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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:—
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“Health to the greatest of diplomatists, and, to the Belgian kingdom, trade, glory, and peace! You must not pass this way without visiting Combe Florey; we shall expect you on the 9th, we dine at seven,—Madame Van de Weyer, you, and the little ambassador. We are six miles from Taunton, and Taunton is an hour and a half from Bristol. If you write to Sweet’s Hotel, they will have horses ready for you, and the people know the way to my house. Pray write a line to say whether we may expect you; we shall be delighted to see you, and truly mortified to miss you.
They came and spent a day or two with us; days, alas! of incessant rain,
putting the charms of the little parsonage to the severest trial. But if it was dark and
gloomy without, it was all gaiety and sunshine within; for our guests came disposed to be
pleased with everything they found, and the intercourse of two such remarkable men as
Mr. Van de Weyer and my father, both loving to
exercise their minds on grave and important subjects, and both possessing such a fund of
knowledge, wit, anecdote, and clever nonsense, to intermingle with them, made one quite
forget the passage of time, and the visit seemed over almost as soon as begun. They left us
on the most lovely morning, when Combe Florey had put on her gayest and freshest garb; and
carried away, I trust, as agreeable
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“Long live the Belgic lion! long may he roar over the tiger of Prance! You are wanted at Windsor. De la P—— is below. The young ambassador and all the children, and all the grandpapas, are quite well. There is an air of piety in De la P—— that is very agreeable to me.
“Get up immediately.”
And he wrote at more length, to explain, as he says, his share in the transaction.
“Let me explain my share in the proceedings. Between
five and six o’clock appeared, in a fly, a grave
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“If Octave de la P—— has perished in the invasion of Bowood, I certify that he died with the deepest admiration of the ever-memorable Belgic revolution.
A short time before my father’s death, Lord Jeffrey had likewise made a collection of his contributions to the Edinburgh Review; which
collection he did my father the honour to dedicate to him, and, by a few words in it,
confirmed my father’s account of its origin.
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As I am anxious to make this sketch of my father as complete as possible, I shall here insert a few extracts from a letter, containing his recollections of him, written at my request by Lord Murray; who speaks not only with the authority of his own high character, but of early acquaintance, and an unbroken friendship of half a century.
“Sydney’s acute and almost intuitive perception of character made him at once detect whatever was fictitious or assumed; but though this never escaped his keen observation, he was, I firmly believe, more severe towards himself than he was ever towards any other person. His disgust at hypocrisy made him so anxious to avoid the semblance of any attempt to appear better than he was, that he did not always do himself justice. Many, I should say most, of his just or benevolent actions were only known to his most intimate friends, and that accidentally.* The goodness of his heart was only revealed by his acts.
“He was so free and open in discourse, that he gave all manner of advantage to those who were disposed to distrust a person overflowing in genial wit and humour.
|
* Many as I have told, how many more I have been obliged to suppress, from reasons easily understood!—Author. |
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“Though Sydney Smith could not avoid being conscious of his great powers of writing and speaking, I firmly believe that his estimate of himself and of his own character were truly humble. He was ready to acknowledge the superiority of persons whose abilities were inferior to his own. He claimed little more for himself than practical common sense; but though this was all he claimed, he could not help clothing his sound sense with language which was beautiful, and at the same time more witty and humorous than that of other men. Yet, putting himself lower in the scale, I believe, than he had a fair right to be, he never acquiesced in any opinions in which he did not agree, though coming from the highest station, either secular or clerical. The higher they were, the more he considered it his duty to discuss and examine the opinions they proclaimed to the public. In doing so he felt he was vindicating the rights of the humblest curate in the Church, or defending those who could not defend themselves from the attacks of men in high stations, who often made them in places where they could not be otherwise refuted.
“Whether he did not render a greater service to the public and to his profession by this intrepid conduct, than he could have done by the most respectful and submissive silence, it is for others to determine; but his fearless assertion of what he conceived to be the right, is perfectly consistent with the most modest estimate of his own merits.
“Sydney Smith thought it
right and honest to act
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“A foreigner, on one occasion, indulging in sceptical doubts of the existence of an overruling Providence in his presence, Sydney, who had observed him evidently well satisfied with his repast, said, ‘You must admit there is great genius and thought in that dish.’ ‘Admirable!’ he replied; ‘nothing can be better.’ ‘May I then ask, are you prepared to deny the existence of the cook?’—Many anecdotes equally characteristic might be furnished by his old friends, but I fear to repeat what you may have already been told, and have merely hinted at some traits of Sydney’s character known only to his most intimate friends.”
The following is an extract from some lines written on receiving the present of my father’s garden-chair, after his death, from the Rector of Combe Florey, by a friend and neighbour:—
“Thanks for thy gift! ’t will ofttimes bring to mind A friend who was the friend of human kind; |
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A man who had no equal amongst men, Whene’er he chose to wield the moral pen. For wit, truth, genius, courage, all conspired To make (and made at last) a sage inspired, Whom wise men loved, and even wits admired. |
“Whate’er was true, he loved; but all pretence, Pride without merit, learning without sense, Small niggard piety, which deals in tracts, And substitutes cant words for Christian acts, He hated. And most holy war did wage With each Tartuffe, who shamed our English
stage. |
“Peace to his spirit! many a year will run Into oblivion ere another sun Like his will rise and lend the world its light. Honour to him! to thee thanks, and good-night!” |
I find some lines in a letter from Lady Carlisle (one of the kindest and warmest of my father’s friends) to my mother, written soon after his death, on passing within sight of Foston. They have been carefully preserved by my mother; and though meant for no eye but hers, my father so valued any proof of Lady Carlisle’s regard, that I must not omit them here.
“Is that the roof, to friendship dear, Where Genius once, with matchless ray, Illumined all within its sphere, And all was brilliant, all was gay? |
“Yes! there the joyous laugh was raised, And converse held with social glee. Sydney, by wits and sages praised, Shall still be loved and mourned by me.” |
I might, to those little tributes of affection which I
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My father “was sitting at breakfast one morning in the library at Combe Florey,” said Mrs. Marcet, who was staying with us, “when a poor woman came, begging him to christen a new-born infant, without loss of time, as she thought it was dying. Mr. Smith instantly emitted the breakfast-table for this purpose, and went off to her cottage. On his return, we inquired in what state he had left the poor babe. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘I first gave it a dose of castor-oil, and then I christened it; so now the poor child is ready for either world.’”
I long to give some sketch of these breakfasts, and the mode of life at Combe Florey, where there were
* After my father’s death, it was the great comfort and occupation of my mother’s life to collect and arrange my father’s letters and papers, for the purpose of this Memoir, and her labours have contributed not a little towards its accomplishment. In one of her letters to me, my mother says, “You know the great occupation of my life has been to collect materials for some future memorial of my noble-hearted husband.” And again, “Time goes rapidly on; I tremble at each day’s delay. To have this matter unsettled is the only thing that makes death terrible.” |
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He would come down into this long, low room in the morning like a “giant refreshed to run his course,” bright and happy as the scene around him. “Thank God for Combe Florey!” he would exclaim, throwing himself into his red arm-chair, and looking round; “I feel like a bridegroom in the honeymoon.” And in truth I doubt if ever bridegroom felt so joyous, or at least made others feel so joyous, as he did on these occasions. “Ring the bell, Saba;” the usual refrain, by the bye, in every pause, for he contrived to keep everybody actively employed around him, and nobody ever objected to be so employed. “Ring the bell, Saba.” Enter the servant, D——. “D——, glorify the room.”* This meant that the three Venetian windows of the bay were to be flung open, displaying the garden
* On reading this passage to two very sensible persons, I was advised to omit this expression, as it might give offence. At first I did so, but on reflection I am inclined to say, with our old English motto, “Honi soit qui mal y pense!” In my father’s mouth it meant only “Let in the glorious light and the beautiful world;” and instead of |
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“There, now,” sitting down at the breakfast-table, “take a lesson of economy. You never breakfasted in a parsonage before, did you? There, you see, my china is all white, so if broken can always be renewed; the same with my plates at dinner: did you observe my plates? every one a different pattern, some of them sweet articles; it was a pleasure to dine upon such a plate as I had last night. It is true, Mrs. Sydney, who is a great herald, is shocked because some of them have the arms of a royal duke or a knight of the garter on them, but that does not signify to me. My plan is to go into a china-shop and bid them show me
anything irreverent, his heart was overflowing with gratitude and happiness, and he thanked God with his whole heart for the beautiful world in which he had placed him. |
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“I think breakfasts so pleasant because no one is conceited before one o’clock.”
