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The fiftieth year of the reign of George III., styled the Jubilee, was celebrated, with great marks of rejoicing in the West, I know not why, in a reign marked by much calamity. A grand dinner was given on the occasion. I was not very reflective about the consistency of the address, on being requested to write one, availing myself in its opening of Shakespear’s description of St. Crispin’s day, October 25, 1415.
Some stanzas from my pen were set to music by an eminent composer, and sung as a glee by the men of the bands of the regiments in garrison. The fête went off well. All proceedings of a public nature were then enthusiastically carried into effect.
Here I first met Wilkie, the artist. He and Haydon were on terms of close friendship. Wilkie’s health had not been good. Haydon had proposed a visit to Devonshire. I was introduced by the father to the son, and to Wilkie by young Haydon, in his father’s drawing-room.
Nearly opposite the end of Market Street, the awkward Guildhall being on the
opposite side of the way, stood the house and shop of old
Haydon, since deserted, in a street then a great thoroughfare, but now
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With rigid fingers from a gouty stiffness of the joints behind his counter, or in his back parlour, would be seen old Haydon, busy with his books. He had been a great rake in youth, a shrewd clever man, who had succeeded his father in business as he had designed his son, the painter, should succeed him. His only daughter, Harriet, was then a pleasing and accomplished girl, married afterwards, I believe, to a medical gentleman in Somersetshire.
Wilkie disappointed me. Perfectly self-possessed, he
was destitute of life and energy, pale almost to delicacy, so that I fancied him more
indisposed than he was in reality. Not bashful nor exactly clownish in manners, but simply
awkward. His Scotch accent was decided. I met him at dinner the next day, when he talked
sensibly enough on common-place subjects. I never
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“Weel, mon,” said Wilkie, “an I must e’en look on?”
“No, no, the boatmen shall pull in under Mount Batten rocks, to which we will swim. You can undress on the sand, and paddle in the shallow water.”
“We shall have some fun,” said Haydon, aside. “Wilkie is anxious to learn to swim, and told me yesterday I must teach him. ‘Can’t I learn a little now?’ said Wilkie, and began sprawling upon the drawing-room carpet. I spread out a table for him, and he got upon it with his face downwards, moving his limbs like an awkward frog, little to the purpose. I almost killed myself with laughing to see him.”
We pulled into the Sound. The breakwater was not then begun. Haydon and myself undressed in the boat, and jumped
overboard to swim to Mount Batten, Wilkie going in
the boat. There we found him sputtering on the sand, in a few inches of water.
“Let me
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“The finest grouping I ever saw,” he said, as we came
away; “the finest bit I ever saw in my life.” Such things were with him,
what the Elgin marbles were to Haydon. He loved the
beaten track, and his enthusiasm for his art was phosphoric; for it shone without burning.
He had a secret vanity, and he indulged it when among strangers, as if he were ashamed that
those who knew him should discover his foible. When at Rome, he bought all sorts of fancy
dresses, and sported
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Having been late at a ball about four miles from the town, Haydon proposed that we should ascend a hill by Saltram to see the sun rise, “it was absurd to think of walking home and going to bed that fine morning.” Wilkie, who had danced furiously, said he was afraid of the air, he had rather walk home. He did so, and Haydon and myself ascended a lofty eminence just in time to see the break of a glorious day. The artist was enthusiastic. “Mark that light in the east! How fine it is! How sombre it looks below in the valley, and the water in the Lara like pale silver. Then the woods, those limestone rocks, how rich it all is, and in London we sleep away these things. Look to the west, and the haze there, which the sun will presently disperse. Perhaps God dwells in the sun—or some delegated spirit who governs our system, our half a dozen cricket balls, called worlds. Who cares for this beautiful sight, my boy, but you and I?” It was in this way Haydon talked in his earlier years.
When we got to the town, we found Wilkie at the door of Haydon’s
house endeavouring to make the servants hear him, full of fear lest he should take cold.
‘Daavid,’ as Haydon sometimes
called him, went to bed, while we breakfasted, and then having had a plunge in the sea, we
were fit for anything again. Haydon
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“North Corner is the place for Wilkie,” said Haydon, “there is famous grouping, sailors, and their lasses, drunk and sober, bearded Jews, salesmen, and soldiers.” We returned by that bustling and dissipated landing-place, which was always very crowded and noisy in war time. Wilkie thought something good might be got there earlier in the day.
In town, Haydon lodged in Great Marlborough Street, on the south side, the number I forget. Wilkie in Great Portland Street, as I recollect. I remember our breakfasting together in a coffee-house, called the Nassau, at the corner of Gerrard and Nassau Streets, Soho. Since the ruin of coffee-houses by the rage for clubs, that, with a hundred others, has been shut up. It is at present occupied by a baker. I never pass it but I think of those times, and the changes since. How painful a part of human destiny is it to recall such scenes. Not far from that house lived and died glorious John Dryden about a century before. Where are he and his contemporaries, and where now are Haydon and Wilkie?
