Strangers blest to Envy's bane,
Sweet the pleasures of the plain.
Shelter'd 'neath the greenwood tree,
Mirth divine, we'll bow to thee.
Safe from every baneful power,
Thine, O Mirth! this blissful hour.
[Exeunt omnes.
IT is hoped, that the excellent Writer of the following
Jeu d'Esprit
will pardon his old, his throughly grateful Friend for publishing it without his knowledge or consent. That it is the first offence of the kind, cannot be pleaded in excuse. The former offence was pardoned; the work was of a very different kind, an excellent little tract for the children of the Sunday Schools near his own estate. There being no title-page, the Writer of this introduction prefixed one,
"Written by Henry Grimston, Esquire;"
of whom it may, with strictest truth, be asserted, that he is
"Of manners gentle, of affections mild,
"In wit a man, simplicity a child."
To attempt an elaborate character of Mr. Grimston, would be too weighty a task; it may be learned from every distressed man, woman, or child, in his own neighbourhood Suffice it to say, that the Editor esteems it a real happiness to have lived in the strictest friendship with Mr. Grimston for the last fifteen years, often, for many months together, under the same roof; and never observed, or even heard, that he had the shadow of any vice; but firmly believes that he is blessed with every virtue. He was the chosen, the beloved, the respected, the bosom friend of the amiable hearted George-Monck Berkeley, Esquire. His
unwearied attentions
to Mr. Berkeley, during the two last years of his painful journey through this vale of misery to the realms of bliss, prove the soundness of Mr. Berkeley's judgement, when, at the age of about twenty, he said to his Mother,
"I have, I thank God, many friends that I
love,
and
some
that I
respect,
but the man I fix on for my fast friend through life is Grimston."
Mr. Grimston is the grandson, and in some sort the
eleve
of (as his lovely mother died, to
"give him orphan'd in his birth,"
as speaks the eloquent Dr. Young in the Night Thoughts) the excellently wise and throughly pious Lady Le Gard, mother of the late Sir Digby Le Gard.
AN EPISTLE TO MRS. LENNARD.
Dear Madam,
I take the liberty of transmitting to you a copy of verses, which I found under the table in the corner of our room; they were almost illegibly written on a dirty scrap of paper. My dog Teazer
A beautiful Highland Tarrier, given by Mr. Monck Berkeley to Henry Grimston, Esquire.
, to whom you were so kind, was laying by them when they were found; and, from the subject matter, I am led to suppose, they must have been addressed from him to you. I have therefore copied them out fair, in order to render them legible, and hope you will excuse the lines, as the canine race are not much given to poetry. I beg my compliments to my friend Lennard, and your little ones; and remain your obedient, humble servant,
Henry Grimston.
Berkeley's best regards attend you and Mr. Lennard
T. Barret Lennard, Esquire, an old and affectionate friend of Mr. Grimston and Mr. Monck Berkeley, with his very lovely lady, went from Essex to visit their dying friend. During their visit, Mr. Grimston's dog was so kindly treated (as is every creature, rational and irrational) by Mrs. Lennard, as to induce the dog to follow Mr. Lennard's carriage a long way. Mr. Berkeley said, the dog shewed the superiority of his sense above English dogs. Mr. Berkeley revered Mrs. Lennard's loveliness of disposition, and rejoiced that Providence had blessed his dear old friend with
such
a lovely partner. Long may they enjoy their felicity!
, and the olive branches.
IT may, perhaps, seem odd indeed,
That I, a simple quadrupede,
Should thus presume, with pen and ink,
To tell you what I truly think;
But gratitude inspires my lay,
And truth shall dictate all I say;
Nor need I fear t' incur displeasure,
Who felt your kindness without measure.
It is with gratitude I own
The frequent gift of many a bone.
The plates of beef, so nicely drest,
The mutton fat, the chicken's breast.
Then, since such kindness I've receiv'd,
If
Teazer's
word may be believ'd,
I 'll ne'er, whilst I have pow'r to eat,
Forget the hand which gave me meat;
With anguish think upon the day,
When you from Hastings drove away.
Why would that cruel-hearted boy
My hopes of happiness destroy?
Why in his arms my legs restrain,
That long'd to follow o'er the plain?
But now, alas! I'm left to grieve,
Since without thee I'm doom'd to live,
I range about, in vain, to find
A Lady, who is half so kind.
Oft, as I pass that lonely door,
Which now seems shut, to ope no more,
Where, by thy bounty, I was fed,
And thy fair hand oft strok'd my head;
I sigh, to think the change I find
Since I by thee am left behind;
For now, alas! hard fate is mine;
On fishes' bones I'm doom'd to dine;
Or else, with mutton, beef, or veal,
I'm forc'd to make a scanty meal.
Since, then, 'tis you such pleasure give,
With you, fair Dame, I wish to live;
Yet I've no right t' expect on me
Alone you 'll exert your charity,
Since Birds and Beasts, of every kind,
In you a sweet Protectress find.
In Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
To you the Can'ry Bird shall sing;
The Robin too, in Winter's frost,
Shall visit you his generous host.
The Poultry tribe around your door
Shall all receive your bounteous store.
The constant Turtle-dove shall coo
In notes of gratitude to you;
And every living thing shall see
A kind protecting Friend in thee.
A MORNING HYMN,
WRITTEN AND PRINTED BY THE LATE EXCELLENT BISHOP HORNE
It is here inserted to enhance the value of the volume of his beloved young friend, who never saw it.
, APRIL 5, 1755; PRESERVED AND PASTED IN A BOOK, BY HIS SENSIBLE, PIOUS, AND HIGHLY RESPECTED FRIEND, MRS. COX
When Dr. Berkeley's sermon, preached at the consecration of his beloved friend Bishop Horne, was, by his earnest request, published after his death, Mrs. George Berkeley sent a copy to Mrs. Cox—that lady wrote her a most sensible elegant letter of thanks, in which was this beautiful sentence:
"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives; and, in their lamented deaths, were not long divided."
, OF OXFORD, WHO VERY OBLIGINGLY PERMITTED MRS. GEORGE BERKELEY TO COPY IT, AND GET IT PRINTED, TO PASTE UP IN SHOPS, KITCHENS, SERVANTS' HALLS, &c. FOR THE BENEFIT OF A VERY WORTHY POOR BLIND OLD MAN AGED NINETY.
I.
HARK! the shrill herald of the morn
Begins the sons of men to warn,
And bids them all arise
To celebrate his great renown,
Who sends the light refulgent down,
To bless our longing eyes.
II.
At this the fainting shadows die,
The powers of darkness swiftly fly
Before the morning star:
Pale, trembling murder dares not stay,
And fiends, abash'd at sight of day,
Back to their den repair.
III.
'Tis this the weary sailor chears,
Who now no more the tempest hears,
Which morning bids to cease.
O come that day-spring from on high,
When discord shall with darkness fly,
And all be light and peace!
IV.
'Twas this that drew repentant tears
From PETER, led by worldly fears,
His MASTER to disown;
Warn'd by the Monitor of Day,
He cast the works of night away,
And sought the abjur'd Sun.
V.
Whene'er the bird of dawning crows,
He tells us how St. PETER rose,
And mark'd us out the road;
That each disciple might begin,
Awake, like him, from sleep and sin,
To think betimes on God.
VI.
Smote by the eye that looks on all,
Let us, obedient to the call,
Arise to weep and pray;
Till as on Sin and Death we muse,
Faith, like an Angel, tells the news—
To Lord is risen to-day.
AN HYMN,
BY SIR HENRY WOOTTON. COMPOSED IN A NIGHT OF EXTREME SICKNESS
It is very possible, that this glorious hymn of this eminently pious great man may be in print. The Editor stumbled upon it some months ago, looking over some papers, written in the beautiful hand of her beloved partner, on the back of a letter of a beloved cousin-german of his, the throughly amiable T
M
, Esquire, of Dublin, thus inscribed,
"The last letter I ever received from my dear T
M
, probably the last he ever wrote."
This gentleman, beloved, respected by all who knew him, was seized on board the yacht with a violent fever, landed insensible in Dubling, and died in two days. The Editor has never ceased to lament him. She has double cause to do it now.