Mrs. Marcet admired his ham. “Oh,” said he, “our hams are the only true hams; yours are Shems and Japhets.”
Some one, speaking of the character and writings of Mr. ——: “Yes, I have the greatest possible respect for him; but, from his feeble voice, he always reminds me of a liberal blue-bottle fly. He gets his head down and his hand on your button, and pours into you an uninterrupted stream of Whiggism in a low buzz. I have known him intimately, and conversed constantly with him for the last thirty years, and give him credit for the most enlightened mind, and a genuine love of public virtue; but I can safely say that during that period I have never heard one single syllable he has uttered.”
Mrs. Marcet complaining she could not sleep: “I can furnish you,” he said, “with a perfect soporific. I have published two volumes of sermons; take them to bed with you. I recommended them once to Blanco White, and before the third page he was fast.”
“This is the only sensible spring I remember (1840): it is a real March of intellect.”
“If I were to select a figure to go through life with, I think it should be Windham’s figure and Canning’s face.”
“I make it a rule to endure no evil that can be re-
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On seeing a very foolish letter by an acquaintance in the newspapers: “There! read that! what incredible folly! You pity a man who is lame or blind, but you never pity him for being a fool, which is often a much greater misfortune.”
Miss Fox was mentioned, who was at that time at Bowood: “Oh, she is perfection; she always gives me the idea of an aged angel.”
Some one speaking of the utility of a measure, and quoting ——’s opinion: “Yes, he is of the Utilitarian school. That man is so hard you might drive a broad-wheeled waggon over him, and it would produce no impression; if you were to bore holes in him with a gimlet, I am convinced sawdust would come out of him. That school treat mankind as if they were mere machines; the feelings or affections never enter into their calculations. If everything is to be sacrificed to utility, why do you bury your grandmother at all? why don’t you cut her into small pieces at once, and make portable soup of her?
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“By the bye, talking of portable soup, my great neighbour, Lord D——, found it necessary to look a little into his establishment; and the first discovery he made was that his cook had for some years been contracting to furnish the navy with portable soup, not made of grandmothers, but at his expense.”
“I always say to young people, Beware of carelessness, no fortune will stand it long; you are on the high road to ruin, the moment you think yourself rich enough to be careless.”
Speaking of education: “Never teach false morality. How exquisitely absurd to tell girls that beauty is of no value, dress of no use! Beauty is of value; her whole prospects and happiness in life may often depend upon a new gown or a becoming bonnet, and if she has five grains of common sense she will find this out, The great thing is to teach her their just value, and that there must be something better under the bonnet than a pretty face for real happiness. But never sacrifice truth.”
Talking of beauty of style: “What so beautiful as that of the
Bible? what poetry in its language and ideas!” and taking it down from the
bookcase behind him, he read, with his beautiful voice, and in his most impressive manner,
several of his favourite passages; amongst others I remember—“Thou shall rise up
before the hoary head, and honour the face of an old man;” and part of that
most beautiful of Psalms, the 139th:—“O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me.
Thou knowest my down-sitting and mine up-
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“There is one thing I feel very grateful to my father for—having taught me the habit of immediately hunting out any object I found myself ignorant of.” “Remember that, F—— (addressing one of his grandsons); I have found it most useful: never submit to be ignorant when you have knowledge at your elbow.”
Talking of punishments: “Ah! that is all very well; but who punishes the bore, let me ask? There is no social crime committed with such impunity.”
“Have you never observed what a dislike servants have to anything
cheap? they hate saving their masters’ money. I tried this experiment with great
success the other day. Finding we consumed a great deal of soap, I sat down in my
thinking-chair, and took the soap question into consideration, and I found reason to
suspect that we were using a very expensive
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“No; very few people ever were so wise as Abercrombie looked, as Fox said of Thurlow.”
On his little granddaughter running up to kiss him: “Children are excellent physiognomists, and soon discover their real friends. Luttrell calls them all lunatics; and so, in fact, they are. What is childhood but a series of happy delusions?”
“It is lamentable to see how ignorant the poor are. I do not mean of reading and writing, but about the common affairs of life. They are as helpless as children in all difficulties. Nothing would be so useful as some short and cheap book, to instruct them what to do, to whom to go, and to give them a little advice; I mean, mere practical advice. I have begun something of this sort for my parishioners; here it is.
“If you begin stealing a little, you will go on from little to
much, and soon become a regular thief; and
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“Never sit in wet clothes. Off with them as soon as you can: no constitution can stand it. Look at Jackson, who lives next door to the blacksmith; he was the strongest man in the parish. Twenty different times I warned him of his folly in wearing wet clothes. He pulled off his hat and smiled, and was very civil, but clearly seemed to think it all old woman’s nonsense. He is now, as you see, bent double with rheumatism, is living upon parish allowance, and scarcely able to crawl from pillar to post.
“Off with your hat when you meet a gentleman. What does it cost?
Gentlemen notice these things, are offended if the civility is not paid, and pleased if
it is; and what harm does it do you? When first I came to this parish, Squire
Tempest wanted a postilion. John Barton was a good,
civil fellow; and in thinking over the names of the village, the Squire thought of
Barton, remembered his constant civility,
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“I will have no swearing. There is pleasure in a pint of ale, but what pleasure is there in an oath? A swearer is a low, vulgar person. Swearing is fit for a tinker or a razor-grinder, not for an honest labourer in my parish.
“I must positively forbid all poaching; it is absolute ruin to
yourself and your family. In the end you are sure to be detected,—a hare in one pocket
and a pheasant in the other. How are you to pay ten pounds? You have not ten pence
beforehand in the world. Daniel’s breeches are unpaid for;
you have a hole in your hat, and want a new one; your wife, an excellent woman, is
about to lie in,—and you are, all of a sudden, called upon by the Justice to pay ten
pounds. I shall never forget the sight of poor Cranford, hurried
to Taunton Gaol; a wife and three daughters on their knees to the Justice, who was
compelled to do his duty, and commit him. The next day, beds, chairs, and clothes sold,
to get the father out of gaol. Out of gaol he came; but the poor fellow could not bear
the sight of his naked cottage, and to see his family pinched with hunger. You know how
he ended his days. Was there a dry eye in the churchyard when he was buried? It was a
lesson to poachers. It is indeed a desperate and foolish trade. Observe, I am not
defending the game-laws, but I am
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“I don’t like that red nose, and those blear eyes, and that
stupid downcast look. You are a drunkard. Another pint, and one pint more; a glass of gin
and water, rum and milk, cider and pepper, a glass of peppermint, and all the beastly
fluids which drunkards pour down their throats. It is very possible to conquer it, if you
will but be resolute. I remember a man in Staffordshire who was drunk every day of his
life. Every farthing he earned went to the alehouse. One evening he staggered home, and
found at a late hour his wife sitting alone, and drowned in tears. He was a man not
deficient in natural affections; he appeared to be struck with the wretchedness of the
woman, and with some eagerness asked her why she was crying. ‘I don’t like
to tell you, James,’ she said, ‘but if I must,
I must; and truth is, my children have not touched a morsel of anything this blessed
day. As for me, never mind me; I must leave you to guess how it has fared with me. But
not one mor-
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* A fact. |
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“My dear little Nanny, don’t believe a
word he says. He merely means to ruin and deceive you. You have a plain answer to
give:—‘When I am axed in the church, and the parson has read the service,
and all about it is written down in the book, then I will listen to your nonsense,
and not before.’ Am not I a Justice of the Peace, and have not I had a
hundred foolish girls brought before me, who have all come with the same
story?—‘Please, your Worship, he is a false man; he promised me marriage
over and over again.’ I confess I have often wished for the power of
hanging these rural lovers. But what use is my wishing? All that can be done with the
villain is to make him pay half-a-crown a week, and you are handed over to the
poor-house, and to infamy. Will no example teach you? Look to Mary
Willet,—three years ago the handsomest and best girl in the village, now
a slattern in the poor-house! Look at Harriet Dobson, who trusted
in the promises of James Harefield’s son, and, after being
abandoned by him, went away in despair with a party of soldiers! How can you be
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“But this is enough of my parish advice.”——
“Have you observed that nothing can be done in England without a dinner? When first I came to Bristol, I found it was dinner all the day. Not the appetite of an alderman could have got through them, or the stomach of an ostrich digested them. I examined into their objects, and found the expenses of the greater part exceeded the sum collected for the charities for whose benefit we dined. All such I refused to dine at, or subscribe to, and I daresay was considered a monster in consequence. However, it is quite true what Frere says: ‘An Englishman opens, like an oyster, with a knife and fork; one never knows what is in a man till these two agents are in active employment.’