With Haydon I first saw the Elgin
marbles, then in Burlington House. I went some years after to see Lough’s sculptures, and found him looking at them. I
could not help finding fault with the hands. “Yes,” said
Haydon, “they betray a want of professional
education—of study and practice. When you go to see
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My intimacy with both Wilkie and Haydon was little during their latter years. Wilkie had no conversation of interest. There was nothing but his fame that was exciting about him, and in the vast social range of London this is not enough to give a preference. His genius was bounded by a limited circle, his conversational acquirements were not commensurate with his high abilities in art. Haydon was a pleasant companion, had read and thought much, and also to the purpose, but there were reasons why his friends could not enjoy his society as they wished; they were estranged without being desirous of estrangement. Peace to his manes! He was not born for the present era of taste in art, the era of common-place and mediocrity.
The father of Haydon told me a story
interesting to ornithologists. A mulberry tree grew outside his printing office window in
the heart of the town. A robin used to come there and sing sweetly to the delight of the
inmates. The window being open one day at the commencement of winter, the bird flew in, and
on being fed remained, singing occasionally with great sweetness. In the spring it flew
away, and was seen no more until the next winter, when it reappeared on the mulberry tree
again, and the window being left open, it flew in as it had done before. The men to know
the bird, marked it with printing ink on the breast. In the following September, it came
again to
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Old Haydon had known, when a boy of seventeen, an old seaman named Pearce, who died aged ninety-seven. This seaman used to describe the horrors of the storm of November, 1703. He had seen the unfortunate Winstanley go off from the Barbacan steps to the Eddystone lighthouse, of which he was the builder, and of which neither builder nor the slightest fragment of the pharos was ever seen again. The sea, he said, broke over Drake’s Island like a cascade. I have myself seen the spray break over the lanthorn of the present building, nearly a score feet.
There was a fishing bank between the Eddystone and Rame Head, to which we
sometimes used to resort, and dropping anchor at the right time of the tide begin fishing.
Fish will bite at anything shining. A sixpence with a hole for the hook will do. It is all
fair gobbling, “right-minded fish,” as old Walton would
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We ventured sometimes to run in a cutter nearer the French coast than was
prudent. We knew old “Billy Blue,” (Admiral Cornwallis) was between us and Brest with from
twenty to thirty line-of-battle ships. We sailed, too, in the wake of a seventy-four that
had run in for bullocks. We once got a peep of that glorious, persevering old man, while
his fleet was on the same tack, and the French snug within. It was on a morning cruise of
this kind that I saw, hull down in the horizon, the masts of a vessel of considerable
magnitude. When the whole had become visible, there were two vessels, one in the way of the
other; and it was soon plain that one of them was in tow. “There is a prize to
some-
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The reflective mind, on witnessing its scenes, shudders at war, sickens over the sound of that “glory” which so intoxicates the tyrant, the ignorant, and the unthinking. The unimaginative judge only by the evidence of the senses, and can form no idea of what is revealed to present perception in the term war, when out of reach of its mischiefs.
It was past ten o’clock at night when the English frigate (which I saw
wrecked a year or two afterwards) came up; and in about an hour and half after, perhaps the
most sanguinary engagement of single vessels during the last long and cruel war, the
Frenchman struck his colours. There were, on board the ‘Thetis,’ a crew of three hundred seamen, and a hundred soldiers. In the
space of time I have stated, out of four hundred, no
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I was struck, I remember, by our folly in adopting, and even preferring,
vessels of so small a scantling
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“Yes; but the navy board won’t allow her to go to sea again, she would take the masts of a seventy-four.”
“What of that?” I asked; “give her the masts of a seventy-four.”
“Oh! it is contrary to regulations.”
This ship, every timber of undecaying cedar, was afterwards broken up, and the cedar used for ornamenting the cabins of other vessels, while cramped ships, in which a small man could not stand upright between decks, were expected to triumph over great physical superiority—but ‘I wander from my tale.’
I was not aware, until this incident took place, that surgeons judge of the mortal nature of the wounds very much by the appearance of the eyes. The medical head of the prisoners at that time was Doctor Magrath, afterwards Sir George Magrath.
The treatment of prisoners of war in the land prisons was well enough for a
system of idleness without utility. Many would have been glad of any kind of labour. It was
different in prison ships, and worse than that of the convicts at Woolwich, because these
are relieved from ennui by labour. Prisoners of war, shut up
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There were altogether above seven thousand prisoners in the depots within the garrison. They were allowed to work at Dartmoor, and to sell the produce of their labour, and numbers did so, but there were men who were unable from having no trade. Many of these took refuge in gambling, and played away the clothes off their backs. Going in with the officer of the guard, I saw a number nearly naked in that cold region. They were called ‘the Romans.’ Even their bedding had been gambled away. They slept on the prison floor, huddled together for warmth. It was said they used to turn sides in the night at the word of command, “turn one, turn all.” Years of captivity and ennui thus driving men to wretchedness and demoralization, exhibited another of the calamities of war.
