In the year 1797, the period, I believe, at which my father arrived in Edinburgh with his pupil, Mr. Beach, that city was rich in talent, full of men who have acted important parts whilst they lived, and many of whom have left names that will live after them:—Jeffrey, Horner, Playfair, Walter Scott, Dugald Stewart, Brougham, Allen, Brown, Murray, Leyden, Lord Webb Seymour, Lord Woodhouselee,* Alison, Sir James Hall, and many others.

Society at that time in Edinburgh was upon the most easy and agreeable footing; the Scotch were neither rich nor ashamed of being poor, and there was not that struggle for display which so much diminishes the charm of London society, and has, with the increase of wealth, now crept into that of Edinburgh.

* Father of the historian Mr. Peter Tytler.

I have endeavoured in the last Chapter, (with as little commentary as possible) to give a short sketch of the most important subjects that occupied my father’s thoughts, and employed his pen, during twenty-eight years of his life, in the Edinburgh Review.

But to perform my task properly, I ought perhaps to add some account of the subject-matter of his lectures and sermons. The former of these, if done at all, must be done by an abler pen than mine; I shall therefore content myself with only two extracts. The first has often been quoted, not only for its beauty, but as affording a specimen of the high moral tone which pervades these lectures; the second was extracted by one of his earliest college associates (and, I believe, now oldest friend alive), Mr. Duncan, and sent to my mother, as giving what he thought the best description of my father that has ever been written. The first is from the Lecture “On the Con-duct of the Understanding;” the second is from that on “Wit and Humour.”

In 1803, the education of Mr. Sydney Smith’s pupils being finished, and his income in consequence much reduced, it became necessary for him to resolve upon some course of life which might secure to him a permanent independence.

He was most reluctant to quit Edinburgh, where he had many valuable friends and was much sought after; and where his name would have probably continued to procure him pupils.

My mother however was more ambitious for him than he was for himself; and feeling that he was meant for better and higher things, and that his talents were worthy of a more extensive sphere, she used all her influence to induce him to seek it where alone it was to be found. After much deliberation he determined to yield to her wishes, plunge at once into London, and endeavour to make known, where they were most likely to be appreciated, such talents as he possessed. He therefore broke up his camp in Edinburgh, much to his own and his friends’ regret, and established himself in London in the year 1804.

On his first arrival there, he took a small house in Doughty-street, Russell-square, attracted thither by the legal society which then resided in that part of London, and of which he was always very fond.

This resolution to settle in London turned out the wisest he could have taken; yet, friendless as my father then was, and obnoxious to Government as he had become by his principles and writings, and without any obvious means of increasing his income, it was not carried through without considerable anxiety and a severe and courageous struggle with poverty; and, to add to his difficulties and anxieties, soon after his arrival in town his family was increased by the birth of his eldest son, Douglas.

My grandmother, Mrs. Pybus, whose death had taken place shortly before my father quitted Edinburgh, had left my mother her own and her eldest daughter’s (Lady Fletcher’s) jewels, which were of some value. My mother, feeling that such ornaments were most unbecoming in her present position, insisted upon their being sold as soon as they came to London, and she describes my father’s comical anxiety lest mankind should recover from their illusion, and cease to value such glittering baubles before they could be sold. The negotiation begun with the jeweller, Sydney was not easy till it was accomplished; and even then, she says, she does not think he was quite easy in his mind at having helped to continue the illusion by accepting so large a price for them.

Of the early part of his career in London I of course know nothing, and recollect hearing but little. He early formed the acquaintance, and obtained the friendship, of several eminent lawyers then living in that neighbourhood. The most distinguished of these were Sir S. Romilly, Mr. Scarlett (afterwards Lord Abinger), and Sir J. Mackintosh. To these may be added Dr. Marcet, M. Dumont, Mr. Whishaw, Lord Dudley (then Mr. Ward), Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Luttrell, and Mr. Tenant—who, under the most uncouth appearance, combined such simplicity, warmth of heart, and varied knowledge, as made him a general favourite in the little circle, and the mysteries of whose menage often afforded amusement to his friends. He lived in a small lodging, and his establishment consisted solely of an old black servant, who tyrannized over him in no small degree, called Dominique. He was overheard one morning calling from his bed, “Dominique! Dominique!” but no Dominique appeared. “Why don’t you bring me my stockings, Dominique?” “Can’t come, massa.” “Why can’t you come, Dominique?” “Can’t come, massa, I am dronke.” Mr. Tenant, who probably thought it a law of nature that Dominique should be drunk, for he was seldom otherwise, submitted with the greatest meekness.