“When I hear the rustics yawn audibly at my sermons, it reminds me of Lord Ellenborough, who, on seeing Lord —— gape during his own long and dull speech, said, ‘Well, I must own there is some taste in that, but is not Lord —— rather encroaching on our privileges?’
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“It is a curious fact that the peasantry in England apply the masculine and feminine gender to things, like the French. My schoolmistress here, a very respectable young woman, hurt her leg. I inquired how she was, the other day; she answered, ‘He was very bad; he gave her a deal of trouble at night.’ I inquired who, in some surprise; and found it was her leg. If I complain of want of punctuality, the servants say, “’Tis long of the clock, Sir. She has gone quite wrong; she’s always going wrong.’
“Some of the words used by the peasantry are very expressive: insense, for example, is to get the sense into a man. ‘Well, John,’ I sometimes say, ‘have you insensed that man?’ ‘Yes, your honour; and he teld me he could na understand your honour na more than if ye were a Frenchman.’”
Some one mentioned that a young Scotchman, who had been lately in the
neighbourhood, was about to marry an Irish widow, double his age and of considerable
dimensions. “Going to marry her!” he exclaimed, bursting out laughing;
“going to marry her! impossible! you mean, a part of her: he could not marry
her all himself. It would be a case, not of bigamy, but trigamy; the neighbourhood or
the magistrates should interfere. There is enough of her to furnish wives for a whole
parish. One man marry her!—it is monstrous. You might people a colony with her; or give
an assembly with her; or perhaps take your morning’s walk round her, always
provided there were frequent resting-places, and you were in rude health. I
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Opposite was a beautiful bank with a hanging wood of fine old beech and
oak, on the summit of which presented themselves, to our astonished eyes, two donkeys, with
deer’s antlers fastened on their heads, which ever and anon they shook, much
wondering at their horned honours; whilst their attendant donkey-boy, in Sunday garb, stood
grinning and blushing at their side. “There, Lady ——! you
said the only thing this place wanted to make it perfect was deer; what do you say now?
I have, you see, ordered my gamekeeper to drive my deer into the most picturesque point
of view. Excuse their long ears, a little peculiarity belonging to parsonic deer. Their
voices, too, are singular; but we do our best for you, and you are too true a friend of
the Church to mention our defects.”
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Then wandering on a little further, his black crutch-stick in his hand, and his white hairs blown about by the soft Somersetshire wind: “It must be admitted,” said he, “if the mind vegetates, the body rejoices, in the country. What an air this is! Our climate is so mild, that myrtles and geraniums stand out all the winter; and the effects of it on the human constitution are such, that Lady ——, a model of female virtue, who never gave that excellent baronet, her husband, a moment’s anxiety, declared to me with a deep sigh, after a week’s residence here, that she must go, for she felt all her principles melting away under its influence. Some of my Scotch friends, it is true, complain that it is too enervating; but they are but northern barbarians, after all, and like to breathe their air raw. We civilized people of the south prefer it cooked.”
On observing some of the autumn crocus in flower, he stopped: “There!” he said, “who would guess the virtue of that little plant? But I find the power of colchicum so great, that if I feel a little gout coming on, I go into the garden, and hold out my toe to that plant, and it gets well directly. I never do more without orders from head-quarters. Oh! when I have the gout, I feel as if I was walking on my eyeballs.”
Going a few steps further: “There, now lift your eyes, and tell me
where another parsonage-house in
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“Did you say, a Quaker baby? Impossible! there is no such thing; there never was; they are always born broad-brimmed and in full quake. . . . Well, all I can say is, I never saw one; and what is still more remarkable, I never met with any one who had. Do you believe in it? Lady Morley does not. Have you heard the report that they are fed on drab-coloured pap? It must be this that gives them their beautiful complexion. I have a theory about them and bluecoat boys, which I will tell you some day.”
“Yes, it requires a long apprenticeship to speak well in the House of Commons. It is the most formidable ordeal in the world. Few men have succeeded who entered it late in life; Jeffrey is perhaps the best exception. Bobus used to say that there was more sense and good taste in the whole House, than in any one individual of which it was composed.”
“We are told, ‘Let not the sun go down on your
wrath.’ This of course is best; but, as it generally
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“Yes, I think the Duke of —— wore his rank most gracefully. I have heard that he was once mounting his horse, in company with the Archbishop of York, and desired the groom to let go the rein. The groom stupidly retained it. The nobleman snatched it with some violence, and, riding off, called him a fool. He had hardly proceeded a hundred yards, when he stopped, saying, ‘Why did I call that man a fool? I daresay he is not so great a fool as I am.’ He instantly turned his horse, galloped after the man, and made his peace with a kind word and half-a-crown.”
This pretty trait reminds me of what I have not unfrequently seen in my father, and think I may mention here; for though it is not the part of a daughter to reveal faults, yet a fault nobly repaired or repented of, adds to the respect and interest which a character inspires. My father was by nature quick and hasty, yet he always struggled against it; made many regulations to avoid exciting such feelings; and when he did give way, it often excited my admiration to see him gradually subduing his chafed spirit, and to observe his dissatisfaction with himself till he had humbled himself and made his peace, it mattered not with whom, groom or child. He could not bear the reproaches of his own heart.
“In this hard, rough, every-day working world, the
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“Once, when talking with Lord on the subject of Bible names, I could not remember the name of one of Job’s daughters. ‘Kezia,’ said he immediately. Surprised, I congratulated him upon being so well read in Bible lore. ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘my three greyhounds are named after Job’s daughters.’”
“Ah!” said my father, on taking us round his farm, “you will find it is a formidable undertaking to visit an improver; we spare you nothing, from the garret to the pig-stye. It is like a Frenchman’s explanation; they never give you credit for knowing the commonest facts. C’est toujours, ‘Commençons au déluge.’ My heart sinks when a Frenchman begins, ‘Mon ami, je vais vous expliquer tout cela.’ A fellow-traveller once explained to me how to cut a sandwich, all the way from Amiens to Paris.”
“Yes, he was a clever and liberal man, but his wife was a much more remarkable woman; she had a truly porcelain understanding.”
“True, it is most painful not to meet the kindness and affection you feel you have deserved and have a right to expect from others; but it is a mistake to complain of it, for it is of no use: you cannot extort friendship with a cocked pistol.”
On some one of his guests lamenting they had left
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“Nothing is so tiresome to me as a person who is always talking Phœbuses; I prefer plain honest dulness a thousand times.”