Sir Arthur Wellesley landed here at night, and was at
an hotel near where I resided. The Cintra Convention had just been concluded. In the
morning the landlord came to me and said Sir A. Wellesley was at his
house, and would be obliged, as the mail had just passed, for a sight of a newspaper. I was
the only
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Before Wellington repealed the Test and
Corporation Acts, those tyrannical laws pressed heavy on two thirds of the population of
the United Kingdom, preventing their holding in England common civic offices. A
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The statute was rarely enforced, but it was still the law. Going to call upon the doctor I met a very high church clergyman, “I have an odd feeling of indisposition,” I remarked, “I am going to Dr. B. and shall ask him about it.”
The parson at once put on a sour face, “I never consult him, he is a rascally oppositionist. If you want a doctor go to Mr. L——.”
“I shall ask Dr. B——,” I replied, knowing the motive of the recommendation.
“Don’t consult any one,” said the parson, seeing I was not to be persuaded. “The great physician, Hoffman, said, ‘If you wish good health, avoid physicians and medicines—fuge medicos et medicamina’”
“How cunning the Jesuit is,” thought I, “he will keep me from my intention at any rate to gratify his spleen. I fathom his motive,” and I doubled my pace to Dr. B——.
I cannot observe exactly the order of dates. I know it was about this time
that I became acquainted with General Wakin Tench of
the Marines. We used often to converse about his voyage to Botany Bay when a captain, with
the first convicts in 1789. They were thirty-six weeks on that voyage, and lost one marine,
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The Roderick Random gait and appearance in our seamen, were fast disappearing in the time to which I now allude. One of the last individuals with its taint was Captain Rotherham, who commanded Collingwood’s ship the ‘Royal Sovereign,’ in the battle of Trafalgar. Not stout, tall, his cocked hat worn square, a mahogany complexion, and now and then a quid, he had much about him of the seaman of the past time—such men. are now become traditions.
I made the acquaintance of Belzoni
here, the Egyptian antiquary, nearly seven feet tall; he had a brother with him six feet
six inches. He was exhibiting feats of strength. Having a dispute with Foote, the manager
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Here I met the author of ‘the
Essay on the Immateriality and Immortality of the Soul,’ Samuel Drew, by trade a lapstone, brother of Gifford and Bloomfield, but superior to both in mental power; in fact, a first rate
metaphysician. He had attracted the attention of the Rev. Mr.
Whittaker, the historian of Manchester, who drew him out. His essay was a
surprizing performance. He was a Wesleyan methodist, and died a preacher among the sect in
1833. His mind was too logical to shine among those to whom a few wild ideas in an ocean of
words, were more objects of admiration than dry verities or abstract reasoning. Here, too,
Dr. Hawker thundered forth his discourses in the
church of St. Charles, I did not like the manner, matter, or man. Polwhele’s Greek translations were first put into my
hands here. I read them more out of compliment to the author whom I knew, than from any
supposition of their superior excellence. He was a laborious working man, with no low
opinion of
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I had deprecated religious persecution from a child, first from having
perused the pictures before I was able to read the text of Fox’s Book of
Martyrs. This feeling grew up with me. I soon learned that I was not to hate a
man, and wish him burned, because he thought a brown loaf good mutton, or an honest
reformer, because he denied the apostolic succession through Roderic
Borgia and Leo X., to the Archbishop of Canterbury,
inclusive. I deemed such things hallucinations, and have ever endeavoured with my pen as
much as possible to prevent time-worn superstitions and early prejudices from tainting
action. It is a humbling consideration for human nature that we make so little progress in
this respect. Shan O’Neal, of Ulster, put some
of his own partizans to death because they made bread in the English mode, and not in the
good old way. All religious disputants are infallible in their own opinions; all ready to
condemn the error of their brothers. How do they know they are not in error themselves. How
do they know this when every reflecting man of right
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I was a never-ceasing reader. In poetry, I have said, I had early in youth possessed myself of the works of Charlotte Smith. I got fond of her melancholy egotism. She died soon after I arrived in London the first time. Her ‘Old Manor House’ I read with youthful delight. What a pure delight that is which arises out of inexperience! The sonnets of Bowles were not in my view equal to Charlotte Smith’s, and yet I was delighted with them. When the fancy is tickled, it is the happiness of youth to be satisfied; it is never discontented enough to be critical. I had read, as I have stated, most of the poets before Cowper, in earlier youth. Spenser delighted me; I revelled in his imaginative scenes of fairyland. Chaucer was too obsolete. This was before I knew much of Shakspeare, from the latter not coming in my way.