.
O Thou great Power!
in
whom I move,
For
whom I live,
to
whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie.
O! cleanse my sordid soul within,
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.
No hallow'd oils, no grains I need,
No rags of saints, no purging fire,
One rosy drop from Jesu's side,
Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire.
O! precious ransom! which, once paid,
That "
consummatum est
" was said.
And said by HIM that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath;
Thou, then, that hast dispung'd my score,
And, dying, wast the death of death.
Be to me now, on thee I call,
My life, my strength, my joy, my ALL
As this Hymn was written before the
Father of Mischief
had introduced the word METHODIST,
i.e.
a TITLE, indiscriminately, now conferred on all those who
endeavour
to live their short
inch
of TIME—as believing they
must
pass the never-ending circle of
Eternity,
either in HEAVEN, or in HELL—that word which Dr. L
t, Dean of Peterborough, preaching at Court about seventy years ago, said,
"A
place
which
I
will
not name
in so
polite
a congregation."
It is possible that the
elegant
Dean, and
some
of his
polite
congregation might now be able, if we saw them, to give us some account of
that
place!!! May she who writes, and all those who read this, never see it; but content themselves with our blessed Saviour's tremendous description of it,
"where
their
worm dieth
not,
and the fire is
not
quenched;"
repeated, to be sure, ONLY
three
times within three minutes
de suite.
.
AN ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF MASTER GEORGE-ROBERT BERKELEY, SECOND SON OF THE REV. DR. BERKELEY, PREBENDARY OF CANTERBURY
Who died April 15, 1775, aged eight years, four months, and four days, after only one week's illness, of a dreadful putrid fever, then raging in Canterbury; as did one of his beloved school-fellows, that lovely child, Master Tatton, only son of the Reverend Dr. Tatton, Prebendary of Canterbury, and grandson of the charitable, bountiful Dean Lynch. No art could prevent this sweet child from calling three or four times in the day to know how his friend did. Master Robert Berkeley sickened on one Saturday, and died the next. Master Tatton was going to take a ride, it being holyday. When got as far as Burghgate, the
dismal
sound of the
great
bell assailed his ear; he dropped his bridle, and said to the servant attending him,
"Ah!
my dear
Robert is dead, and my ride is spoiled."
He turned his horse, went home, fickened that very evening, and died the next Saturday. These little creatures were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths were not divided. The elegant
application
of this text is borrowed from a most charming letter of the highly cultivated Mrs. Cox, of St. Giles, Oxford, to Mrs. George Berkeley, thanking her for Dr. Berkeley's long-smothered sermon, preached at Lambeth Palace, at the consecration of his beloved old friend, the angelic Bishop Horne; (see p. 159.) Dr. Berkeley did not long survive his beloved Friend. They have
now
met, to part no more!
.
Oh! just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd!
POPE.
"O may I ever, like the Saints above,
"Adore my Maker with seraphic love
Reading one day to his Mother, the subject led him to enquire, what was the difference between a Cherub and a Seraph? He was told, that it was supposed by Divines, that Seraphs loved God most, but that Cherubs knew more of God and of his adorable nature. He paused near a minute, and appeared to be in deep thought: then looking on his Mother, he said,
"Mamma, Mamma, pray listen to me: I do desire to be a Seraph, that I may love God a great deal, rather than be a Cherub, and have a vast deal of knowledge."
This was remarkable, as he had a very uncommon thirst for knowledge. The above choice was made just a month before his death, when in good health, in high gay spirits, being just come in from playing with some of his school-fellows.
!
"I ask not earthly treasures to obtain:
"Be poverty my lot, if Christ's my gain
When he was but seven years old, reading that part of the Gospel, where our blessed Saviour says,
"How hardly shall they that are rich enter into the kingdom of Heaven!"
he started, dropped the Bible on the table, and said:
"What, can NO rich people go to Heaven?"
Being desired to proceed, and see what would follow, he redde,
"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of Heaven."
He added,
"Then, I am sure, it is impossible."
On being told, that Christ says, how hard it is for those, who trust in riches, to enter into the kingdom of Heaven; and that riches are apt to draw off the heart from God, although that is not always the case; he laid down his book, considered some time in silence, then addressed his Mother as before,
"Mamma, Mamma, pray listen to me!"
and said,
"I do desire to be poor, and to go to Christ, rather than to be very rich, and live without him."
He naturally loved money exceedingly, and never parted with it willingly, but to the poor. He would frequently borrow of the servants to relieve them, if his allowance was all spent. His Father and Aunt used to amuse themselves with borrowing six pence of him, and then pretending they could not pay it, that they might witness his
extreme
anxiety not to lose it. He would say,
"Why, Mamma
tells me,
that
no
honest people
ever
borrow money without paying it again as soon
as possible;
and that it is
very wicked to run in debt.
"
He would then repair to his Mother, lament his hard fate, and ask if he could not
make
them pay him. What a contrast to his generous Brother! Yet both were delightfully amiable children in their different ways. It is supposed, that Bishop Berkeley was
naturally
a lover of money. An Irish nobleman, an intimate friend of the Bishop's, often mentioned to the Editor, that, on his
urging
Bishop Berkeley to accept the primacy offered to him by Lord Chesterfield, the Bishop replied,
"No, my dear Lord, I very early in life got the love of money here," (lifting up his leg, and setting it down with such force, that it shook his library, and every thing in it;) "and here, by the grace of God, I will
always
keep it."
This was uttered in the most energetic tone of voice. A younger brother of Dr. Berkeley's, who died at about seventeen, had the same spirit as his little nephew. The Bishop early gave his sons a large allowance for cloaths, &c. A collection was making for a distressed Baronet. The Bishop called on his sons to contribute. Dr. Berkeley flew to his room, and brought down twenty guineas. The Bishop said,
"Willy, where is yours?"
William.—
"Presently, my Lord."
Bp. B.—
"Willy, I wait for your money."
William.—
"Yes, my Lord, immediately."
He went off slowly to his room, and brought down
fifteen
guineas, saying,
"There it is."
But added, smiling,
"It is
really my heart's blood;
but
I know
it is
right
to give to the poor."
!"
Thus spoke the loveliest child
He was universally allowed to be very remarkably handsome. He had fine large eyes, with an uncommon mixture of sense and sweetness, and very long dark eyelashes, beautifully dark, and finely arched. He had fine nutbrown hair, which curled on his forehead, and round his face, and hung in fine ringlets, below the bottom of his back; his complexion a fine distinct red and white.
, that e'er the sound
Of the last trump shall summon from the ground.
Heav'n heard, and yielding to the warm request,
Receiv'd with open arms the longing guest.
But ah! how much that dread compliance cost,
Say ye, who mourn a Son, a Brother lost
He loved his only brother, four years older than himself, so violently as is hardly to be described. He has been often overheard by the servants of the family, when alone with his brother, to say,
"Brother, I will not live a moment after you, die whenever you will. If you go to fight against the French,
I will
go too: if you are shot, I will be shot the very next minute."
His Brother, until near seventeen, was languishing to go into the army, as most idle geniuses are; the wisdom of his Father kept him out, rejecting the kind offer of a cornetcy in the Oxford Blues, made to him by his amiable Friend the late Lord Conyngham, who having obtained it for a near relation of his Lady, the youth altered his mind—when dear Lord Conyngham offered it to Dr. Berkeley, whose brave Uncle, Major Burton, had married an Aunt of Dr. Berkeley's. This connexion, and the
very
near neighbourhood of this amiable family, added much to Mr. Berkeley's and his parents pleasure from his childhood until Dr. Berkeley quitted Cookham to attend his Son to the University of St. Andrew's. When he was not six years old, his brother was exceedingly ill, and refusing to take a medicine, this lovely child came to him, and in an agony of soul,
not to be described,
urged him to take it, saying,
"if you will not, I must die."
This had the desired effect.
?
Nor think, though anguish should the voice restrain,
Ye cannot tell your agonizing pain.
More than the pomp and majesty of song,
Or words, that move in solemn state along;
More than the deep-ton'd, melancholy knell,
The big-swoln eye, and heaving bosom tell.