“Cultivate the love of reading in a young person; it is an unceasing source of pleasure, and probably of innocence.”
“Yes, it was a mistake to write any more. He was a one-book man. Some men have only one book in them; others, a library.”
“I believe one of the Duke of Wellington’s earliest victories was at Eton, over my eldest brother, Bobus. I have heard that the Duke reminded him of it on seeing him accidentally in society many years after the Spanish campaigns.”
On meeting a young lady who had just entered the garden, and shaking hands
with her: “I must,” he said, “give you a lesson in shaking
hands, I see. There is nothing more characteristic than shakes of
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On examining some new flowers in the garden, a beautiful girl, who was of the party, exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Sydney! this pea will never come to perfection.” “Permit me, then,” said he, gently taking her hand and walking towards the plant, “to lead perfection to the pea.”
“I think an office for marriage would be a very good thing. I am
sure I could marry people much better than they marry themselves; young people are so
absurd, and accept and refuse for such foolish reasons. I wish, Miss
——, you would employ me; I have suc-
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“After luncheon may I have the honour of driving you round my wood?” (addressing one of the ladies). “David, bring me my hat.” And with his crutch-stick in his hand, he sallied forth into his parish, where he always seemed to carry comfort and pleasure into every cottage he entered, for he brought what the poor value so highly, and so seldom obtain—sympathy. He appeared, and was, interested in their concerns. When he sat down in a cottage, nothing escaped his eye: Solomon’s Temple in rockwork,—the Prodigal Son on the wall,—the old woman in the ingle-nook,—the dirty, rosy infant on the floor, all came in for a share of his notice.
“Why, John, I took you for a general officer at least, in that new red waistcoat; but, John, I think there is a touch of pride in those brass buttons, don’t you?” “Na, your honour, there beant,” said John, highly gratified, and grinning from ear to ear. “Well, and how do you do?” to the old woman. “Oh! the stuff your honour sent did me a world of good.” “Ah, I thought it would reach the right spot, Dame; well, then, you must send the bottle for some more.”
“At this time,” writes Mrs.
Marcet, “he was in the habit of spending half an hour every morning
with a
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“At last he returned, and presently might be heard the cry of ‘Jack Spratt!’—a few minutes after,’ Betty Loch!’ (the garden-woman); then ‘Bunch!’ (now converted into a cook); then ‘Annie Kay!’ Shortly after he would come up into the drawing-room with a large manuscript book in his hand, and, seating himself in an arm-chair, look round upon us. ‘What are you reading?’ ‘The Life of Franklin.’ ‘Oh, that is right. I recommend the study of Franklin to all young people; he was a real philanthropist, a wonderful man. It has been said, that it was honour enough to any one country to have produced such a man as Franklin. I think all young people should read the Spectator, too,—a paper a day; I always did.’
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“On Miss ——, and her friend Dr. ——’s daughter passing through the room, some one remarked what a pretty contrast their different styles of beauty made. “Yes,’ he said, ‘Miss —— reminds me of a youthful Minerva; and her friend, as Dr. ——’s daughter, must be, you know, the Venus de Medicis.’
“Talking of Switzerland: ‘Well, what are they doing now in the irritable little republic? They say a change in the hour of shutting the gates convulsed the whole canton of Geneva. Have they deposed M—— yet? You remember ——’s answer, when they sent him a decree that he could not be permitted to fire in the republic? “Very well,” said he, “it makes no sort of difference to me; I can very easily fire over the republic.”
“Some one mentioning a marriage about to take place: ‘Why, it is like the union of an acid and an alkali; the result must be a tertium quid, or neutral salt.’
“‘What a beautiful thought (reading from a book in his hand): a sun-beam passes through pollution unpolluted.’
“‘Ah! what female heart can withstand a red-coat? I think
this should be a part of female education; it is much neglected. As you have the
rocking-horse to accustom them to ride, I would have military dolls in the nursery,
to harden their hearts against officers and red-coats. I found myself in company
with some officers at the country-house of a friend once; and as the repast
advanced, the colonel became very elo-
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“‘Yes, Mr. —— has great good sense, but I never met a manner more entirely without frill.’
“Talking of Lord Denman: ‘What a face he has! how well he looks his part! He is stamped by nature for a Chief Justice. He is an honourable, high-minded man. I have a great respect for him.’
“‘I will explain it to you,’ said Mr. D——. ‘Oh, pray don’t, my dear D——,’ said Sydney laughing; ‘I did understand a little about the Scotch kirk before you undertook to explain it to me yesterday; but now my mind is like a London fog on the subject.’
“‘But I came up to speak to Annie
Kay. Where is Annie Kay? Ring the bell for
Annie Kay.’ Kay appeared.
‘Bring me my medicine-book, Annie Kay.
Kay is my apothecary’s boy, and makes up my
medicines.’ Kay appears with the book. ‘I
am a great doctor; would you like to hear some of my medicines?’
‘Oh yes, Mr. Sydney.’
‘There is the Gentle-jog, a pleasure to take it,—the Bull-dog, for more
serious cases,—Peter’s puke,—Heart’s delight, the
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“‘This is the house to be ill in’ (turning to us); ‘indeed everybody who comes is expected to take a little something; I consider it a delicate compliment when my guests have a slight illness here. We have contrivances for everything. Have you seen my patent armour? No? Annie Kay, bring my patent armour. Now, look here: if you have a stiff neck or swelled face, here is this sweet case of tin filled with hot water, and covered with flannel, to put round your neck, and you are well directly. Likewise, a patent tin shoulder, in case of rheumatism. There you see a stomach-tin, the greatest comfort in life; and lastly, here is a tin slipper, to be filled with hot water, which you can sit with in the drawing-room, should you come in chilled, without wetting your feet. Come and see my apothecary’s shop.’
“We all went downstairs, and entered a room filled entirely on one side with medicines, and on the other with every description of groceries and household or agricultural necessaries; in the centre, a large chest, forming a table, and divided into compartments for soap, candles, salt, and sugar.
“‘Here you see,’ said he, ‘every human
want before you:—
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‘Man wants but little here below, As beef, veal, mutton, pork, lamb, venison show;’
|
“‘By the bye, that reminds me of one of our greatest domestic triumphs. Some years ago my friend C——, the arch-epicure of the Northern Circuit, was dining with me in the country. On sitting down to dinner, he turned round to the servant, and desired him to look in his great-coat pocket, and he would find a lemon; “For,” he said, “I thought it likely you might have duck and green-peas for dinner, and therefore thought it prudent, at this distance from a town, to provide a lemon.” I turned round, and exclaimed indignantly, “Bunch, bring in the lemon-bag!” and Bunch appeared with a bag containing a dozen lemons. He respected us wonderfully after that. Oh, it is reported that he goes to bed with concentrated lozenges of wild-duck, so as to have the taste constantly in his mouth when he wakes in the night.’
“‘Look here, this is a stomach-pump; you can’t die here. Bobus roared with laughter when I showed it to him, but I saved my footman’s life by it.* He
* Literally true. The man had a passion for dough, and, returning hungry one night, found a lump of dough which had been prepared with arsenic for the rats, left most improperly by the gardener on the kitchen dresser; and, indulging his passion, he devoured |
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“We spent some time in examining the wonders of the shop, as he called it; he showing us all sorts of contrivances and comforts for both rich and poor; and, in doing so, exhibiting at the same time that mixture of sense, nonsense, forethought, and gaiety, so peculiar to himself, and which gave a charm even to the details of a grocer’s shop. We then returned to the drawing-room: in a short time he followed us up, with another book in his hand. ‘Mrs. Sydney, I find the cook wants yeast and eggs.’ ‘Yes, she has not been able to get any.’ ‘Why did you not write it down in my book, then. I always tell Mrs. Sydney, when she wants anything, to write it down in my book; once down in my book, and it is done directly. Look here, it is divided into
considerable quantity of it. The punishment was speedy; my father was called up, and, on hearing what had happened, put the stomach-pump instantly into use, and, turning to his medical books, applied incessantly the proper remedies all night, till the arrival of the medical man in the morning. The remaining dough was analysed, and I am afraid to state from memory the number of grains of arsenic he had swallowed. The medical man said, nothing but the promptness of my father’s remedies could possibly have saved the poor man’s life, which remained doubtful for many days; and it was months before he recovered from its effects. But he lived to show his gratitude to his master by his watchful and tender care of him in his last illness. |
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“Then, looking round on us: ‘I wish I could sew. I believe one reason why women are so much more cheerful, generally, than men, is because they can work, and vary more their employments. Lady —— used to teach her sons carpet-work. All men ought to learn to sew.’