I know not what it was that made Miss Edgeworth so attractive to me then, dry and formal as she really is. I hardly perceived, nor was it likely I should appreciate if I had, her fine tone of moral feeling. Her ‘Patronage,’ some years after, did not produce the same effect on my mind.
The novel-writers, immediately previous to Scott, produced some works worthy of being still remembered. The supremacy
of folly was not then acknowledged by those who sought reputation. The more intellectual
portion of the social body decided the merit of works of literature and art, and the
advance was upwards, not downwards, as it is at present, when low-mindedness leads the
critic. Scott’s success made the avaricious
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It was at this time that Strutt’s ‘Queenhoo Hall,’ a posthumous romance, appeared, the author dying before it was completed. Edited by Scott, ‘Queenhoo Hall’ merited particular notice, because it was the first attempt to add to tales of the olden time correctness of keeping in dress, manners, and language. Just as Macbeth came to be played in the costume of his supposed cotemporaries in place of a bagwig and sword, so was Strutt the author of a great and beneficial reform, heralding Scott, who made so excellent an application of his system.
Hannah Moore had just published her ‘Coelebs in Search of a Wife.’ That
such a work should have gone through many editions, must be ascribed to the author’s
previous writings now nearly forgotten. She exerted herself extensively in the cause of
common sense and benevolence, but I thought her somewhat presumptuous to meddle with a
state in life of which she had no experience. I had an introduction to her, being at
Clifton, and called, but did not find her at home. Her residence was some distance away.
She advocated, at that moment, I well remember, the education of the poor. Too many of the
clergy were virulent against her upon that account; they said it would derange social
order. This was before Lancaster promulgated his
scheme of instruction. How different now is the conduct of the clergy—how pleasing to
see the school of the parish in its place. I remember that, at the time I was at
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The longevity of this or that type of novel it would be curious to examine. Of many I recollect in my early reading, there are now no traces. What becomes of castoff novels? Some were sofa companions, read between call and call of a morning, light inanities adapted for that purpose, and no more; others were natural, many supernatural; there were also the fashionable, the languishing, and the furious. Except a few resuscitated by speculative bibliopolists, to save copyright expenses, most are forgotten. Ancient Greeks used to talk in them in good English, and knew more of London than Athens. Romans conversed in the language of Bond Street. Cherokees were represented as sentimental, and love sometimes becoming too deficient in excitement, was exchanged for the hazards and perjuries of a genteel adultery.
Pratt’s ‘Emma Corbet’ exhibited at this time the most writing and least merit of any book I ever saw; and it had still a run, though it had been published twenty years. The Miss Lee’s ‘Canterbury Tales’ I read in 1805, in a second edition, generally ascribed to Miss Harriet Lee. These tales were a joint production of Harriet and Sophia. The latter lived in Bath, during my first visit there, and died in 1851, wanting but little of being a century old.
The accidental death of a friend, in the prime of youth, Lieutenant Robert Tryon of the navy, much affected me. We
think little of man’s grim foe in youth, except on similar occasions. He was a native
of Lincolnshire, much admired by the fair sex. I had heard he was wounded, and wrote to the
purser of the
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With two or three friends, we established a private club, called the Beefsteaks. The “King’s Arms Inn,” where it was held, was nearly full of guests, when Lucien Bonaparte, and his suite landed, thirty-four persons in all. We made room for them, by giving up our apartment, and adjourning. Lucien was not much like his brother in person, with a sallow complexion. In stature he was under the middle height. His family was with him—all Italian-looking—his daughters five in number, pretty, and two sons. He came in the ‘Pomona’ frigate, to remain a species of captive. I believe he completed in England his poem of Charlemagne. One of his daughters was subsequently the wife of my friend Mr. Wyse, now British envoy at Athens.