What, though from care and sorrow far away,
He shines for ever in the realms of day,
Still sigh we must—but sigh, alas! in vain:
No sighs, no tears, no wishes can regain.
Can tears or sighs recall the fleeting breath,
Or move the bosom of relentless death?
What force of words, what pathos can prevail,
Where beauty, innocence, and ROBERT fail
He was always called by his second name.
?
Lamented ROBERT! thou, whose spotless breast
No sin polluted, no remorse oppress'd!
Bless'd with the art affection to engage
He had been always told that God saw
all
that passed in his heart; and he was so fully convinced of the truth of it, that he never could be prevailed on to say any thing he did not really think, and yet he had a sweet engaging manner of saying obliging things.
;
Fond without flatt'ry, arch above thy age;
Manly in voice and look, of heart sincere
He was remarkably manly in his gait, his air, and in his voice, which was
very
deep, but not at all a coarse bass.
,
Stranger alike to ev'ry vice and fear!
Oft, as returning, this lov'd school I see,
Once bless'd with joy, and liveliness, and thee,
Still from my bosom steal unbidden sighs,
And thoughts of former happiness arise.
What gen'rous pity in thy bosom glow'd,
Thy ev'ry action, ev'ry gesture shew'd!
What strong emotions fill'd thy tender breast,
To see a babe by sad disease oppress'd!
Eager to pity, though you durst not greet,
You flew to kiss the wretched infant's feet
This alludes to a little incident, which happened when he was only two years and a quarter old. A poor woman of the parish brought a wretched little child to his Father's house to apply for relief: the poor creature was covered over with a loathsome humour. He, sitting in his nurse's arms, heard the mother tell its deplorable case: he turned to his nurse, and said,
"Pray, let me go and kiss it to make it well."
She, fearing her darling might suffer by his philanthrophy, said,
"
No,
you
must
not, lest you should get any harm."
He submitted, sat some minutes, then sprang from her arms, ran across the room, and kissed each of the child's shoes, saying,
"There, I have kissed its shoes: I hope
that
will make it well, and can do
me
no harm, nurse."
When he was three years and a quarter old, his nurse had a violent illness; his grief was very great. Some months afterwards she relating to a friend how ill she had been; he was at the other part of the nursery much taken up (as it was supposed) with play: he left his play-things, ran to her, and with tears in his eyes, said,
"Pray, my dear nurse, do not talk any more about your illness.
I cannot
bear to think what I felt then."
.
"Ye who ere lost an angel, pity me,"
Says the eloquent Young, Pity the relatives of this lovely child!
.
Though, from the gloomy mansions of the grave,
Thee, nor thy virtue, nor thy form
He was very tall and graceful, being measured a short time before his lamented death, he was exactly five feet one inch. Soon after his Father's going to reside at Canterbury, the fame of his beauty was so dinned in the ears of an old Lady of the name of Knowler, who never went out of her house, that she desired a Lady of her acquaintance to request Mrs. Berkeley to let Master Robert visit her; the Lady took him thither the next afternoon, which he spent with the good old Lady.—She desired her friend to thank Mrs. Berkeley, and tell her, with her compliments, that, although being near an hundred years old, she had of course seen
many
children, she had never, during her
long
life, of her own descendants, or others, ever seen so completely beautiful or sensible a child—that, with the Queen of Sheba,
"the
half
had not been told her."
, could save,
Can we forget the beauties of thy face,
The seat of dignity and manly grace?
What pow'r of song those auburn locks can tell,
Which down thy back in graceful ringlets fell?
What, though a total dimness has o'erspread
The noblest eyes that ever grac'd a head,
Still on their former lustre dwells the mind,
Where lively sense and sweetness shone combin'd.
No farther pow'rs fond Nature could unite
To raise our admiration and delight:
Oh! had she stopp'd, content with the display,
Nor rais'd their value by their shorten'd stay!
But Faith perform'd what Nature could not do:
Still other virtues Faith held forth to view:
Faith ev'ry anxious thought and wish suppress'd,
And warm'd with firm belief his youthful breast.
Ev'n when some truth to question he inclin'd,
Reflection brought this moral to his mind:
"Man was not made to question, but adore!"
He stopp'd, submissive stopp'd, nor added more
He would, when reading the Holy Scripture, often ask questions not to be answered.—Lest a too great inquisitiveness might lead to scepticism, he was told to keep always in his mind that fine line of Dr. Young:
"Man was not made to question, but adore.".
This was near a year before his death. About six weeks before that dreadful event, some doubts arising in his mind of a very deep nature, he was told, that those were questions that could not properly be known, till mortality was swallowed up of life. He replied,
"To be sure, man was not made to question, but adore."
And proceeded in reading his chapter.
.
At that black hour, the cause of ev'ry sigh,
When Death, remorseless conqueror, drew nigh,
His soul, while here his tortur'd body lay,
Aspiring said, "Lord, teach my heart to pray
During his last illness of only seven days, he was one night much troubled, lest he should not go to God, and cried out to the servant
The very sensible, worthy, Mrs. Mary Farrant, wife of Mr. Farrant, butcher and grazier, at Town-Malling, Kent, who idolized him, and never complained of him to his Mother but once during his whole life—when it was most highly necessary to do it. Mrs. Farrant, a neighbour's daughter, lived from her early youth many years in Dr. Berkeley's family. She is one of the best tempered of women. Her little charge, when very young, one night took it into his head that he would sing two or three lines of a little song upon every step as he ascended the stair-case. Mrs. Berkeley, happening to pass, stood still to listen, and overheard the amiable servant say,
"Come, Sir, come you must go up quicker, or I must call my Mistress."
To which he replied,
"No, no, my dear Molly, I know very well you won't
do that.
"
On which Mrs. Berkeley presenting herself, the little man skipped off to his room in an instant, and his Mother said,
"Molly, how many fibs you do tell that child! for you know that you never told a tale of him in your life, nor would if he was to torment you from morning till night."
—
"No, to be sure Madam, I should not; for at last, by threatening him with YOU, I get him to do what he should do."
Mrs. Berkeley, till within these very few years, made an annual grateful offering to a worthy woman, who lived with her mother when SHE was six years old, for not telling of her when she climbed the trees like a boy.
who always waited upon him,
"Molly teach me to pray."
She replied, with tears,
"My angel, God will teach you to pray."
He said, with great earnestness,
"Lord, teach my heart to pray."
He had always been told, that the prayer which
reacheth
to God must come
from
the
heart,
and with the heart this lovely creature often did pray. He always used Bishop Kenn's prayers and hymns in The Winchester Scholar. Whenever Mrs. Berkeley was alone, her children always offered their prayers, and repeated or sang their hymns with her. One evening, as he was repeating the following verse in Bishop Kenn's evening hymn,
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns,
Let it not hold me long in chains,
And now and then let loose my heart,
Till it an Hallelujah dart—
his Mother desired him to omit it, saying,
"Although it might suit the exalted piety of Bishop Kenn, it was in him (little
Robert
) mocking God, as she did not believe he had devotion sufficient to wish to wake in the middle of the night to praise God."
He stood about a minute silent, pensive; then replied,
"Why, Mamma, I do desire to awake to praise God in the night; so, if you please to give me leave, I will say it as I always do when I say it to Molly Phipps,"
the very worthy woman above named, who doated on him, and he on her. His Mother rejoiced that her child excelled her in piety, she always omitting it herself. He was, perhaps, the most ingenious and accomplished little creature any where to be seen. As his brother was resolved not to learn to read, so he seemed resolved to learn without being taught. He would conjure his mother not to tell him, and clap his little hand over her mouth, lest she should begin, or rather go on speaking; but, as he termed it, let him
guess it out
himself, how words were to be spelt or pronounced. At the age of four and an half he redde as well as he could have done at fourteen. He could find out in the Calendar the lessons for the day, for Sundays, and holydays, whilst he remained in petticoats. On
week
days, he sat with his Mother in the seats appropriate to the Prebendaries' Ladies. The amiable worthy lady of the late Dr. Caryl, both of whom doated on him, used to say,
"It is like the idea one has of praying in Heaven, to hear this
little
Cherubring this great choir when he chaunts. I really believe he understands better what he is about than half the
grown-up people
that come hither."