“Speaking of manners as a part of education: ‘Yes, manners are often too much neglected; they are most important to men, no less than to women. I believe the English are the most disagreeable people under the sun; not so much because Mr. John Bull disdains to talk, as that the respected individual has nothing to say, and because he totally neglects manners. Look at a French carter; he takes off his hat to his neighbour carter, and inquires after “la santé de madame,” with a bow that would not have disgraced Sir Charles Grandison; and I have often seen a French soubrette with a far better manner than an English duchess. Life is too short to get over a bad manner; besides, manners are the shadows of virtue.’
“‘It is astonishing the influence foolish apothegms have
upon the mass of mankind, though they are not
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“A man gets well pummelled at a public school; is subject to every
misery and every indignity which seventeen years of age can inflict upon nine and ten;
has his eye nearly knocked out, and his clothes stolen and cut to pieces; and twenty
years afterwards, when he is a chrysalis, and has forgotten the miseries of his grub
state, is determined to act a manly part in life, and says, ‘I passed through
all that myself, and I am determined my son shall pass through it as I have
done;’ and away goes his bleating progeny to the tyranny and servitude of
the long chamber or the large dormitory. It would surely be much more rational to say,
‘Because I have passed through it, I am determined my son shall not pass
through it; because I was kicked for nothing, and cuffed for nothing, and fagged
for everything, I will spare all these miseries to my child.’ It is not
for any good which may be derived from this rough usage; that has not been weighed and
considered; few persons are capable of weighing its effects upon character; but there
is a sort of compensatory and consolatory notion, that the present generation (whether
useful or not, no matter) are not to come off scot-free, but are to have their share of
ill-usage; as if the black eve and bloody nose which
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“This fallacy proceeds from confounding resolutions with promises. If you have promised to give a man a guinea for a reward, or to sell him a horse or a field, you must do it; you are dishonest if you do not. But if you have made a resolution to eat no meat for a year, and everybody about you sees that you are doing mischief to your constitution, is it any answer to say, you have said so, and you will stick to your word? With whom have you made the contract but with yourself? and if you and yourself, the two contracting parties, agree to break the contract, where is the evil, or who is injured?
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“But why should it be either one thing or the other? why not something between both? Why are half-measures necessarily or probably unwise measures? I am embarrassed in my circumstances;—one of my plans is, to persevere boldly in the same line of expense, and to trust to the chapter of accidents for some increase of fortune;—the other is, to retire entirely from the world, and to hide myself in a cottage;—but I end with doing neither, and take a middle course of diminished expenditure. I do neither one thing nor the other, but possibly act wiser than if I had done either. I am highly offended by the conduct of an acquaintance; I neither overlook it entirely nor do I proceed to call him out; I do neither, but show him, by a serious change of manner, that I consider myself to have been ill-treated. I effect my object by half-measures. I cannot agree entirely with the Opposition or the Ministry; it may very easily happen that my half-measures are wiser than the extremes to which they are opposed. But it is a sort of metaphor which debauches the understanding of foolish people; and when half-measures are mentioned, they have much the same feeling as if they were cheated—as if they had bargained for a whole bushel and received but half. To act in extremes is sometimes wisdom; to avoid them is sometimes wisdom; every measure must be judged of by its own particular circumstances.”
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“‘Did you ever hear my definition of marriage? It is, that it resembles a pair of shears, so joined that they cannot be separated; often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing any one who comes between them.’
“Some one speaking of Macaulay: ‘Yes, I take great credit to myself; I always prophesied his greatness from the first moment I saw him, then a very young and unknown man, on the Northern Circuit. There are no limits to his knowledge, on small subjects as well as great; he is like a book in breeches. . . . Yes, I agree, he is certainly more agreeable since his return from India. His enemies might perhaps have said before (though I never did so) that he talked rather too much; but now he has occasional flashes of silence, that make his conversation perfectly delightful. But what is far better and more important than all this is, that I believe Macaulay to be incorruptible. You might lay ribbons, stars, garters, wealth, titles, before him in vain. He has an honest, genuine love of his country, and the world could not bribe him to neglect her interests.’
“Talking of absence: ‘The oddest instance of absence of
mind happened to me once in forgetting my own name. I knocked at a door in London;
asked, Is Mrs. B—— at home? “Yes, Sir; pray what name
shall I say?” I looked in the man’s face astonished:—what name?
what name? ay, that is the question; what is my name? I believe the man thought me mad;
but it is literally true, that during the space of
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“‘I heard of a clergyman who went jogging along the road till he came to a turnpike. “What is to pay?” “Pay, Sir? for what?” asked the turnpike-man. “Why, for my horse, to be sure.” “Your horse, Sir? what horse? Here is no horse, Sir.” “No horse? God bless me!” said he suddenly, looking down between his legs, “I thought I was on horseback.”
“‘Lord Dudley was one of the most absent men I think I ever met in society. One day he met me in the street, and invited me to meet myself. “Dine with me today; dine with me, and I will get Sydney Smith to meet you.” I admitted the temptation he held out to me, but said I was engaged to meet him elsewhere. Another time, on meeting me, he turned back, put his arm through mine, muttering, “I don’t mind walking with him a little way; I’ll walk with him as far as the end of the street.” As we proceeded together, W—— passed: “That is the villain,” exclaimed he, “who helped me yesterday to asparagus, and gave me no toast.” He very nearly overset my gravity once in the pulpit. He was sitting immediately under me, apparently very attentive, when suddenly he took up his stick, as if he had been in the House of Commons, and tapping on the ground with it, cried out in a low but very audible whisper, “Hear! hear! hear!”
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“‘By the bye, it happened to be a charity sermon, and I considered it a wonderful proof of my eloquence, that it actually moved old Lady C—— to borrow a sovereign from Dudley, and that he actually gave it her, though knowing he must take a long farewell of it. I was told afterwards by Lady S—— that she rejoiced to see it had brought ‘iron tears down Pluto’s cheek’ (meaning by that her husband), certainly little given to the melting mood in any sense.
“‘One speech, I remember, of Dudley’s, gratified me much. When I took leave of him, on quitting London to go into Yorkshire, he said to me, “You have been laughing at me constantly, Sydney, for the last seven years, and yet in all that time you never said a single thing to me that I wished unsaid.” This, I confess, pleased me.* . . . But I must go and scour the country for yeast and eggs;’—and off he went.
“After luncheon appeared at the door a low green garden chair, holding two, and drawn by the two donkeys already introduced; but despoiled, to their obvious relief, of their antlers. ‘This was built by my village carpenter,’ said he, ‘but its chief merit is that it cannot be overturned. You need not fear my driving now; Mrs. Sydney will give me an excellent character. She
* It is most gratifying to find how often this delicate use of his great powers of wit and sarcasm is alluded to by his friends and acquaintance in the papers entrusted to me. I see it is said of him, in one of the publications, at his death:—“It is a rare distinction, but one which ought to be written on his monument, that while he wasted no gift of those so liberally bestowed upon him, in ministering to the unworthy pleasures of others, or in promoting his own selfish aggrandisement,—as a wit he was more beloved than feared.” |
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“‘There!’ said he, ‘behold all the wonders of the world beneath you! can anything be more exquisite, more beautiful? I often come up here to meditate. I think of building a Gazebo here. The landscape is perfect; it wants nothing but water and a wise man. I think it was Jekyll who used to say, that ‘the further he went west, the more convinced he felt that the wise men did come from the east.’ We have not such an article. You might ride from the rising up of the sun until the going down thereof in these regions, and not find one (I mean a real philosopher) whom you would consult on the great affairs of life. We are thoroughly primitive; agriculture and agricultural tools are fifty years behind the rest of England.