About the same time, I was requested to meet some gentlemen in Cornwall, who
wanted another paper in the county, there being but one, which, having been secured by the
opposite party, and having before been neutral in position, they thus became deprived of
any support from a Tory press. I represented that it was against my interest to oblige
them. They pressed me farther, told me they had an editor ready, and a printer as well; but
that none of them knew how to organize the whole. If I did not assist them, they were
determined to get some one from town who would. They appealed to my sympathy as to their
position. I consented, ordered from London what was necessary, organized the undertaking,
and returned to my duties. Some lines bearing the anonymous sign adopted by an old
schoolfellow of mine, who had often sent verses to the older paper, appeared in
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There are few reflections which afford me more gratification than the share I
had in aiding that undertaking, and thus in disseminating the principles since become
everywhere triumphant. I rejoiced to see them there, for the memory of the wild shores of
that county, its barren heights, fertile vallies and mild climate, with their hospitable
inhabitants, can only perish with life. It is, doubtless, a melancholy thing to return, and
be unremembered in the district of one’s birth, no wonted names seen that of old
greeted the native, save those inscribed among the records of the dead. Still I had rather
retire, and breathe my last there, as the stag retires to die where he was roused, than on
any other spot upon the globe. How many incidents happened there, now lost to all but
myself, how many names have sunk in oblivion, how many are partially submerged, desolate
islets of which the surrounding waves continually displace fragments that disappear in the
remorseless depth beneath! If any
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I used to meet Lord Cochrane sometimes—a remarkably plain, quiet, fine young man, wholly unassuming. He was often in and out in the ‘Impérieuse,’ a ship in which he performed so many gallant exploits, and among others the destruction of part of the French fleet, of eleven sail of the line, in Basque roads, while hampered by a do-nothing commander-in-chief, much as Nelson was shackled by a commander-in-chief set over him in the Baltic. Although the hero of the Nile, he was ordered by signal from that commander to leave his victory half-achieved; though he would not see the signal amid the smoke of the Copenhagen combat. People talked loudly and indignantly of the higher powers in the affair of Basque Roads. It was singular that Cochrane and Sir Sidney Smith, with Nelson, were all capable of operating against an enemy on shore or afloat with equal success.
A friend of mine, with his lordship, when they next came into port, expressed
his astonishment at the scene so unparalleled in our naval warfare. Of eleven sail of the
line of the largest class, one was taken, three others struck their colours, and seven went
on shore, of which three could not be got off. All this was achieved with the loss of only
ten killed and thirty-six wounded. It was a daring act. Twelve or fifteen hundred barrels
of powder were placed in casks standing on end, and girt strongly round with cables. Clay
was rammed in the interstices between the casks, and wedges forced down to
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The government in those days had a personal dislike to men of high bearing, and disinterestedness, who would not become its servile tools. Nor was any love lost. It was necessary to employ such officers for the sake of obtaining credit for the successes which strengthened ministerial interests. I remember Cochrane’s ‘Impérieuse’was painted black with red ports, which gave the frigate a strange appearance, like no other of our ships of war.
I sometimes, during an idle half day, crossed over to Drake’s Island,
where a captain’s guard was stationed and relieved once a week. Cut off from society,
it was
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Among the drowned was an officer, the brother of some ladies of a family in
which I felt great interest. Attention was also drawn to the incident by the public
indignation, and regret that the whole scene was passed over by the proper authorities. The
‘Barfleur’ a fine second-rate, lay in Cawsand Bay.
The captain and his crew were a band of brothers. I do not recollect whether from promotion
or from what cause, the commander left the vessel. A new captain was appointed, notorious
throughout the navy for wanton tyranny. The appointment in that, as it would in any other
case, produced dissatisfaction, and ultimately a round robin to the Admiralty, which the
latter sent down to the commander-in-chief at the port. The latter sent it at once to the
party to whom it related,
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Knowing the danger of his position, and the articles of war too well, several men replied, “Nothing, Sir.” At last a man who had served under the little Tartar, replied, “You command me to speak the truth, Sir, I was punished wrongfully under your orders. I was innocent of the charge.”
The reply of the Captain was, “Put that man in irons!”
Such was the feeling of the men, that proceeding in the same mode, while some made a negative reply, others determined the man in irons should not suffer alone, and told the truth, that they had once served under him, were wrongfully punished, and did not like to do so again. Two more were put in irons, and being enough of whom to make an example, as the phrase was, he applied for a court-martial upon them.
The request was granted, the time fixed. The wind blew fresh on the day the
irons were taken off the men, who with officers and a guard were ordered to proceed the
shortest way over the bridge to the flag-ship. The order was obeyed, the boat overset in
the surf, and seventeen out of twenty-two were drowned, among whom were two of the
prisoners. The remnant reached the flag-ship, having been saved by a boat passing near. The
president of the court-martial humanely told the solitary prisoner, that if he wished,
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To return to myself in this matter of the ‘Barfleur,’ It was expected the port-admiral would report all to government, and perhaps he did, for the affair became the topic of general conversation, but no more was heard of it. The officer I speak of had great interest. I felt for the family I have mentioned, and the death of a fine young man in such a way. I determined, in consequence, to detail the facts carefully, and I did so in the columns of the paper. Everybody cried “shame.” In a few days, I received a message from the little despot, through a relative of his own, whom I knew, “that he would give me a d—— horse-whipping and call upon me for the purpose.”
I sent my thanks to him for the obliging information, as it enabled me to lay in a tolerably heavy whip to return the courtesy, and that it should go hard if I did not give him as good as he brought. I was well able to put my threat into execution, for I was his match in strength. He thought so for he never came near me. It would have been impolitic, too, for it would have enabled me to notice others of his exploits byegone, of which officers had informed me, I should then have had a motive which otherwise a diabolus regis would have declared, in those days, to be pure malice.