Accident discovered to his mother the strength of his memory: her own was once pretty good, she having often heard her mother say, that she learned the alphabet at once shewing; that the next day she knew every letter: but Robert much excelled his mother. Mrs. Berkeley, being a pretty good
Bible scholar,
used to work with her needle, as she never put out any work of any sort or kind, whilst her children were reading the Scriptures. In History, Geography, &c. that would not do. One day, observing little Robert going on perfectly right, and finding his eyes fixed at the other end of the room, she enquired what he was at, looking off his book? He replied,
"Why, Mamma, you know when one has redde any thing
in
the book
once,
one can read it
without
the book afterwards; and a little while ago I redde this chapter
in
the book in the servants' hall Bible; so now I can
read
it
without
the book to you to-day."
A boy, having cut off some of his fine curling ringlets, which hung below the bottom of his back, he was very angry, and said,
"He would never forgive him."
—His Mother assured him,
"He would go to hell if he did not."
—He then replied,
"Then, I will forgive him;
but I will never forget it.
"
—
"Yes, you must, or God will not love you."
—
"Well then, if God
will have
me forget it, he must MAKE me do it, for I never did forget any thing I ever heard or saw in my whole life."
When a little child, not being allowed scissors for fear of his beautiful eyes, he with his fingers pinched out in paper, birds, beasts, ships, flowers, &c. so accurately as was astonishing; he drew very finely; his second lesson, a cow's head, is preserved as a prodigy of genius. He danced delightfully, and could go through all the military exercise of the infantry, Dr. Berkeley always paid a serjeant for attending his Sons. He spoke French as fluently as he did English. He, as well as his Brother, repeated by heart, and acted delightfully. He chaunted and sang finely. His beloved school-fellows were, lovely little Tatton, the present sensible, worthy, Samuel Saw-bridge, esq. of Ollantigh, and the learned Dr. Herbert Packe, son of the celebrated Dr. Packe, of Canterbury. The Saturday on which he sickened in the evening, he flew up at twelve o'clock, to conjure his Mother, to give him permission to invite
"my dear Sam to dinner to-day."
It was, alas! the last dinner he ever ate; he sickened about eight in the evening. Here follows a proof of this gentleman's honesty in very early youth.
Some
of the Upper School Boys had a
shameful
trick of
robbing
the very worthy Mrs. Longley, in the church-yard, of
a dozen
oranges when they
purchased half a dozen.
It was necessary to have one little boy as an assistant to this honourable action. Samuel Sawbridge was enticed; to which he sensibly, nobly replied,
"What! take Mrs. Longley's oranges
without paying
for them! Miss Tucker teaches me my Catechism; and that says, "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL;" and
she
tells me, "that taking any thing from any body, without paying for it,
is stealing;
so I won't go with you."
This gentleman not then quite seven years old, all Canterbury rang with this tale. Mrs. Berkeley asked her little Robert if he thought he should have been as honest as his dear friend Samuel? To which he made the following reply:
"God knows—God knows, my dear Mamma, if I had been tempted, what
I might
have done; THANK God, THANK God, they did not
ask
me;"
and he shuddered as he energetically uttered the reply. This lovely creature was, to be sure, wonderfully ambitious. He repeatedly, until told it was a wicked idea, asked his mother,
"Mamma, if I was to read Greek and Latin all day and all night, and study violently hard, could I come to be a King? I should
like
to be a King."
Such a thought never entered the head of his dear brother, nor perhaps of any other child.
!"
For me, who, mindful of my absent friend,
Have paid this mournful tribute to his end,
It still appear'd some solace, some relief,
To tell how great HIS merits and MY grief.
Thus the poor bird, who mourns her plunder'd nest,
With plaintive notes by fond concern oppress'd,
Sounds through the wood sequester'd from the throng,
And vents her grief in melody and song.
CHARLES SAWKINS
One of the senior monitors of the King's School, Canterbury, now a most learned worthy student of Christ Church, Oxon.
.
King's School, Canterbury,
June 1795.
SEVERAL things of Mr. Berkeley's writing having been noticed, some quite ready for publication at the time of his decease; the Editor feels it a sort of duty to mention a work
not
ready for the press, not
even
written, but constantly
talked
of by Mr. Berkeley from the early age of fifteen—a work in defence of the CHRISTIAN RELIGION, as taught in the purest Church on Earth, the superexcellent CHURCH OF ENGLAND. Dr. Berkeley used now and then to say,
"Well, Berkeley, when are we to see
your
defence of the Christian Religion?"
Mr. M. Berkeley.—
"Why, my dear Sir, not yet; although I never shall be quite happy until
I have
done it."
Dr. B.—
"Why not then do it directly?"
Mr. B.—
"I will tell you, my dear Sir; I am resolved not to do it until I have, if GOD spares my life, established, at least have endeavoured to establish,
such
a character in
my own
profession (the Law) as shall induce men of sense to read it with the attention that,
I hope,
it will merit."
Mr. Monck Berkeley, although he failed, alas! to keep the resolution, formed when about eight years old
Coming into his Mother's dressing-room, and seeing what her witty sister used to call
her Vesper Book,
and, when both young women, used to threaten to tie round her neck, and her bed around her waist, because the Editor in general wished to retire to rest at eleven (that is, Dean Hickes's Reformed Devotions) lying on her table, took it up, and, twirling it over, stumbled on the hymn in the Office for Sunday Vespers, reading the lines,
"How cross art thou
i.e.
the World, mentioned two verses before.
to that design
"For which we had our birth?
"Us, who are made in heav'n to shine,
"Thou bow'st down to the earth.
"Nay, to thy hell; for thither sink
"All that to thee submit:
"Thou strew'st some flowers on the brink,
"To drown us in the pit."
Mr. Berkeley, then just turned of eight years old, as mentioned above, exclaimed,
"No, no; I promise you, I won't stoop to pick them up.
They shan't drown me
with their
fine flowers.
One must be a fool
indeed
to do that!"
, ever felt the necessity of Religion for all who hope to be happy here and hereafter; a strong proof of which he gave the last time of his being at Bath. He and his excellent unwearied friend, Mr. Grimston, lodged and boarded at Mr. Garret's.
A
bon mot
of Mr. Whitaker's cannot here be omitted. Dr. Berkeley, &c. going one day to visit Dr. Berkeley's relation, the very worthy Colonel Butler, at Thorpe; on their arrival, they found he had died three days before, Mr. Whitaker rode up to the carriage, and enquiring how Mr. Monck Berkeley did? and where he was? hearing that he was at Bath, said,
"I am going thither in two days; where shall I find him?"
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"At Mr. Garret's."
Mr. Whitaker.—
"'Pshaw! how could I be such a blockhead to ask?—a POET is always in a GARRET."
Several gentlemen boarded, who could not lodge, at Mr. Garret's. Amongst these was the, at Bath, wellknown Captain Lawley.
Soon after the arrival of Mr. Grimston and Mr. Berkeley, this wretched Captain began to
instruct
the two young men in the
pleasing
doctrine of there being
no
God, &c. &c. that the idea of Hell and its Prince was all a bug-a-boo, to keep silly
women
in a little order. Many arguments did these two young Christian men use with this wretched old Atheist; but all, alas! in vain. One day he was missed from dinner; the second he appeared not. On an enquiry being sent to his lodgings, word was brought that he was very ill. Mr. Grimston and Mr. Berkeley went to call on him, and found him, as his apothecary said, very dangerously ill indeed, with little hope of recovery. Both were exceedingly shocked at his situation. Mr. Grimston earnestly requested Mr. Berkeley to talk to him concerning his soul.
Mr. Berkeley.—
"Alas! no, my dear friend, he NOW wants an abler counsellor than I am."
Mr. Grimston.—
"What can we do for him?"
Mr. B.—
"We will go, and request the favour of that gentleman
The Editor has forgotten the gentleman's name; but thinks that it was Mr. Jackson, rector of St. Jame's church.
, whose preaching we both so much admire, to go him, to talk to him, and pray with him."