My father also became acquainted with some of the French emigrants, of whom there were many at this time resident in London and its neighbourhood; amongst these, some, from their cultivation and the refinement of their manners, became very agreeable additions to his society. Of these, I remember a M. Dutens,* and a charming old Abbé, who became quite one of the family. I can recall his pale, mild face, his thin figure, smart shoe-buckles, cane, and snuff-box, though I forget his name. He was bent on inventing a universal language; and used in his simplicity constantly to come and consult my father, who, much amused, suggested a few grammatical difficulties from time to time. The poor old Abbé, out of all patience, at last exclaimed, “Oh non, monsieur, ce sont la des bagatelles! La seule difficulté que je trouve c’est de faire agir tous les rois d’Europe au même instant.” My father admitted that this was a slight difficulty; but we left London, or the old Abbé left England, before he had solved it.

In the summer of 1804 the alarm occasioned by the idea of French invasion was rapidly increasing, and volunteers were pouring in from all ranks and classes. One of the earliest sermons my father seems to have been called upon to preach was on this subject, before a large body of volunteers collected in the Metropolis;

* Author of ‘Mémoires d’un Voyageur qui se repose.’

In 1806 those political changes took place which so unexpectedly, and for so short a period, brought the Whigs into power.

To one who, as he says, “had lived so long on the north side of the wall, this ray of sunshine was very cheering, and gave some hopes that he who had so well and so honestly fought the good fight, would now have some opportunity afforded him of exerting himself in his profession.” But as he had no connections and little political interest, I do not know what might have been the result, had it not been for the indefatigable exertions of his friends at Holland House, who never rested till they saw justice done to him, and had obtained from the Chancellor, Lord Erskine, the living of Foston-le-Clay, in Yorkshire, for him.

For this he always felt that he owed Lord and Lady Holland a deep debt of gratitude; as, in addition to the immediate increase of his income, being a permanent provision, it gave him the first feeling of independence and security that he had enjoyed after a life of anxiety and uncertainty. An old friend of my father’s told me the other day, “I was present at Bishopthorpe when your father first came down to be inducted to the living of Foston (now nearly fifty years ago), under the reign of old Archbishop Markham; I was then so young as to be placed at the side-table in that large dining-room; but I well remember the unwonted animation and the brilliant conversation that constantly attracted all our attention to the great table, and which we were told proceeded from a young clergyman of the name of Sydney Smith, just come down to take possession of a living in Yorkshire. When he went away, the old Archbishop, I could see, though struck with his extraordinary abilities, did not half like, or understand, how one of the inferior clergy should be so much in possession of his faculties in the presence of his diocesan. On my return home the next day I found my family in a state of great excitement. They had just, they said, had a long visit from the most delightful person they had ever met, a Mr. S. Smith, who had brought letters of introduction from Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett, saying that the bearer was one of the most distinguished young men then in London, and congratulating my mother on the probability of having such a man established in her neighbourhood,—a piece of good fortune which, when it did happen shortly after, she fully appreciated, and was not inclined to neglect. From this time we saw more and more of him; and though I have enjoyed now all that is best in life, I think if I were to select the day of my life that has left the most agreeable impression on my mind, it would be a long summer afternoon we all spent with your father at Heslington. We walked over with Lord —— and several of the lawyers of the Northern Circuit, and found a Mrs. Hamilton in the house, who had just come from Edinburgh. The weather was lovely, everything looked bright, your father and Lord —— were in the highest spirits; the conversation turned on Edinburgh, the mode of life there, the remarkable men it contained or had produced; it was most brilliant and interesting,—the first taste I had had of what I must still think the perfection of society. After dinner we all walked back by moonlight. ‘I have never forgot that day; I think it was one of the happiest of my life, and this has not been an unhappy one, as you know.’”

In the summer of 1807 he took his family for a short time to a little cottage in the village of Sunning, near Reading, to give them their first taste of the country; and even now I recollect with delight “each rural sight, each rural sound,”—this first breath of air, free from carpet-shakings, that we had inhaled.