I got the commendation of the ladies. One fair dame told me as indicative of this man’s temper, that sitting with the captain’s wife one morning in cold weather, the rain falling fast, a delicate looking genteel youth came with some papers. He was suffered to remain in the open porch of the house in the cold.
“Why don’t you let the poor little fellow in?” said his lady.
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The reply was, gruffly, “he is very well where he is.”
“But it is so cold.”
“No matter, he shall remain there.”
“Nonsense, Captain, let him come in, he looks delicate,” said my fair informant.
The captain rose angrily, went to the door, and ordered the poor middy to walk up and down in the rain on the pavement, till he called him, which was nearly an hour afterwards, when he was thoroughly water soaked. What must men have endured, subjected to the tempers and caprices of such personages—tempers and caprices never displayed by the great or eminent of the profession. It was impossible for the hero of my animadversion to lose credit on the ground upon which I assailed him; on the other hand, I obtained much commendation for not passing over in silence so disreputable a proceeding.
I was a spectator, too, of the ‘Africaine’ frigate, when she lay in the Sound. It was suspected there was a
mutinous spirit on board, in consequence of another commander, notorious for his arbitrary
conduct, being appointed to her. She had before been a well commanded ship. The appointment
made a great talk, for it was reported that if any resistance was made on board to the
appointment of Captain Corbet, the port-admiral
would lay a frigate on each side and sink her. The admiral was a strict officer, who looked
only “to the stop watch.” I never heard a word in his praise or dispraise.
Cold, exact, destitute of enthusiasm, peculiar in dress and personal bearing, he was the
last with whom any liberty could be taken. Just or unjust the
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“Then admirals will flog captains,” said Sir Edward Buller, “and I’ll give you your share if ever you come under my command.”
The subsequent history of the ‘Africaine’ and her commander, is but too well known—melancholy it was, according to all accounts. He expiated his faults with his life off the Isle of France.
Speaking of Admiral Young, his gravity, stiffness, yet gentlemanly bearing, in short that species of character, which seemed calculated to awe the impudent, exact obedience by law and rule, and keep the just middle course in everything, there is an anecdote I recollect which is amusing.
Among the regiments in garrison, the West Middlesex
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 157 |
“Well done, old Stiff Stump!”
To feel the full force of so gross an act, Admiral Young’s exact bearing, reserve, and very gentlemanly habits,
should be understood. Sir Robert Calder succeeded
him as commander-in-chief. General Stephens
commanded the Artillery, whose only daughter, known as Miss Jenny by
the officers of that arm, is now Lady Gough. Of all the
Artillery and Engineer officers in the garrison at that time, I believe Captain Veitch, of the Engineers, the present able
consulting engineer to the Admiralty, is the only survivor. General England was succeeded by General Gore
Brown. The former was a kind, good-natured man, with little mind. I knew him
only by sight. General Brown I knew personally; he was a liberal in
politics, which at that time meant little more than that he would concede religious freedom
to everybody, even to the Catholics of Ireland. The Misses Brown were the most beautiful
girls I ever saw. They lived in the citadel. When the Emperor
Napoleon was a captive in the ‘Northumber-
158 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
I remember dining with old Sir Massey
Lopez at the mess of the regiment of local militia, which he commanded.
General Brown was present. The conversation
turned on Catholic Emancipation. I remarked to the General, that Sir
Massey had voted against it in a recent debate in the House of Commons, and
he had been once of a persecuted race himself. Sir Massey observed,
“that he thought he should have voted for it, but Mr. Perceval pressed him to vote against it. I thought it better to
oblige Mr. Perceval;” a very sound excuse for a vote in
a senator of that time. It was said Sir Massey wanted to be
Lord Roborough. The baronet, a millionaire of that day, was not a
bad-minded man. He was only something of a miser, which those lovers of the root of evil
nearly all are, who acquire large fortunes by an attention to small sums. Here his old
money-making position continually drew him towards the principle of accumulation, and he
forgot to keep up his existent character. In electioneering, which he did not understand,
he was fleeced continually. In fact, he was more sinned against than sinning; he did not
know the ‘disinterested’ qualities of agents. He lost seven thousand pounds at
Barnstaple, and had
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 159 |
“They must have cost you half a guinea per pair, Sir Massey,” I remarked to him one day.
“Before God, I believe they did,” he replied.
He was tricked at Grampound, a most venal place, and suffered for it. Some of his doings were original in their way, and contradictory. His word was his bond, once pledged. He purchased land all round Maristow, his seat, as fast as he could obtain it, in order to extend his domains. Mr. A——, whom I well knew, agreed to sell him a small freehold, happening to want money. His land adjoined Sir Massey’s. After much haggling, the bargain was settled.
“I have not ready money to pay down; you must take my bill at four months.”
This was assented to and arranged.
“Now, will you want this bill discounted?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will discount it for you; how will you have it?”