They immediately went to Mr. Jackson, who said to them,
"Gentlemen, out of respect to you, as you seem so earnestly to wish it,
I
will go; but am consident I shall make no more impression on him than on this marble hearth on which I stand; for he is the most
determined
Atheist, the
greatest
ridiculer of every thing sacred, that is any where to be found."
The young gentlemen, however, continued very desirous, and the worthy Divine complied; so each party
"
delivered their own soul:
"
but, lamentable thought! the wretched Captain Lawley resolved to die as he had lived, and meet Bug-a-boo,
"Unhousel'd, unanneal'd, unanointed."
One day, when the two gentlemen were visiting him during his illness, he fixed his eyes earnestly in silence on Mr. Berkeley, and at length said,
"Mr. Berkeley, I should be very glad of a pair of your old shoes, Sir."
Mr. Berkeley, rather distressed, said, smiling,
"My
old
shoes, Captain Lawley? I believe my servant would object to that; but, if a pair of my new ones will do as well, I am sure there are a pair or two, if you please, very much at your service."
He looked thoughtful, and replied,
"I think I should like
your
shoes."
Mr. Grimston conceived that he meant it, as is sometimes said,
"I would not be in his shoes, or his coat,"
when any one is in a scrape.
On opening the Captain's will at his death, it appeared that he had, during his very few days illness, made a will in favour of a gentleman, who, a few days before it, had caused the gentleman and, the Editor thinks, some ladies of character who boarded at Mr. Garret's (by their servants) to prevent Captain Lawley from fighting this gentleman, by contriving to prevent their meeting one evening. He had, by this
wonderful
will, ruined two very near relations (the Editor thinks nieces) whom he had obliged to give up keeping a very good school for young ladies, by allowing them handsomely, and promising to leave them his fortune.
Mr. Monck Berkeley was so convinced that the Captain's intellects were deranged, from the beginning of his illness, that, being about to leave Bath, he left his address in writing with some proper person, saying,
"If the will was contested by the relations, he was ready to give his evidence whenever called upon."
On the publication of the Captain's will, the very worthy Sir Robert Lawley, Baronet, his cousin-german, said,
"It should be contested
entirely
at his expence, on behalf of his worthy kinswomen; and that himself would not come in for a shilling of the fortune."
Some months before Mr. Monck Berkeley's death, he received a letter from Doctors Commons, requesting to know when it would be convenient to him to receive some gentlemen thence, to take his depositions concerning Captain Lawley. He appointed an early day; and several gentlemen arrived one morning, from Wood's at Maidenhead Bridge, at Dr. Berkeley's at Cookham, stayed near two hours with Mr. Monck Berkeley, received his deposition; and, the Editor hopes, some
very thick
good Vannilla chocolate, sandwiches, white wine and water, &c. which she ordered to be sent in to them.
Mr. Berkeley requested, if he lived until it was decided, that he might be informed whether the will were established or not. About a fortnight before his lamented death he received a letter from a gentleman of the Commons, telling him that the Court had rejected the will of Captain Lawley.
It were much to be wished that the Ecclesiastical Court could sometimes act as a Court of EQUITY. They would, they should surely, had they been applied to, have set aside the will of a wretched old Fanatic of Hull, who after having kept his dutiful, amiable, only son near nine years with an eminent Clergyman of the Church of England, who takes private pupils, sent him down to Scotland to the University of St. Andrew's; as he wrote to Dr. Forrest, one of the Professors,
"that he might learn to preach the
everlasting Gospel,
as a
Presbyterian
minister in England."
Mr. Rogers was accordingly, to his great distress, entered of the Divinity Colledge. The wonderful amiability of his nature, and the sweetness of his manners, rendered him universally beloved by persons of all ranks. His zeal to succour and save, and his generosity
when saved,
to poor shipwrecked persons on the coast of St. Andrew's, used to occasion Mr. Monck Berkeley's saying,
"Well, now Rogers
is
happy; he is posting off to a wreck, with three or four bottles, and blankets innumerable. He has ordered beds to be ready for all the poor creatures that are escaped."
Mr. Rogers attended divine service regularly at Dr. Berkeley's every Sunday. Several letters arrived from the father, asking when his son would be FIT
to preach
in the
Meeting-house
that
he
had
built
ready for him. This diverted his friends: but, as the frogs in the fable say,
"Although it is
sport to you,
it is
death to us.
"
Poor Mr. Rogers, extremely distressed, applied, as hundreds of others did, to Dr. Berkeley for advice and direction; who told him,
"that perhaps, if his wish was to become a Divine of the Church of England, he had better apply to his Father, who, as his grand desire seemed to be to
hear
his son
preach,
and as he was very rich, might buy the next presentation of a living with an aged incumbent on it."
The case was properly stated to the old man; who soon returned for answer,
"that, having met with some
Baptists,
who had agreed to give him a
very high
rent for his meeting-house, he had let it to them, left the Presbyterians, and become a
Baptist himself;
and his son might be of the Church of England if he pleased."
Dr. Berkeley, with his wonted goodness, applied to his old tutor, the present Archbishop of York, stating the case to his Grace, and requesting him to ordain Mr. Rogers, on the testimonial of several of the respectable Professors at St. Andrew's with regard to his life and conversation.
The Editor supposes that the testimonial of the learned Dean Hill, Professors Hunter, Baron, Cook, &c. of Mr. Rogers's learning, life, and conversation, and Dr. Berkeley's
own
knowledge of his holding
"no doctrine contrary to the Church of England as by law established,"
induced his Grace to ordain the very worthy young man, without a testimonial from Oxford, Cambridge, or Dublin. Perhaps the Editor, in this last sentence, may be writing like a fool, as she has not for many years heard a testimonial for orders redde. If she has so done, she is sorry for it. The old man was so delighted, that he set off in his post-chaise and
four
for York, to see his son ordained in that magnificent Cathedral. He was quite transported, and had
some
thoughts of becoming a member of the Church of England. However, that idea was
transient;
and on his amiable son's going to settle at or near Hull, this old
numpscull
insisted on his
preaching
at the
Baptist
meeting; which Mr. Rogers utterly refusing to do, he cast him off, married a young Baptist, and entirely disinherited him; and this throughly amiable man is now, as the Editor hears from her beloved excellent friend, Henry Grimston, Esquire, a distressed Curate at or near Beverley in Yorkshire. The old wretch allowed him very handsomely during his residence at the University of St. Andrew's, or his bounties to the poor could not have been so extensive as all then resident there knew them to be; but even then
"the
beast
shewed his nature."
His only daughter, as Mr. Rogers was his only son, was married to Captain Lee, the first officer, as it was then said, who ever sailed from England in a copper-bottomed vessel.
This gentleman was either dead, or the ship and crew supposed to be lost, or carried into slavery; the Editor thinks the latter to have been the case. And no entreaties could prevail on this vile old HODMADOD to tell his poor son in what part of the kingdom his sister, with, the Editor thinks, four young children, resided.
The Editor, one day asking her Son what could induce the wretch, if he was in his senses, to be such a BRUTE; he replied, in his most sweetly plaintive voice, when feeling the woes of other,
"Alas! my dear Mother, he
is
in his senses; but he
wants
the
sense
of
feeling,
which he knows
his son
has in an eminent degree; and he is afraid that Rogers should assist his, I sadly fear, distressed sister, as it is so long since her husband has been heard of, and Rogers knows her father
won't
relieve her,
because,
the
week
before she was with
his
consent to be married to Captain Lee, he bade her
turn him off,
and marry a young, plump Presbyterian parson that he brought to her; but she preferred Captain Lee; and her
cunning
father took
that
opportunity to pocket the fortune he had promised to give to Captain Lee with her."
It is surely a defect in our laws, although excellent in general, that a vilely covetous, or horridly capricious father or mother, can, at their
own
pleasure, either beggar or damn, perhaps both in one, their own ill-fated offspring.
Parents should have
all
power during youth,
none
at all after children come to years of discretion; and, if they are
wise
or
just,
if they have it, let them renounce it, as the Editor always solemnly protested to Dr. Berkeley that she would do, he using to say, when his children were young, that he would leave them dependant on her for bread, that they might be dutiful. Mrs. Berkeley assured him, that much within a month after his decease she would put it out of her power to rob the children of a dead father; that she would, by God's blessing, make them dutiful, although they had an independance of ten thousand a year.