At first it was not without fear that she entrusted herself to so inexperienced a coachman; “but she soon,” he said, “raised my wages, and considered me an excellent Jehu.” The streets of York required some skill in this art. My father once exclaiming to one of the principal tradesmen there, “Why, Mr. Brown, your streets are the narrowest in Europe; there is not actually room for two carriages to pass.” “Not room!” said the indignant Yorkist, “there’s plenty of room, Sir, and above an inch and a half to spare!” He used to dig vigorously an hour or two each day in his garden, as he said, “to avoid sudden death,” for he was even then inclined to embonpoint, and perhaps, as a young man, may have been considered somewhat clumsy in figure (though I never thought so), for I have often heard from my father that a college friend used to say to him, “Sydney, your sense, wit, and clumsiness, always give me the idea of an Athenian carter.” He spent much time in reading and composition; his activity was unceasing; I hardly remember seeing him unoccupied, but when engaged in conversation. He never considered his education as finished; he had always some object in hand to investigate. He read with great rapidity. I think it was said of Johnson, “Look at Johnson, tearing out the bowels of his book.” It might be said of my father, that he was running off with their contents, for he galloped through the pages so rapidly, that we often laughed at him when he shut up a thick quarto as his morning’s work, and said he meant he had looked at it, not read it. “Cross-examine me, then,” said he; and we generally found he knew all that was worth knowing in it: though I do not think he had a very retentive memory. The same peculiarity characterized his compositions;—when he had any subject in hand, he was indefatigable in reading, searching, inquiring, seeking every source of information, and discussing it with any man of sense or cultivation who crossed his path. But having once mastered it, he would sit down, and you might see him committing his ideas to paper with the same rapidity that they flowed out in his conversation,—no hesitation, no erasions, no stopping to consider and round his periods, no writing for effect, but a pouring out of the fulness of his mind and feelings, for he was heart and soul in whatever he undertook. One could see by his countenance how much he was interested or amused as fresh images came clustering round his pen; he hardly ever altered or corrected what he had written (as I find by many manuscripts I have of his); indeed, he was so impatient of this, that he could hardly bear the trouble of even looking over what he had written, but would not unfrequently throw the manuscript down on the table as soon as finished, and say, “There, it is done; now, Kate, do look it over, and put in dots to the i’s and strokes to the t’s”—and he would sally forth to his morning’s walk.

He used frequently to lay out his plans of study for the year. I find the following have accidentally been preserved in one of his commonplace books, and shall give them, though not strictly belonging to this period:—

Thus cheered by these occasional visits of his friends, turning his back upon London and former habits, by the aid of books and of the various new duties and interests he had created for himself, he contrived to pass through three years not unpleasantly or unprofitably; but, not having succeeded in his object of exchange, he, according to his promise to the Archbishop, set vigorously to work to build his house, and accomplished it in nine months after laying the first stone. But he shall here tell his own tale, as I have heard it at various times in detached portions.

“A diner-out, a wit, and a popular preacher, I was suddenly caught up by the Archbishop of York, and transported to my living in Yorkshire, where there had not been a resident clergyman for a hundred and fifty years. Fresh from London, not knowing a turnip from a carrot, I was compelled to farm three hundred acres, and without capital to build a parsonage-house.

“I asked and obtained three years’ leave from the Archbishop, in order to effect an exchange, if possible; and fixed myself meantime at a small village two miles from York, in which was a fine old house of the time of Queen Elizabeth, where resided the last of the squires, with his lady, who looked as if she had walked straight out of the Ark, or had been the wife of Enoch. He was a perfect specimen of the Trullibers of old; he smoked, hunted, drank beer at his door with his grooms and dogs, and spelt over the county paper on Sundays.

“At first, he heard I was a Jacobin and a dangerous fellow, and turned aside as I passed: but at length, when he found the peace of the village undisturbed, harvests much as usual, Juno and Ponto uninjured, he first bowed, then called, and at last reached such a pitch of confidence that he used to bring the papers, that I might explain the difficult words to him; actually discovered that I had made a joke, laughed till I thought he would have died of convulsions, and ended by inviting me to see his dogs.

“All my efforts for an exchange having failed, I asked and obtained from my friend the Archbishop another year to build in. And I then set my shoulder to the wheel in good earnest; sent for an architect; he produced plans which would have ruined me. I made him my bow: ‘You build for glory, Sir; I, for use.’ I returned him his plans, with five-and-twenty pounds, and sat down in my thinking-chair, and in a few hours Mrs. Sydney and I concocted a plan which has produced what I call the model of parsonage-houses.