“‘A neighbouring squire called on me the other day, and
informed me he had been reading a delightful book. The fact of his having any
literary pursuits at all was equally agreeable and surprising to me, and I inquired
the subject of his studies. “Oh!” said he,
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“‘A joke goes a great way in the country. I have known one last pretty well for seven years. I remember making a joke after a meeting of the clergy, in Yorkshire, where there was a Rev. Mr. Buckle, who never spoke when I gave his health; saying, that he was a buckle without a tongue. Most persons within hearing laughed, but my next neighbour sat unmoved and sunk in thought. At last, a quarter of an hour after we had all done, he suddenly nudged me, exclaiming, “I see now what you meant, Mr. Smith; you meant a joke.” “Yes,” I said, “Sir; I believe I did.” Upon which he began laughing so heartily, that I thought he would choke, and was obliged to pat him on the back.’
“Talking of the singular degree of obstinacy of Miss ——, on the most difficult and doubtful subjects, ‘Oh! nothing but a surgical operation will avail; it must be cut out of her.’
“‘I see you will not believe it, but I was once very
shy.’ ‘Were you indeed, Mr.
Smith? how did you cure yourself.’ ‘Why it was
not very long before I made two very useful discoveries: first, that all mankind
were not solely employed in observing me (a belief that all young people have); and
next, that shamming was of no use; that the world was very clear-sighted, and soon
estimated a man at his just value.
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“‘Oh yes! we both talk a great deal, but I don’t believe Macaulay ever did hear my voice,’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘Sometimes, when I have told a good story, I have thought to myself, Poor Macaulay! he will be very sorry some day to have missed hearing that.’
“‘Other rules vary; this is the only one you will find without exception,—that, in this world, the salary or reward is always in the inverse ratio of the duties performed.’
“Some one speaking of Mr. Grenville: ‘I always feel better for being in Mr. Grenville’s company; it is a beautiful sunset. You know the man in a regiment who is selected to stand out before them as their model; he is called the fugleman. Now, Mr. Grenville I always consider as the fugleman of old-age. He has contrived to combine the freshness and greenness of mind belonging to youth, with the dignity and wisdom of age.’
“Some one wondering at his praises of ——, and telling Sydney that he often abused him: ‘Oh!’ said my father, laughing, ‘I know he does not spare me, but that is no reason I should not praise him. At all times I had rather be the ox than the butcher.’
“Talking of Sheridan:
‘Creevy told me, once, when
dining with Sheridan, after the ladies had departed, he drew
the chair to the fire, and confided to Creevy that they had
just had a fortune left them. “Mrs.
Sheridan and I,” said he, “have made the
solemn vow to
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“This brought us home again. Meeting at the door his grandson, returning quite exhausted with a prodigious walk: ‘Oh, foolish boy! remember, head for glory, feet for use.’
“He then left us, and might be seen in his pretty library;
sometimes in his arm-chair, seated, with books of different kinds piled round him, some
grave, some gay, as his humour varied from hour to hour. And this rapid change of mood,
which I see his friend Mr. Moore remarks upon,
was one thing amongst many which gave such freshness and raciness to his conversation:
you never could guess what would come next.
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He used to say he never considered his education finished. To the last
years of his life, he kept up his classical studies, his reading and analysis of the Bible
(of which I find notes in his papers), and profane and ecclesiastical history, from which
he frequently put down hints, some of which I have given. He was also very fond of
exercising himself in translating English into French, which he spoke with great fluency,
but did not write correctly. He frequently interrupted these pursuits by issuing forth into
his gay garden, to take a stroll round it by himself, stopping at intervals, with his
crutch-stick swung behind him, as usual, as
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One of his most intimate friends writes of him:—“It is quite extraordinary how different every word that drops from Sydney’s pen is from anything else in the world. Individuality is stamped on every sentence, and you can hardly read a page without coming to some sentence that no other man could have written. It was the same with his conversation.”
It signified not what the materials were: I never remember a dull dinner in his company.* He extracted amusement from every subject, however hopeless. He descended and adapted himself to the meanest capacity, without seeming to do so; he led without seeking to lead; he never sought to shine—the light
* My poor mother felt the change so strongly after his death that, on dining out for the first time alone, she said, “Everybody seemed to her so unusually flat, that she thought they must all have suffered some severe loss.” |
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“Now, I mean not to drink one drop of wine today, and I shall be mad with spirits. I always am when I drink no wine. It is curious the effect a thimbleful of wine has upon me; I feel as flat as ——’s jokes; it destroys my understanding: I forget the number of the Muses, and think them thirty-nine of course; and only get myself right again by repeating the lines, and finding ‘Descend, ye thirty-nine!’ two feet too long.”
“Oh, Saba carves for me. I always tell her I shall cut her off with a shilling if she ever asks me to help her to a dish before me. It is quite a pleasure to see her carve.”
“That pudding! yes, that was the pudding Lady Holland asked the recipe for when she came to see us. I shook my head,
and said it could not be done,
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|
“To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boil’d eggs;
Two boil’d potatoes, pass’d through kitchen sieve.
Smoothness and softness to the salad give.
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o’er the flavour’d compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
“T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat:
Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul.
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl!
|
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|
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today.”
|
“Mrs. Sydney was dreadfully alarmed about her side-dishes the first time Luttrell paid us a visit, and grew pale as the covers were lifted; but they stood the test. Luttrell tasted and praised. He spent a week with us, and having associated him only with Pall Mall, I confess I was agreeably surprised to find how pleasant an inmate he made of a country-house, and almost of a family party; so light in hand, so willing to be pleased. Some of his Irish stories, too, were most amusing, and his manner of telling them so good. One: ‘Is your master at home, Paddy?’ ‘No, your honour.’ ‘Why, I saw him go in five minutes ago.’ ‘Faith, your honour, he’s not exactly at home; he’s only there in the back-yard a-shooting rats with cannon, your honour, for his devarsion!
“A school examination, too: the children were asked what the first woman was made of. A general burst of ‘Ribs of mon! ribs of mon!’ ‘And what was the first man made of?’ ‘Doost and ashes! doost and ashes!’ was the reply. After this trial of us, he repeated his visits several times, and we found him a most agreeable inmate.
“Oh, don’t tell me of facts, I never believe facts: you know, Canning said nothing was so fallacious as facts, except figures.”
“My friend Ord’s place is the last spot in England: all beyond is chaos.”
“That is a fine idea of Clarke’s:—‘The frost is
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“When some one asked what could induce the Ministry to send Lord M—— to Ireland and Lord C—— to Scotland, Jekyll said, ‘Oh, it is only the doctor who has put wrong labels on them by mistake.’ The apothecaries’ boys in London do this on purpose, and change the labels for their amusement: so Lady F. takes Lord D.’s embrocation, and Lord D. rubs his leg with her draught; but the most remarkable part of it all is, that it answers just as well as if the labels had been left.”
“I once dissuaded a youth from entering the army, on which he was bent, at the risk of breaking his mother’s heart, by asking him how he would prevent his sword from getting between his legs. It quite staggered him; he never solved the difficulty, and took to peace instead of war.”
“I agree with Sir James Mackintosh, and have found the world more good and more foolish than I thought when young.”
“It is an unlucky book;—fine sentiments fined down till you can’t see them; encouraging young ladies in dangerous imaginings of what is not; of an exquisite fellow bursting with sentiment, only he is in the moon and can’t be reached. I will, I think, write an opposition hero, who shall be the antidote.”