The Editor was exceedingly delighted the first time she heard it, and has diverted many persons since, with the account given of herself by the late, sensible, agreeable Lady Grey, of Denne Hill, Kent, mother of the late Sir James Grey, many years his Majesty's Ambassador to the Court of Spain,
The Editor has an old trick, like her late excellent relation, Sir Martin Wright, of thinking aloud. It is in her quite involuntary, as she conceives it must have been in him. When sitting on the
judgement-seat,
he would say loud enough to be heard by the barristers, some of whom she has heard relate it to her mother:
"WELL PUT, Mr. Hume Campbell;
that
will do."
And again,
"OH! LAMENTABLE, LAMENTABLE! Mr.
,
that will
never
do, never do at all.
"
So the Editor, the first visit she made at Denne Hill, on entering the room where hung a magnificent whole-length portrait of the then King of Spain, of whom Mr. Clarke gives so curious an account, as also of the lamentations of his amiable Queen, when the sentence of death was pronounced to her, not by
French devils,
but by her wise, pious Confessor; the Editor's eyes being better then than now, she caught Dr. Berkeley, entering just behind her, by the arm, exclaiming,
"Oh!—look, do look at that man; HE must be the uniting link in the chain, between man and brute, between man and devil."
This was quite involuntary. Had she known it had been the MONSTER MONARCH, who, to try a new fowling-piece, took aim and killed a poor mason's labourer ascending a ladder in view, the
pre-jugée
might have had share in her sentence. To be sure, according to the Editor's idea, it is the most extraordinary countenance she ever saw.
The witty, worthy Lady Grey, who became a widow before she was thirty, and continued such until ninety, when, the oil all exhausted, the lamp went gently out, used to say,
"I don't know how it is that young widows marry so fast:
I
could not contrive to do it. To be sure,
very soon
after Sir James's death, I had a multitude of lovers, from Lords and Commons. I heard of nothing but my
beauty
and
wit.
However, as soon as I had a little dried my eyes for the death of poor Sir James, I sent for a lawyer, and settled the money (about an hundred thousand pounds) that he had left
entirely
in my power on his poor little orphans; and whether it was that I grew ugly and foolish at
nine and twenty,
or
what else
I know not; but so it was,
I
never heard a word more of my wit or beauty, nor ever had a lover afterwards."
Her witty Ladyship had admirers, if not lovers, to the last of her long life on earth.
A poor, old, doating, rich Divine in the neighbourhood of Cloyne, a widower with several children, was going to marry a girl; it reached the ears of Bishop Berkeley, who immediately visited him, and, introducing the subject, the old gentleman said,
"that he should not have thought of it, but that the
young Lady was so exceedingly in love with him.
"
How much weaker is
second
childhood,
"
sans eyes, sans teeth,
"
&c. &c. than the first! The Bishop said,
"if that was the case, the Lady would at any rate marry him."
He assented, and the Bishop prevailed on him to settle his fortune on his children after his own death; which so entirely cured the young lady's
violent passion
for him, that he was suffered to go to his grave under the care of his worthy children, the best guardians for aged persons when God vouchsafes to spare them.
Dr. Berkeley used sometimes to ask Mrs. Berkeley,
"what could induce her to marry, who could well enough manage all her own business?"
&c. Her uniform reply was,
"That she might enjoy, and improve by, the conversation of a man, of many men of superior understanding, whilst she had sense enough left to enjoy it, and to have some sensible, worthy children to
love
and GOVERN her, if she should (which she
never
wished, always dreaded, yet never dared to pray against) attain to old age."
The Editor used frequently to conjure her dear Son, if she should attain to old age, to govern
her
as carefully as she had governed
him
in his childhood.
The Editor is just returned from her Parish-church, where, it being (December 21) Saint Thomas's day, she heard the proper lesson, Proverbs xxiii. one of her
guiding
chapters, and where every reward promised to a watchful parent is recorded. She humbly praised the mercy of God, he had vouchsafed to permit her to experience in its
fullest
extent.
But the Editor did not wish her Son to govern her
exactly
in the same mode in which she had governed him, not looking up upon him for two days, one of Mr. Monck Berkeley's punishments from about seven to ten years old, sitting on the same chair without moving for an hour—once, alas! for full three hours by the carelessness of his mother. One day before tea-time he was ordered to sit on a
particular
One of Mr. Monck Berkeley's punishments from three to eight years old. In one room at his Father's ten chairs stood in one row. His Mother used, generally, to point to the one at the upper end. Mr. Berkeley from three years and an half would regularly go to the lowest, not out of
humility,
but, to use a
coined
word of the Editor, WILFULLITY, then to the next, to which his
ever
-STEADY Mother said,
"
not that.
"
Thus he constantly strove for victory
nine
times; and, after standing some time at the tenth,
wriggled
himself upon it.
chair in the Library. His Mother, called into the Drawing-room to make tea, left him; before tea was quite over, Dr. Berkeley said,
"It is a heavenly evening; we will cross the water, and walk to Cliefden. Be quick. My dear, get your hat."
The Editor never, when young, made
any
one wait for
her,
especially her Mother, and her Lord and Master, as she used
(en badinant)
to style Dr. Berkeley, called her maid, got her hat, &c. and skipped away, thoughtless of her sweet little prisoner until she had crossed the Thames, when she wished to have returned; but Dr. Berkeley said,
"Oh! he'll get off when he finds you gone out."
The Editor expressed her fear that he would not; but she proceeded on her walk. On her return, she was met at the ferry by Mr. Monck Berkeley's ever-kind friend, John, lest she should make any call in the village; saying,
"Will you be pleased, Madam, to go home, that Master Berkeley may go to bed (then nine o'clock, he just seven years old), for none of
us
can prevail upon him to stir off the chair, where, he says, you
ordered
him to sit, and not stir till
you
came to him. We promised him you would not be angry; but nothing would do, and there he sits."
The Editor left Dr. Berkeley, and ran home the shortest way she could find, through all the high, dew-besprinkled grass, to her obedient little man.
When Mr. Berkeley was about thirteen, he one day said to his Mother,
"I wish you would be so good as to write upon a sheet of paper these words, GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY
is a very dutiful Son.
"
Mrs. Berkeley.—
"No, indeed, my dear, I won't write any such thing."
Mr. B.—
"I
wish
you would."
Mrs. B.—
"No, I cannot; for I don't think it."
Mr. B.—
"I am sorry you do not."
Mrs. B.—
"So am I; but you know how wilful you are."
Mr. B.—
"Well, but I always obey you
at last.
"
Mrs. B.—
"Yes; but that is not being DUTY—FUL."
Mr. B.—
"Well; but I am OBEDIENT then."
Mrs. B.—
"Yes, you certainly do
obey me.
"
Mr. B.—
"Well, then, you will be so good as to write on this sheet of paper, 'GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY
is an
OBEDIENT SON."
Mrs. B.—
"Yes, if it will oblige you."
Mr. B.—
"Oh! yes, it will indeed."
The words were immediately written. The sweet lad's eyes sparkled with joy when he redde them. He carefully folded them up, and walked away to his own room. At dinner the curious dialogue was related to dear Dr. Berkeley, and the Editor never heard or thought of it more, until examining the small trunk, containing many of his precious deposits, delivered into her hands by the faithful Mrs. Leycester, Mr. Berkeley's bed-maker at Magdalen Hall, mentioned before in this Preface. This
testimonial
of her dear Son's obedience, signed, as requested, with her name, lay carefully folded.
The Editor, from a youth, had always told Mr. Berkeley, that he was the
eldest Son
in the Gospel,
"Son, go work to-day in my vineyard, &c.—yet afterwards he repented, and went."
Mr. Berkeley used frequently to quote it on his Mother.
Once, when she requested him much to visit in town a very old friend of hers, well known in the
ton
world, but who did not happen to hit Mr. Berkeley's fancy, and he begged to be excused visiting the gentleman; Mrs. Berkeley replied,
"Well, my dear, then let it alone."
He said,
"My dear Mother, I have a very large acquaintance in town; and I cannot spend all my time in visiting. That will not fit me for the Bar."