“I then took to horse to provide bricks and timber; was advised to make my own bricks, of my own clay; of course, when the kiln was opened, all bad; mounted my horse again, and in twenty-four hours had bought thousands of bricks and tons of timber. Was advised by neighbouring gentlemen to employ oxen: bought four,—Tug and Lug, Hawl and Crawl; but Tug and Lug took to fainting, and required buckets of sal-volatile, and Hawl and Crawl to lie down in the mud. So I did as I ought to have done at first,—took the advice of the farmer instead of the gentleman; sold my oxen, bought a team of horses, and at last, in spite of a frost which delayed me six weeks, in spite of walls running down with wet, in spite of the advice and remonstrances of friends who predicted our death, in spite of an infant of six months old, who had never been out of the house, I landed my family in my new house nine months after laying the first stone, on the 20th of March; and performed my promise to the letter to the Archbishop, by issuing forth at midnight with a lantern to meet the last cart, with the cook and the cat, which had stuck in the mud, and fairly established them before twelve o’clock at night in the new parsonage-house;—a feat, taking ignorance, inexperience, and poverty into consideration, requiring, I assure you, no small degree of energy.

“It made me a very poor man for many years, but I never repented it. I turned schoolmaster, to educate my son, as I could not afford to send him to school. Mrs. Sydney turned schoolmistress, to educate my girls, as I could not afford a governess. I turned farmer, as I could not let my land. A manservant was too expensive; so I caught up a little garden-girl, made like a milestone, christened her Bunch, put a napkin in her hand, and made her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs. Sydney to wait, and I undertook her morals; Bunch became the best butler in the county.

“I had little furniture, so I bought a cart-load of deals; took a carpenter (who came to me for parish relief, called Jack Robinson) with a face like a full-moon, into my service; established him in a barn, and said, ‘Jack, furnish my house.’ You see the result!

“At last it was suggested that a carriage was much wanted in the establishment; after diligent search, I discovered in the back settlements of a York coachmaker an ancient green chariot, supposed to have been the earliest invention of the kind. I brought it home in triumph to my admiring family. Being somewhat dilapidated, the village tailor lined it, the village blacksmith repaired it; nay, (but for Mrs. Sydney’s earnest entreaties,) we believe the village painter would have exercised his genius upon the exterior; it escaped this danger however, and the result was wonderful. Each year added to its charms: it grew younger and younger; a new wheel, a new spring; I christened it the Immortal; it was known all over the neighbourhood; the village boys cheered it, and the village dogs barked at it; but ‘Faber meæ fortunæ’ was my motto, and we had no false shame.

“Added to all these domestic cares, I was village parson, village doctor, village comforter, village magistrate, and Edinburgh Reviewer; so you see I had not much time left on my hands to regret London.

“My house was considered the ugliest in the county, but all admitted it was one of the most comfortable; and we did not die, as our friends had predicted, of the damp walls of the parsonage.”

This year (1813) was one of great exertion and anxiety to him, both in body and mind; he calculated that in the course of it he must have ridden several times round the world, in going backwards and forwards from Heslington to his living, as the offices of architect, superintendent of the works, farmer, clergyman, schoolmaster, were all centred in his person; while, to add to his anxieties and responsibilities, in September of this year another son was born to him.

Soon after engaging on the building of his house, the Archbishop, who had been made more fully aware of tho difficulties of my father’s situation, through the kind intervention of Mr. Harcourt and other friends, sent my father most unexpectedly his formal permis-sion to avoid building. On hearing this, my father received many letters of remonstrance from Mr. Allen, and his kind friends at Holland House, who always hoped that some exchange might turn up, to restore him again to the south; and indeed were constantly making exertions to accomplish this object; but as the negotiations failed, I have not named them. They were most unwilling that he should embark in an undertaking which they knew would hamper him for so many years to come. But my father felt it was his duty to himself, to his parish, and to the Archbishop, whose indulgence it would be base to abuse; and being thoroughly convinced of this, he persevered, in spite of this strong temptation; though the necessity of making farm-buildings, as well as a house, absorbed not only all his available capital, but left him with a heavy debt besides.

At last, however, the deed was done, and I well remember the landing at Foston, March, 1814. Indeed how should I forget it?—a day of such difficulty, discomfort, bustle, and delight, seldom occurs twice in one life.