The prospect of a little gain made him forget his existing situation, and he discounted his own bill. One or two other things I recollect of him. An individual, who kept a stationer’s shop, in which he used to lounge, had his house burned down. The stationer was not insured, and a subscription was opened to reimburse him for his losses. The Baronet went into the new shop, one day, and said:—
“I have not subscribed anything for you, Mr. Rogers; give me a stamp to draw a bill for thirty pounds.”
160 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
The stamp was given, the bill drawn, signed, and given to the stationer, and the Baronet went away. In a few minutes, he returned again, breathless.
“But, Mr. Rogers, you did not pay me for the stamp.”
The money, about eighteen-pence, was actually handed over to him, and he went away satisfied.
Coming to dine with the Corporation of Plymouth, he thought he would take with him a pine-apple, to present at the dessert. Passing down the Market Street, before the dinner hour, the presentation pine in his pocket, he cast his eyes at the window of a fruiterer, named Ponsford, where there were several starveling pines.
“How do you value your pines, Mrs. Ponsford?”
“Half a guinea apiece, Sir Massey.”
“They are very small, very. What is this worth?” said the Baronet, pulling out a fine specimen from his pocket.
“That, Sir Massey, is well worth a guinea.”
“Here, then, give me one of the small ones, and half a guinea.”
The bargain was concluded; Sir Massey presented the small pine to the Corporation.
On the other hand, there was an half-pay lieutenant I knew who used to dine occasionally with Sir Massey, in Arlington Street, where his town house was situated. One day, after dinner, he asked the Baronet if he had not some votes in the India House. The answer was in the affirmative, “that he had four votes.”
“Were they promised?”
“No.”
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 161 |
“Might I ask them in favour of a worthy friend of mine?”
And the friend’s case was explained.
“He shall have them.”
Parliament was up; Sir Massey returned to the West. The voting afterwards came on at the India House. The petitioner for his votes had no idea of Sir Massey’s voting for his friend, for he knew he was not in town, and he could not dream he would travel two hundred miles and more on his account. What was his surprise to find, calling in Arlington Street, accidentally, after the voting, that Sir Massey had posted up to town, given his four votes as he had promised, and, forty-eight hours afterwards, returned again to the West, having travelled on purpose, backward and forward, four hundred miles. How could the baronet afford it! Such are the contradictions in the money-loving character.
He was uneducated, or he made little use of his acquirements. When he purchased Maristow as it stood with its contents, Sir Massey, after being put in possession, asked the widow of the former possessor if there was nothing she wished to retain. She replied, nothing except a set of Classics in the library, the only set there, which her husband particularly valued.
“You shall have them, Madam, whenever you choose to send for them.”
The lady sent once, twice, thrice, no books were forthcoming. Sir Massey stating at last he could not find them, and if
she did not think it too much trouble, he would be obliged if she would come over and point
them out. The lady did so. “O,” replied Sir Massey,
162 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
I might recount many other incidents, but he has departed to where wealth is no more the object of solicitude.
I once gave a receipt for money to an officer of the Falmouth Customs, and
was subpoenaed to the assizes to give evidence against him. There were two receipts for the
same sums, he having informed me that the first was mislaid, and he could not make up his
accounts. Sir Vicary Gibbs was the judge, and
Jekyl counsel for the Crown.
Gibbs was the worst judge I ever saw on the bench. He bore harder
against the accused than Jekyl, who was the counsel. He called for a
witness to go into the box and prove to the jury the large amount of the receipts by
similar officers of the Customs throughout England, to enhance the importance of the
offence to them, as if the act of theft were heinous in proportion to the number of pounds
sterling it involved. Gibbs was a snappish narrow-minded creature. I
never heard of his possessing a redeeming virtue. He pushed up
Gifford, afterwards Lord Gifford,
who was his great favourite, the son of an Exeter grocer, where he got much business
through his plodding attention, and I used frequently to meet him. He was then in his
sphere. He broke down completely when he acted for the Crown on Queen Caroline’s trial. His ignorance was astounding. It seemed as if
he had never read anything but a brief in his life. A-propos of Jekyl.
I remember a good-natured solicitor, who had a large practice at Tavistock, and kept
excellent claret, for whom Jekyl was retained.
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 163 |
“Gentlemen of the jury, I am counsel in this case for a gentleman well known throughout the county of Devon, Mr. Frank W——, remarkable in general for wearing a pillow about his neck, but sometimes a bolster.” I recollect another case by which he set a jury in good humour. An apothecary kept a villa near the town where he practised, Jekyl contended he should have been at his business. “Methinks, gentlemen of the jury, I see this modern Æsculapius retired to his Sabine farm, cultivating his plants with his spatula, watering them with his syringe, and reclining under the shade of his Peruvian bark.” Jekyl had pale small features, his eyes were indicative of acuteness, and humour, but his features spoke nothing of the disposition of the man. He belonged to a race quite extinct at the modern bar.