“The most promising sign in a boy is, I should say, mathematics.”
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“Madame de Sévigné I think much overpraised; everybody writes as well now. Lady Mary Wortley wrote much better, sound sense. Twelve volumes of pretty turns are too much.”
“You remember Thurlow’s answer to some one complaining of the injustice of a company. ‘Why, you never expected justice from a company, did you? they have neither a soul to lose, nor a body to kick.’”
“Ah, you always detect a little of the Irish fossil, the potato, peeping out in an Irishman.”
Some one, speaking of Missions, ridiculed them as inefficient. He dissented, saying, that “though all was not done that was projected, or even boasted of, yet that much good resulted; and that wherever Christianity was taught, it brought with it the additional good of civilization in its train, and men became better carpenters, better cultivators, better everything.”
He mentioned somebody rising in the House, saying, “I rise to answer the Honourable Alligator on the other side of the House.”
“Have you heard my parody on Pope?—
“Why has not man a collar and a log? For this plain reason—man is not a dog. Why is not man served up with sauce in dish? For this plain reason—man is not a fish. |
“Was —— not very disagreeable? ‘Why, he was as disagreeable as the occasion would permit,’ Luttrell said.”
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“Nobody was more witty or more bitter than Lord Ellenborough. A young lawyer, trembling with fear, rose to make his first speech, and began: ‘My lord, my unfortunate client— My lord, my unfortunate client— My lord—’ ‘Go on, Sir, go on,’ said Lord E.; ‘as far as you have proceeded hitherto, the Court is entirely with you.’ This was perhaps irresistible; but yet, how wicked! how cruel! it deserves a thousand years’ punishment at least.”
“Luttrell used to say, ‘I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind me so of poor relations.’”
“Oh, they were all so beautiful, that Paris could not have decided between them, but would have cut his apple in slices.”
“When I went into Rundell and Bridges’, there were heaps of diamonds lying loose about the counter. I never saw so many temptations, and so little apparent watchfulness. I thought there were many sops, and no Cerberus. But they told me, when I asked, that there were unseen eyes directed upon me in every part of the shop.”
Speaking of Lady Murray’s mother, who had a most benevolent countenance: “Her smile is so radiant, that I believe it would force even a gooseberry-bush into flower.”
Some young person, answering on a subject in discussion, “I don’t know that,” he said, smiling, “Ah! what you don’t know would make a great book, as C—— replied to B——.”
“I never go to tragedies, my heart is too soft. There is too much
real misery in life. But what a
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“Oh, Mrs. Sydney believes it is all true; and when I went with her to the play, I was always obliged to sit behind her, and whisper, ‘Why, Kate, he is not really going to kill her,—she is not really dead, you know;’ or she would have cried her eyes out, and gone into hysterics.”
“All gentlemen and ladies eat too much. I made a calculation, and found I must have consumed some waggon-loads too much in the course of my life. Lock up the mouth, and you have gained the victory. I believe our friend, Lady Morley, has hit upon the right plan in dining modestly at two. When we are absorbed in side-dishes, and perplexed with variety of wines, she sits amongst us, lightly flirting with a potato, in full possession of her faculties, and at liberty to make the best use of them,—a liberty, it must be owned, she does not neglect, for how agreeable she is! I like Lady Morley; she is what I call good company.”
“Never was known such a summer as this; water is selling at threepence a pint. My cows drink beer, my horses ale.”
“The French certainly understand the art of fur-
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 379 |
“In composing, as a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigour it will give your style.”
The conversation turning on ——, I forget who, it was said so well, “There is the same difference between their tongues as between the hour and the minute hand; one goes ten times as fast, and the other signifies ten times as much.”
“I think no house is well fitted up in the country without people of all ages. There should be an old man or woman to pet; a parrot, a child, a monkey;—something, as the French say, to love and to despise. I have just bought a parrot, to keep my servants in good humour.”
“No, I don’t like dogs; I always expect them to go mad. A
lady asked me once for a motto for her dog Spot. I proposed,
‘Out, damned Spot!’ but she did not think it sentimental enough.
You remember the story of the French marquise, who, when her pet lapdog bit a piece out
of her footman’s leg, exclaimed, ‘Ah, poor little beast! I hope it
won’t make him sick.’ I called one day on Mrs.
——, and her lap-dog flew at my leg and bit it. After pitying her dog,
like the French marquise, she did all she could to comfort me, by assuring me the dog
was a Dissenter, and hated the
| 380 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
“If you want to make much of a small income, always ask yourself these two questions:—first, do I really want it? secondly, can I do without it? These two questions, answered honestly, will double your fortune. I have always inculcated it in my family.”
“Lady —— is a remarkably clever, agreeable woman, but Nature has made one trifling omission—a heart; I do like a little heart, I must confess.”
“I never was asked in all my life to be a trustee or an executor. No one believes that I can be a plodding man of business, as mindful of its dry details as the gravest and most stupid man alive.”
“I have heard that one of the American ministers in this country was so oppressed by the numbers of his countrymen applying for introductions, that he was obliged at last to set up sham Sydney Smiths and false Macaulays. But they can’t have been good counterfeits; for a most respectable American, on his return home, was heard describing Sydney Smith as a thin, grave, dull, old fellow; and as to Macaulay (said he), I never met a more silent man in all my life!”
Talking of Mrs. ——: “She has not very clear
ideas, though, about the tides. I remember, at a large party at House, her insisting
that it was always high tide at London-bridge at twelve o’clock. She re-
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“Mr. —— once came to see us in Yorkshire; and he was so small and so active, he looked exactly like a little spirit running about in a kind of undress without a body.”
Speaking of a robbery: “It is Bacon, I think, who says so beautifully, ‘He that robs in darkness breaks God’s lock.’ How fine that is!”
On some persons mentioning Mr. ——: “Yes, I honour him for his talents and character, and his misfortunes have softened the little asperities of his manner, and made him much more agreeable. Tears are the waters of the heart.”
“People complain of their servants: I never had a bad one; but then I study their comforts, that is one recipe for securing good servants.”*
“Dante, in his ‘Purgatorio,’ would have assigned five hundred years of assenting to ——, and as many to —— of praising his fellow-creatures.”
“I have divided mankind into classes. There is the Noodle,—very numerous, but well known. The Affliction-woman,—a valuable member of society, generally an ancient spinster, or distant relation of the family, in small circumstances: the moment she hears of any accident or distress in the family, she sets off, packs up her little bag, and is immediately established there,
* He hardly ever lost a servant but from marriage or death. |
| 382 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
“Oh yes! there is another class, as you say; people who are always treading on your gouty foot, or talking in your deaf ear, or asking you to give them something with your lame hand, stirring up your weak point, rubbing your sore, etc.”
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 383 |
“The advice I sent to the Bishop of New Zealand, when he had to receive the cannibal chiefs there, was to say to them, ‘I deeply regret, Sirs, to have nothing on my own table suited to your tastes, but you will find plenty of cold curate and roasted clergyman on the sideboard;’ and if, in spite of this prudent provision, his visitors should end their repast by eating him likewise, why I could only add, ‘I sincerely hoped he would disagree with them.’ In this last sentiment he must cordially have agreed with me; and, upon the whole, he must have considered it a useful hint, and would take it kindly. Don’t you think so?”
On joining us in the drawing-room, and sitting down to the tea-table: “Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea? how did it exist? I am glad I was not born before tea. I can drink any quantity when I have not tasted wine; otherwise I am haunted by blue-devils by day, and dragons by night. If you want to improve your understanding, drink coffee. Sir James Mackintosh used to say, he believed the difference between one man and another was produced by the quantity of coffee he drank.”
“O’Connell presented me to the Irish members as the powerful and entertaining advocate of the Irish Catholic claims.”