It was a cold, bright March day, with a biting east wind. The beds we left in the morning had to be packed up and slept on at night; waggon after waggon of furniture poured in every minute; the roads were so cut up that the carriage could not reach the door; and my mother lost her shoe in the mud, which was ankle-deep, whilst bringing her infant up to the house in her arms.

It was about this time that an old lady, Aunt Mary by name, who possessed considerable wealth, suddenly proposed to pay us a visit; and, as it seemed, so much approved all she saw in the little establishment at Foston, that on her death, the following year, she left my father a most unexpected legacy. Though not large, it then seemed to us all unbounded wealth. On receiving this accession of fortune, my father of course immediately released my uncle from the contribution he had so kindly made towards my brother’s education. His next step was to call us all around him, saying, “You must all share in this windfall: so choose something you would like.” We all made our selection.

His promotion in the Church was a step in life which added very materially to my father’s happiness. “Moralists tell you,” said he, “of the evils of wealth and station, and the happiness of poverty. I have been very poor the greatest part of my life, and have borne it as well, I believe, as most people, but I can safely say that I have been happier every guinea I have gained. I well remember, when Mrs. Sydney and I were young, in London, with no other equipage than my umbrella, when we went out to dinner in a hackney coach (a vehicle, by the bye, now become almost matter of history), when the rattling step was let down, and the proud, powdered red-plushes grinned, and her gown was fringed with straw, how the iron entered into my soul.”

“I often thank God for my animal spirits. I called the other day on my friend and neighbour B——, and found him moping over the fire, wringing his hands, and in a state of the deepest melancholy. ‘Why, B——, what is the matter? Here you are in the prime of life, with health, talents, education, a sensible wife, pleasing children, just come into possession of this fine old place, and a good fortune, and have moreover the inestimable advantage of having me for a neighbour; what on earth can you want more to make you happy?’ ‘Very true, Sydney, very true; but’ (with a deep sigh) ‘have you considered the state of my roads?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I have certainly not taken that point into consideration, but in future I will; so good morning, B——.’ Whilst I, who have never had a house, or land, or a farthing to spare, am sometimes mad with spirits, and must talk, laugh, or burst.”

He had now need of all his elasticity of spirits, for there came upon him what he declares was the first real sorrow he had known—and in truth it was a heavy one—the death of his eldest son Douglas, just as he had reached maturity, and gave promise of every excellence, both of heart and mind, that could endear him to his parents or gratify their pride.

He died, after a long and painful illness, in town, in the year 1829. I see, in my father’s note-book, this simple entry:—“April 14th. My beloved son Douglas died, aged twenty-four. Alas! alas!” And afterwards: “So ends this year of my life,—a year of sorrow, from the loss of my beloved son Douglas,—the first great misfortune of my life, and one which I shall never forget.” In his last hours he often called his youngest son by the name of Douglas, showing that even then he was still in his thoughts.

It was perhaps well for all parties, that, his promotion to the Prebendal stall at Bristol having also entitled him to one of their livings, it became necessary for my father to resign Foston, and settle in Somersetshire; and here again the kindness of Lord Lyndhurst enabled him to exchange Foston for the much smaller, but more beautifully situated living, of Combe Florey, near Taunton.

We all at the time deeply regretted leaving our old haunts in Yorkshire, where we had lived so long, received so much hospitality, and made so many kind friends; but this entire change of scene, and the necessity for immediate exertion, was very useful to all under this severe affliction.

In the summer we went again to spend some months with my father at Combe Florey, which every year became more beautiful under his fostering care. His love of children I have before alluded to; and particularly of his little grandchildren, whose happiness he delighted to promote. He hardly ever dressed in a morning without having them round him to assist him; or to play at shaving his table with his shaving-brush and huge wooden bowl, which still remained, though the reign of Bunch had ceased. Amongst these grandchildren was an odd, clever little girl, about five years old, who amused him much by her peculiarities; one of which was, that she insisted upon understanding everything she heard, and that when baffled,as she often necessarily was, she took to roaring and kicking. On one of these occasions, he was walking round his garden with his two arms swung behind over his black crutch-stick (his usual manner of walking), and hearing these sounds from his merry little favourite, he stopped under the open window, and called out, “What is the matter with my little girl?” “Oh,” said her mother, “she cannot understand something about the Hebrews. I have tried to explain it to her; but as she has lost her temper, I have told her she must wait till she is a little older.” He looked excessively amused at the mental ambition of the five-years-old, but walked off in silence. Two hours after, the mother found him closeted with the little culprit in his favourite library, in his large arm-chair, with the child on his knee, with maps, dictionary, and books piled around him; he explaining and she listening with apparently equal pleasure, till the difficulty was overcome, and the child satisfied. I must add, in justice to the little girl, that though she has retained her love of investigation, she has fortunately left off the habit of roaring and kicking under mental difficulties.