The morning that he was leaving the Oaks he crept to his Mother's bed-side, saying,
"My dear Madam, I will wait on
."
Mrs. B.—
"Well, my dear, do not if it is disagreeable to you."
Mr. B.—
"Yes I must. I
ought
to have said I would do it on your first mentioning it to me, but I
could not.
You know you have always told me, that I am the
eldest Son
the Gospel. I cannot help it; I wish I could."
Mrs. B.—
"Indeed, my dear child, I am much happier that you are; the
eldest
rather than the
younger
Son mentioned by our Blessed Master."
The Editor's request to her dear son to govern her, in return for her having
so well
governed him, recals to mind what he one day said at St. Andrew's.
Soon after his return from a visit in the Country to his beloved friend, the universally beloved, respected, amiable Sir John Ramsay, Advocate in Edinburgh, whose early death, at twenty-eight, Mr. Berkeley never ceased to lament, when speaking of that excellent young gentleman. Mr. Berkeley said,
"I am certainly a very lucky fellow; for, let me go where I will, I
always find
a mother. At Cookham, when my mother was not in company, if I said or did any aukward ridiculous thing, my dear Mrs. M
s always
set me
to-rights, or well tuned me for it:—and here in
Scotland
Lady Ramsay takes me in hand."
His great good sense, like that of his dear friend Mr. Grimston, made him add,
"I am sure I am much obliged to them."
Mr. Grimston, one day speaking of the son of a Yorkshire Baronet, said,
"he has had
great
advantages by being in the Militia, because Mrs. [Masters], (the Editor thinks was the name of the Colonel's Lady), has taken to him, and
tutored
him just as Mrs. Berkeley does me; and, &c. &c."
Mr. Monck Berkeley used to tell his father, that he heard some of his mother's friends say, that in her youth
"She had a wonderful
knack
of making the young men
know
their distance, and respect her; and, he was sure, (he was too polite to say, now that she is
old,
but) now that she is not young, she has a
blessed knack
of
tuning
the young men that visit here."
To
hich his Mother used to reply,
"Well, Sir, and do not you often tell your Father, that
and
and
love
your
Mother almost as well as you do?"
Mr. B.—
"Oh! yes, my dear Madam, all the fellows of
good sense
like you wonderfully."
It is very
salutary
for young men to meet with old-lady-advisers; as it is surely happy for young women, if they are wise enough to profit by it, to have a wise male adviser who has lived in the world, who knows life, as it is wire-termed. A wise wife or father, or a worthy (some years-older) brother, can tell a young lady
many
things, that will render her pleasing or displeasing to the young men, that a mother cannot; and, let young ladies
deny it ever so strongly,
they all wish to be, if not admired, at least
not displeasing
in the opinion young men of
sense.
A diverting dialogue might here be related, which passed almost thirty years ago, between the late excellent Lord Lyttelton, the well known very sensible Miss Charlotte B
, and the Editor, on
this
subject, when he exclaimed, on the public walk at
,
"How I do
honour
Mrs. Berkeley's honesty!"
adding,
"
I know
also, that ALL the ladies in England
love
elegancies; but I know but TWO that are
honest
enough to avow it, Mrs. Montagu and Mrs. Berkeley."
The throughly elegant Mrs. Montagu has ever had it in her power to gratify that innocent taste; Mrs. Berkeley only in taking care that dear Dr. Berkeley's visitors got comfortable sort of dinners, and clean nice sleeping rooms, &c. all that persons of moderate fortune, who are blessed with children to educate and provide for, can justly aim at; for elegancies, when butcher, baker, &c. are
unpaid,
become
sinful
vanities.
But to return to the INCOMPARABLE Lady Ramsay, as the late Lord Kinnoul styled her Ladyship when speaking of her to the Editor, who had not the honour to be known to her Ladyship. His Lordship one day said,
"I wish you
did
know her. I do not think there is a cleverer woman upon the face of the whole earth."
Mr. Monck Berkeley one day said,
"When I was at
The name of Sir John's seat is not recollected by the Editor; he being a Baronet, of course was not called by it, as all gentlemen of fortune
sine
title are in Scotland.
, we had been out shooting all the morning; and after tea Lady Ramsay and her elegant young ladies being drawn round the table to work, Sir John and Mr. Berkeley on the sofa, the former said softly, 'Come, let us lie heads and points, and rest ourselves a little.' Lady Ramsay soon perceiving their situation, said, "Mr. Berkeley, I have not the honour
Her Ladyship was, as very sensible persons of rank generally are, very condescending to speak thus.
to know Mrs. Berkeley, but from what I have heard from many of her friends,
I do not
think that she would quite approve of your present situation, when there are
ladies
in the room. Sir John, are not you ashamed of yourself, to lay your length on the sofa when your mother and sisters are in the room?"
Mr. Berkeley said,
"I think I never felt
more
ashamed in my whole life. I sprang upon my feet in an instant, begged her Ladyship ten thousand pardons, thanked her a thousand times for her goodness; and, I assured her, that my Mother would have
well tuned
me had she seen me guilty of such horrid inattention to ladies, or to gentlemen my superiors or elders."
The Editor, when Mr. Berkeley was little more than a youth, one day after dining out reproached him for not peeling, as well as cracking the walnuts for the young lady by whom he sat at dinner, adding,
"that when
she
was a young woman, and sat near gentlemen, they always peeled them for her."
Mr. Berkeley, then but very young, replied,
"Oh! my dear Mother, thank Fate, the girls in
these
days have
found
the
use
of their
fingers.
I
always
crack them for them, and, I think,
they may
very well
peel them
for themselves."
Mr. Berkeley felt very sincerely for his highly respected friend Lady Ramsay, the loss of two so amiable sons in the very prime of life. He felt, indeed, for ALL in distress,
"whether of
mind, body,
or
estate;
"
a strong proof of which the Editor cannot forbear reciting here. During his residence in the University at St. Andrew's Dr. Berkeley dining in the country, soon after dinner Mr. Berkeley walked out, and returning immediately, flew into the eating room, and exclaimed,
"Best of Mothers, how
can you
sit reading here as if nothing had happened?"
The Editor sprang up, saying,
"Good God, child, has your Father been overturned."
Mr. Berkeley.—
"
No, I hope not;
but a poor unhappy man's foot is just now torn off above his ancle, by the mill."
Mrs. B.—
"Well, my dear child, could I know that by inspiration?"
Mr. B.—
"No; but pray do something for him. They have sent for Flint
Dr. Flint, the very learned, experienced, almost always successful, Professor of Physic in the University at St. Andrew's.
and Melville
Mr. Melville, a most excellent Surgeon.
, and they are both out of town."
Mrs. B.—
"Well, if he is bleeding violently, I can send John with some Manchester styptic
This incomparable medicine, when genuine, not here called by its right name, which is Hatfield's styptic, once saved Mr. Monck Berkeley's life when a child, when nearly all the blood in his veins was exhausted, and nothing could staunch the bleeding. The moment this was applied it ceased; but that was genuine, prepared by, and procured from, the honest wife of the Manchester baker; to whom a famous French surgeon, in gratitude for her goodness in nursing him through a very long illness, communicated the secret. For years it was sold only in Manchester. Happy for the public had it continued, as well as some other famous Patent Medicines, in honest hands. The Editor means, if God spares her life, to give in the Gentleman's Magazine some account of the almost miraculous cures wrought by this astonishingly fine medicine, as many medical gentlemen, high in their profession, have declared it to be, when they have by their
eloquence
prevailed on the Editor to let them taste it—she not exhibiting to the
Faculty,
left they should maliciously laugh, as she tells them, and call her
"
Lady Bountiful.
"
Alas! she cannot now get it from Mr. Hatfield the baker's daughter at Manchester. There is a poor wretched thing, called
"Hatfield's styptic,"
sold by the man who obliged, happily for the public, Messrs. Hoopers to take into their own hands again the preparing their father Dr. Hooper's excellent pills. These pills, genuine, cured a respectable old servant of the Editor's of seven large wounds in one leg; not that ALL Patent Medicines, prepared by the Proprietors,
if
they happen to be covetous, are genuine, as the Editor's poor weakened stomach lamentably feels, and pretty certainly will feel as long as she continues an inhabitant of this sublunary world. She hopes and believes that her private admonition has, on his
own
account, wrought re-formation on the Medicine, if not on Preparer. Respect for the very worthy vender keeps the name of the said adulterated medicine from being published; as she verily believes it is since her visit in
properly prepared—if not from
principle,
yet from POLICY.