Talking of the ardour of country gentlemen for preserving game: “I believe —— would die for his game. He is truly a pheasant-minded man; he revenged himself upon me by telling all the Joe Millers he could find as my jokes.”
| 384 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
“Oh, the Dean of —— deserves to be preached to death by wild curates.”
“I am old, but I certainly have not that sign of old-age, extolling the past at the expense of the present. On the contrary, the progress of the world in the last fifty years almost takes my breath away. Steam and electricity have advanced it beyond the dreams of the wildest visionary two hundred years ago. By the bye, on the subject of steam, I have a most curious letter, which I extracted from a periodical, and will show you; it struck me as so interesting, that I made inquiries about it from the author of the publication, and have some reason to believe it is authentic.
“While you are forgetting me at Narbonne, and giving
yourself up to the pleasures of the Court and the delight of thwarting
M. le Cardinal de Richelieu, I,
according to your express desire, am doing the honours of Paris to your English
lord the Marquis of Worcester; and I carry
him about, or rather he carries me, from curiosity to curiosity, choosing
always the most grave and serious, speaking little, listening with extreme
attention, and fixing on those whom he interrogates two large blue eyes, which
seem to pierce to the very centre of their thoughts. He is remarkable for never
being satisfied with any explanations which are given him, and he never sees
things in the light
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 385 |
“If this madman had not been actually raving, I verily
believe your Marquis would have entreated
his liberty, and have carried him off to London, in order to hear his
extravagances from morning till night, at his ease. We were crossing the court
of the madhouse, and I, more dead than alive with fright, kept close to my
companion’s side, when a frightful face appeared behind some immense
bars, and a hoarse voice exclaimed, ‘I am not mad! I am not mad! I
have made a discovery which would enrich the country that adopted
it.’ ‘What has he discovered?’ asked our guide.
‘Oh!’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders,
‘something trifling enough: you would never guess it; it is the
use of the steam of boiling water.’ I began to laugh.
‘This man,’ continued the keeper, ‘is named
Salomon de Caus; he came from
Normandy four years ago, to present to the King a statement of the wonderful
effects that might be produced from his invention. To listen to him, you would
imagine that with steam you could navigate ships, move carriages; in fact,
there is no end to the miracles which, he insists upon it, could be performed.
The Cardinal sent the madman away
without listening to him. Salomon de Caus, far from being
discouraged, followed the Cardinal wherever he went with the most determined
perseverance, who, tired of finding him for ever in his path, and annoyed at
his folly, shut him up in Bicêtre,
| 386 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
“Lord Worcester, who had listened to this account with much interest, after reflecting a time, asked for the book, of which, after having read several pages, he said, ‘This man is not mad; in my country, instead of shutting him up, he would have been rewarded. Take me to him, for I should like to ask him some questions.’ He was accordingly conducted to his cell; but, after a time, he came back sad and thoughtful. ‘He is indeed mad now,’ said he; ‘misfortune and captivity have alienated his reason; but it is you who have to answer for his madness; when you cast him into that cell, you confined the greatest genius of the age.’ After this we went away, and since that time he has done nothing but talk of Salomon de Caus.”
“I destroy, on principle, all letters to me, but I have no secrets myself. I should not care if almost every word I have written were published at Charing Cross. I live with open windows.”
“This is a noble description of God’s omnipresence (turning over the leaves of a book),’His centre is everywhere, his circumference is nowhere.’”
Talking of New Year’s Day and Christmas: “No, the returns of those fixed periods always make me
* This book is entitled, ‘Les Raisons des Forces mouvantes, avec diverses machines tant utiles que puissantes.’ (Pub. 1615, in folio.) |
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 387 |
“What a loss you had in not knowing Mackintosh! how was it? . . . . Yes, his manner was cold; his shake of the hand came under the genus ‘mortmain;’ but his heart was overflowing with benevolence. I like that simile I made on him in my letter, of ‘a great ship cutting its cable;’—it is fine, and it well described Mackintosh. His chief foible was indiscriminate praise. I amused myself the other day,” said he, laughing, “in writing a termination of a speech for him; would you like to hear it? I will read it to you:—
“‘It is impossible to conclude these observations without expressing the obligations I am under to a person in a much more humble scene of life,—I mean, Sir, the hackney-coachman by whom I have been driven to this meeting. To pass safely through the streets of a crowded metropolis must require, on the part of the driver, no common assemblage of qualities. He must have caution without timidity, activity without precipitation, and courage without rashness; he must have a clear perception of his object, and a dexterous use of his means. I can safely say of the individual in question, that, for a moderate reward, he has displayed unwearied skill; and to him I shall never forget that I owe unfractured integrity of limb, exemption from pain, and perhaps prolongation of existence.
| 388 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
“‘Nor can I pass over the encouraging cheerfulness with which I was received by the waiter, nor the useful blaze of light communicated by the link-boys, as I descended from the carriage. It was with no common pleasure that I remarked in these men, not the mercenary bustle of venal service, but the genuine effusions of untutored benevolence; not the rapacity of subordinate agency, but the alacrity of humble friendship. What may not be said of a country where all the little accidents of life bring forth the hidden qualities of the heart,—where her vehicles are driven, her streets illumined, and her bells answered, by men teeming with all the refinements of civilized life?
“‘I cannot conclude, Sir, without thanking you for the very clear and distinct manner in which you have announced the proposition on which we are to vote. It is but common justice to add, that public assemblies rarely witness articulation so perfect, language so select, and a manner so eminently remarkable for everything that is kind, impartial, and just.’”*
At ten we always went downstairs to prayers, in the library. Immediately after, if we were alone, appeared the ‘farmer’ at the door, lantern in hand. “David,
* This trifling critique on his old friend, good-humoured as it is, I should not have given without the permission of his family, who know that Sir James, had he seen it, would have been the first to smile at it. I ought to add, that the same kind indulgence has been granted me wherever I have ventured on any anecdote that I feared might give pain. |
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 389 |
On returning to the drawing-room, he usually asked for a little music. “If I were to begin life again, I would devote much time to music. All musical people seem to me happy; it is the most engrossing pursuit; almost the only innocent and unpunished passion.
“Never give way to melancholy: nothing encroaches more; I fight against it vigorously.* One great remedy is, to take short views of life. Are you happy now? Are you likely to remain so till this evening? or next week? or next month? or next year? Then why destroy present happiness by a distant misery, which may never come at all, or you may never live to see it? for every substantial grief has twenty shadows, and most of them shadows of your own making.”
Speaking of ——: “It was a beautiful old-age; how fine those lines of Waller are—
“The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d. Let in new lights through chinks that Time has made!’” |
“Yes; —— was merry, not wise. You know, a man of small understanding is merry where he can, not where he should. Lightning must, I think, be the wit of heaven.”
Mr. P—— said to him, “I always write best with
* Yet I see in his note-book,—“I wish I were of a more sanguine temperament; I always anticipate the worst.” |
| 390 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
Speaking of a Revolutionist: “No man, I fear, can effect great benefits for his country without some sacrifice of the minor virtues.”
“I often think what a different man I might have been if, like my friend Lord Holland, and others, I had passed my life with all that is most worth seeing and hearing in Europe, instead of being confined through the greater part of it to the society of the parish-clerk. I always feel it is combating with unequal weapons; but I have made a tolerable fight of it, nevertheless. I am rather an admirer of O’Connell: he, it cannot be denied, has done a great deal for Ireland, and, on the whole, I believe he meant well; but ‘hell,’ as Johnson says, ‘is paved with good intentions.’”
A little more of such talk, intermixed with those brilliant and amusing bursts of humour and attack,—which I see prettily compared, in one of the printed sketches of him, to “summer lightning, that never harmed the object illumined by its flash,”—and then to bed; and all was quiet, and at peace, in the little parsonage.
I have endeavoured here,—partly from recollection, partly from my own and
my friends’ notes,—to give some faint idea of the style of my father’s
conversation and his manner of living with his family and friends. I flatter myself, by
those who knew him intimately, it
| MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. | 391 |
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