The sudden death of his youngest brother Courtenay about this time (whose debt of thirty pounds he had paid with so much difficulty at College fifty years before) without a will, put him in possession of the third part of the very large, but to himself useless, for-tune, which he had accumulated in India; and thus, as my father has said, “in my grand climacteric I became unexpectedly a rich man.” Having the means of spending now, he spent as liberally as if he had been used to wealth all his life; for his rigid economy in poverty had never the effect of making him penurious.

This summer, when travelling through Yorkshire, I went with my children to see our old haunts at Foston; and it was very gratifying to find, though nearly ten years had elapsed since he left them, how fresh my father’s memory still was in the hearts of his villagers. From almost every cottage some one came out to greet me, and to remind me of some saying, or some act of kindness, or to show me his parting gift, or to remember how he “doctored” them, and to lament his loss. And as to old Molly Mills, who was still alive, it was quite affecting to see the mixture of joy and sorrow in her face, as she recalled old stories, or thought of her present loss,—“the smile on her lip, and the tear in her eye.” I felt these were humble, but not the less precious tributes to his character.

Each year now thinned the ranks of the great men with whom he had begun life;—men not only endeared to him by social intercourse, but by that deep interest which a struggle for the same cause during so many years usually inspires. But amongst these losses, none ever fell more deeply and heavily on his heart than that of Lord Holland. He loved him (as indeed all did who had the privilege of knowing him intimately), and he felt deeply his debt of gratitude to him in early life. Lord Holland’s last illness was, I believe, short; and on his dressing-table were found these few lines, which were sent to me by his sister, Miss Fox, after his death:— “Nephew of Fox, and friend of Grey,— Enough my meed of fame If those who deign’d to observe me say I injured neither name.”

In a letter to Mrs. M., one of our oldest friends, he says, speaking of Lord Holland’s death,—“It is indeed a great loss to me; but I have learned to live, as a soldier does in war, expecting that on any one moment the best and the dearest may be killed before his eyes. . . . I have gout, asthma, and seven other maladies, but am otherwise very well.—Sydney Smith.”

I see amongst my father’s papers a sketch of Lord Holland, from which I shall make some extracts, as, I trust, they can only give pleasure.

“Great powers of reasoning, great quickness and ingenuity of proof, and a memory in the highest degree retentive; a knowledge varied and extensive, and hi English history and constitutional law profound. . . . An invincible hatred of tyranny and oppression, the most ardent love of public happiness, and attachment to public rights. His conversation was lively and incessant. . . .

“As a speaker, he wanted words, which he was often forced to stop for; and he was too slow; but he atoned for these defects by sense, knowledge, simplicity, logic, vehemence, and unblemished character. There never existed in any human being a better heart, or one more purified from all the bad passions, more abounding in charity and compassion, or which seemed to be so created as a refuge to the helpless and the oppressed.

“He was very acute in the discernment of character; more so, I cannot help thinking, than any public man of his time whom it has fallen to my lot to observe. He was one of the most consistent and steady politicians living in any day; in whose life, exceeding sixty-five years, there was no doubt, varying, nor shadow of change. It was one great, incessant, and unrewarded effort to resist oppression, promote justice, and restrain the abuse of power.”

After this period, the only things he wrote were a short pamphlet on the ballot, which went through many editions, and had much success; and the Fragment on Ireland, which he left behind, and which my mother published after his death; showing that he died as he had lived, earnest in the cause of religious toleration and the amelioration of Ireland. But though he did not live to see all he wished in Ireland accomplished, yet, as Johnson says, “he who is cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle, though he missed the victory.”

In the autumn, hearing that his friend Mr. Van de Weyer and his family were coming into the west, my father sent him the following note:—

I have but little more to add; my (to me) sad tale is nearly told; but I will here insert some extracts from a journal of a dear Scotch friend, who spent a month in his house, which, though never meant to see the light, have most kindly been given to me at my request; and which I feel to be valuable, not only because they are nearly the last notes I have of him (being taken the year before his death), but because they also, on many points, confirm, from notes taken at the moment, the traits I have given of him from mere recollection.