."
Mr. B.—
"No, it does not bleed a drop; but send John with a bottle of wine and some money, to comfort the poor creature, for God's sake. I have given him something, but do you send him more."
Mr. Melville soon arrived, the poor man did well, and perhaps is now living, blessing, with many others in St. Andrew's, Mr. Monck Berkeley's lovely charity. The poor man was warned not five minutes before, by a woman of the mill, to be aware of the rope that tore off his foot; but warning, alas! does not
always
avail. The neglecting it must add weight to calamity.
The loss of this poor man's foot recalls to the Editor's mind the preservation of the leg of a relation of hers, S. Cherry, Esquire, a cousin-german of Mr. Cherry, who served in all Queen Anne's wars, under the great Duke of Marlborough, when besieging
, the Editor forgets what place. One day eight or ten officers sat down to dinner in a saw-pit; they agreed to make a table, by every man laying his right leg across the pit, instead of dropping both into it. On beginning their dinner they wanted salt or mustard; one said, go you; another, go you to the sutlers; at length Captain Cherry jumped up, saying,
"I will go."
At his return, he found that every officer had lost a leg; a chain ball had been fired from the battery, and had quite taken off the leg of some, and so shattered those of the others, that the surgeon was obliged to amputate them. Poor men, they all lived and went halting to the
"house appointed for all living,"
on one leg, as the Editor has frequently heard her unmaimed rèlation say, at fourscore he had not lost one of as fine a set of teeth as ever were seen, as white as at twenty years old;—his eyesight almost equally good. The Editor has often heard him and Colonel
, a relation of her mother, relate a very curious transaction that happened between the Duke of Marlborough and his Aid-de-Camp, Lord Cadogan, father of the late Duchess of Richmond, that does honour to both noblemen.
The Editor regrets, always did regret, that she is of a
terribly
long-lived family, on both sides. It is, however, some pleasure to her to think that her Father and Mother both died much younger than she now is; but, alas! those two excellent Christians were
quite ripe
for GLORY before they went to enjoy it. She never could quite subscribe to that beautiful simile in Dean Hickes's "Reformed Devotions," in one of the Psalms of the Prpa ratory Office for Death, used every Thursday by the Editor since her age of seventeen:
"No matter how late the fruit be gathered; if it still go on in growing better.
"No matter how soon it fall from the tree; if not blown down before it be ripe."
To the latter verse she heartily subscribes, although to the former verse
not quite:
it is only THY WILL, be it done
in
me,
on
me, and
by
me; that ALONE reconciles her to the
unpleasantnesses
of OLD AGE.
VERSES by the Pious MR. NORRIS, of
Bemerton;
Altered by the equally-pious, better-informed, MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT, of
Lambeth Palace
Several gentlemen one day at Lambeth Palace, some Divines amongst them, were admiring these verses of the pious, learned Mr. Norris. Miss Talbot, ever chearful, evèr delighting to look forward with joy to
that
world where she, through faith, well knew that happiness
was
to be found, which she
too
well knew
was not
to be found here, said,
"I never could bear that Poem of Norris's."
Several, with one voice, exclaimed,
"Who could have written a finer on
that
subject?"
She, laughing, replied,
"Any one."
Some one said,
"I wish you would, then."
"Well, go get me the book, and a pen; and I will at least, if not make a better, mend that;"
which she immediately certainly did as above. This is copied from the altered one in the hand-writing of that loveliest of women. That entirely beloved friend, who gave it to the Editor the next day, by whom it has been carefully preserved for more than thirty years, she (Miss Talbot) saying,
"I cannot bear to hear persons, who I really think believe in the all-sufficiency of Christ, admire such stuff as
"Death could not a more
sad
retinue find,
"Sickness and Pain before—
Darkness
behind."
Poets sometimes take
strange
flights. Good Mr. Norris, in one of his Poems, shocked the Editor, when she was a very young woman, hardly a woman;—saying, in his Poem on the death of some young Norfolk lady,
"that Heaven wanted the presence of her (I think Mrs. Margaret Pastarn's) spirit, to make it a place of
complete
happiness."
She flew to her Mother, to enquire if it was not BLASPHEMY. Were Mrs. Frinsham still on earth, the Editor would not trouble her concerning those lines, she thinking of them just as she did at fifteen. She blesses GOD that no
such
flights are to be found in Mr. Monck Berkeley's Poems. The Editor cannot omit mentioning here two short conversations held with her Son at the distance of almost ten years. When a
very
young man, he shewed to his Mother some charming verses that he had written to a friend on the death of a
very near
and dear relation. His Mother said,
"You seem to offer all your consolation from Heathen Philosophers."
He replied,
"Best of Mothers! what could I do? Would you have had me offered it from the Bible to a man
that you
know does not believe that blessed Book!"
The second, near ten years after—Mrs. Berkeley said,
"My dear, I dare say, although
I
am no judge, that the lines are very fine; but there is not a
tittle
said of the
only
thing that could console
you,
were the Almighty to deprive you of your poor Mother—that she was gone to Christ."
Mr. Berkeley looked sweetly sad, and replied,
"Oh, best of Mothers!
But I could
not offer THAT consolation concerning one who I have, alas!
too good
reason to fear
did not
believe
in
CHRIST—Surely SUCH
can never go to
HIM. I have said all that my
conscience
would suffer me to say, to soothe a
little
the anguish of their spirits on the loss of an
agreeable
Mother."
Christ says,
"Except ye believe that I AM, ye shall die in your sins."
What a threat to SOCINIANS and to the ARIANS! Lord Monboddo, in his "Ancient Metaphysics," says,
"The ARIAN HERESY was the
subtlest
that ever infected the Christian Church."
Many years ago, a gentleman on a visit at Dr. Berkeley's at Cookham said, that, in his way through London on the preceding Sunday, resting on the Sabbathday, he had heard the following sentence uttered from the pulpit by a very learned Divine, preaching on the above-cited words of our adored Redeemer,
"If ye believe not that I AM,"
&c.
"If JESUS CHRIST be not GOD, perfectly equal with the Father, I had
rather trust
to the BLOOD of a DOG for my Salvation than to that of CHRIST, who, if not
absolutely equal
with the Father,
is
an IMPOSTOR."
Some one said,
"That is very
strong
language!"
Dr. Berkeley replied,
"But it is certainly right, or true,"
(the Editor forgets which word he used. Whatever ARIAN can be happy enough to lay eyes on the
wonderful
work of the late very deeply learned Reverend Meredith Jones, many years Chaplain to the present venerable Lord Bishop of Chichester,
"must be convinced."
The Editor has one, which she lends out for one week only: if not returned, she threatens the borrower with an
action of trover.
.
IT must be done, my Soul! But, though a strange,
'Tis sure a most delightful change;
When thou must leave this Tenement of Clay,
And through the Fields of Ether wing thy way;
When Time shall be Eternity; and thou
Shalt live, where dwell thy pious Friends, where dwells thy Saviour now.
Amazing thought! that we should ever dread
To think of Death, or view the dead!
Not now wrapp'd up in clouds, but Faith to thee
A Land of Light and Certainty!
Death could not a more blest Retinue find,
Patience and Faith before, and glorious Hope behind!
When Life's close knot, by GOD's supreme decree,
Disease shall cut, or Age set free.
The
Christian,
firm amid the awful strife,
Stands calm, though trembling on the verge of Life;
And, from distracting Doubts serenely free,
HIM, whom in TIME he lov'd, trusts for ETERNITY.
So when the spacious Globe was cover'd o'er,
And highest mountains were no more,
Safe in the Ark the righteous Noah stood,
Till, borne triumphant o'er the boundless flood,
He reach'd the Haven where he wish'd to be,
And hail'd a fair new World, from Sin and Sorrow free.
FINIS.