This was the year of the famous comet. The moment I could leave the court, I posted to Liskeard where I had left a horse. I had seventeen miles to ride from thence, and there was no moon, but the stars were bright, and the magnificent comet, lord of the sky. There was something awe-striking in its appearance, night after night for weeks. I walked to the church-yard, where the tower rose darkling over star-lighted tombs. They were saddling my horse. I fell into a melancholy train of ideas. I thought of some who had died about that time, of others afar off, of death as the term of our pilgrimage. Rogers’s line
“On yon grey stone that fronts the chancel door.” |
164 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
I reached Crafthole, a miserable hamlet about five miles from my journey’s end, as the sky became thickly overcast, and the comet vanished. From Whitsun Bay sounds broke on my ear like distant thunder. This was the ground-swell on the rocks, for it was a dead calm. Rogers’s lines came up again to recollection, and his “Ode to Superstition.” Then following Bürger’s “Leonore.”
“Tramp, tramp across the lea!” |
I began to feel superstitious for a moment—then I rallied, what
foolery, this fancy must not be indulged, I shall be as bad as an old woman. So I put spurs
to my horse, and dashing forward, no witch catching the
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 165 |
“What, is that you Redding?” said a voice near me.
“Who are you?”
“Lieutenent P—— of his Majesty’s ship ‘Comet,’ which you must know.”
It was the first-lieutenant who told me they were under orders for sea, and he had come to hunt up two or three men who were missing. I told my tale.
“We are off to sea to-morrow, God bless you! here youngster,” he said to a midshipman, “put Redding across.” We shook hands, parted, and met no more. I had been at a ball on board in the preceding week. The first-lieutenant was the captain’s brother-in-law—Captain Blarney. I never met him again.
I lived in a cottage, in a beautiful situation called Mutley, on the
Tavistock road. It commanded a fine view of the Sound, Mount Edgcumbe, and the heights. I
remember Young, the tragedian, was one of my
visitors when he came on his professional tour. Once on Incledon’s coming down, some naval men agreed to invite him to dinner
at the Pope’s Head Inn. We had an admiral in the chair. I joined the party. The
object was to hear his sea songs, which no one ever
166 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
It was about this time that Spencer
Perceval, then Premier, commenced his attempts to reduce the liberty of the
press to nihility. His mode of proceeding was worthy of the capacity of the smallest-minded
minister England ever saw. In three years he filed forty informations against the press,
not half of which were ever intended to be carried out. Ruin by the costs of in terrorem informations was his plan, thus keeping a
part of the press tongue-tied. The more bold who dared farther, he pushed to trial, cost,
and suffering. The meanness of his mind was seen in all his measures, as well as his
short-sightedness as to results, while a varnish of religion covered the man. An intense
bigot, whatever was high-minded had no congeniality with
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 167 |
Twenty-two years Pitt—14 prosecutions, or Pitt 0.631 per annum.
Three years Perceval—40 persecutions, Perceval 13.333 per annum.
The stamp duty was raised to fourpence, and that on advertisements to three and sixpence each. These with the paper, paper-duty, and carriage expenses, pretty well aided the minister’s intention. He would have succeeded, had he not fixed public attention upon the press by overdoing his persecution; the public aroused, rallied round the press. There was no originality about the ministers of that day. Precedent supplied the place of ability. Policy was the lever of power, regardless of justice being combined. The reigns of Addington, Perceval, and in a great degree of Castlereagh, showed this. Neither could be prime minister of England now over a session. I published a letter to Lord Holland in consequence of a notice he had given upon the foregoing subject, in the House of Lords. Lord Holland was then a perfect stranger. I had seen him when I was a youth embarking at Falmouth for Spain, and that was all. His Lordship wrote me;—
“I feel much flattered and obliged by your notice
168 | FIFTY YEARS’ RECOLLECTIONS, |
“You have thrown much new light on the subject, and brought many authorities to the recollection of your readers. Your conclusions seem to me to be generally well founded, and you have not injured your cause as writers on this question are apt to do, by pushing their arguments too far, and drawing from the abuse of prosecutions for libel the necessity of suppressing them altogether. I agree with you completely, in thinking ex officio information unnecessary, as well as liable to abuse, but I know that by attacking their existence altogether, one. is more likely to extend than to diminish the abuse of them.
That I should be flattered at such an unexpected approval of my sentiments was natural.
On the prosecution of one Binns for
openly supporting parliamentary reform, which I had read of when a youth, Perceval, the counsel against him, had talked of
“the monstrous doctrine of men sacrificing themselves for
posterity,” declaring it to be “a very false philosophy,” and
insisting, as he generally did, on the weakest points of his case. Romilly was employed against him, and was successful. It
was on this trial that Judge Ashhurst made the
admission, wonderful for a judge in those days,
LITERARY AND PERSONAL. | 169 |
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