Part 89

Dr. Zachary Pearce is remarkable for having desired to resign his deanery and bishopric. In 1763, being then seventy-three years old, he told his majesty in his closet that he found the business of his stations too much for him; that he was afraid it would grow more so as he advanced in years, and desired to retire, that he might spend more time in his devotions and studies. Afterwards, one of the law lords doubted the practicability of resigning a bishopric, but on further consideration the difficulty disappeared. The king then gave his consent, and the bishop kissed hands upon it; but lord Bath requesting the bishopric and deanery of the king for Dr. Newton, then bishop of Bristol, the ministry thought that no church dignities should pass from the crown but through their hands, and opposed the resignation, as the shortest way of keeping the bishopric from being disposed of otherwise than they liked. On this occasion the law lord, earl Mansfield, who had been doubtful, and who soon after had seen clear, doubted again, and Dr. Pearce was told by the king he must think no more about resigning the bishopric. In 1768 he resigned the deanery of Westminster, and wrote

THE WISH.

From all Decanal cares at last set free, (O could that freedom still more perfect be) My sun’s meridian hour, long past and gone; Dim night, unfit for work, comes hast’ning on; In life’s late ev’ning, thro’ a length of day, I find me gently tending to decay: How shall I then my fated exit make? How best secure my great eternal stake? This my prime wish, to see thy glorious face, O gracious God, in some more happy place; Till then to spend my short remains of time In thoughts, which raise the soul to truths sublime; To live with innocence, with peace and love, As do those saints who dwell in bliss above: By prayers, the wings which faith to reason lends, O _now_ my soul to Heav’n’s high throne ascends: While here on earth, thus on my bended knee, O Power divine, I supplicate to thee; May I meet Death, when his approach is made, Not fend of life, nor of his dart afraid; Feel that my gain, which I esteem’d a loss: Heav’n is the gold refin’d, earth but the dross.

Bishop Pearce lived and laboured till June 29, 1774, when he died in the eighty-fourth year of his age.

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There is a neat monument by Nollekens over the north gallery of the church, with a remarkable inscription:--“Sacred to the memory of Thomas Chase, Esq. formerly of this parish, born in the city of Lisbon the 1st of November, 1729; and buried under the ruins of the same house where he first saw the light in the ever-memorable and terrible earthquake which befell that city the 1st of November, 1755: when after a most wonderful escape, he by degrees recovered from a very deplorable condition, and lived till the 20th of Nov 1788, aged 59 years.”

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On the outside of the church a monumental stone, fixed in the wall, records a memorable and affecting instance of gratitude in noble terms:--

Near this Place lies the Body of ELIZABETH MONK, Who departed this Life On the 27th Day of August, 1753, Aged 101: She was the Widow of JOHN MONK, late of this Parish, Blacksmith, Her second Husband, To whom she had been a wife near fifty Years, By whom she had no Children; And of the Issue of the first Marriage none lived to the second; But VIRTUE Would not suffer her to be Childless: An Infant, to whom, and to whose Father and Mother she had been Nurse (Such is the Uncertainty of temporal Prosperity) Became dependent upon Strangers for the Necessaries of Life: To him she afforded the Protection of a Mother. This parental Charity Was returned with filial Affection; And she was supported, in the Feebleness of Age, by him whom she had cherished in the Helplessness of Infancy. LET IT BE REMEMBERED, That there is no Station in which Industry will not obtain Power to be liberal, Nor any Character on which Liberality will not confer Honor She had been long prepared, by a simple and unaffected Piety, For that awful moment, which, however delayed, Is universally sure. How few are allowed an equal Time of Probation! How many, by their Lives, appear to presume upon more!

To preserve the memory of this person; and yet more, to perpetuate the lesson of her life, this stone was erected by voluntary contribution.

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An intelligent inhabitant of Bromley, in the year 1747, mentions a discovery, with some accompanying remarks, appropriate to the present notice:--

“In the year 1733, the present clerk of the parish church of Bromley in Kent, by his digging a grave in that church-yard, close to the east end of the chancel wall, dug up a funeral crown, or garland, which is most artificially wrought in fillagree work with gold and silver wire, in resemblance of myrtle, (with which plant the funebrial garlands of the ancients were composed,[286]) whose leaves are fastened to hoops of larger wire of iron, now something corroded with rust, but both the gold and silver remain to this time very little different from their original splendour. It was also lined with cloth of silver, a piece of which, together with part of this curious garland, I keep as a choice relic of antiquity.

“Besides these crowns, (which were buried with deceased virgins,) the ancients had also their depository garlands, the use of which was continued even till of late years (and perhaps are still retained in many parts of this nation, for my own knowledge of these matters extends not above twenty or thirty miles round London,) which garlands, at the funerals of the deceased, were carried solemnly before the corpse by two maids, and afterwards hung up in some conspicuous place within the church, in memorial of the departed person, and were (at least all that I have seen) made after the following manner, viz. the lower rim or circlet was a broad hoop of wood, whereunto was fixed, at the sides thereof, part of two other hoops crossing each other at the top, at right angles, which formed the upper part, being about one-third longer than the width; these hoops were wholly covered with artificial flowers of paper, dyed horn, or silk, and more or less beauteous, according to the skill or ingenuity of the performer. In the vacancy of the inside, from the top, hung white paper, cut in form of gloves, whereon was wrote the deceased’s name, age, &c. together with long slips of various coloured paper or ribbons. These were many times intermixed with gilded or painted empty shells of blown eggs, as farther ornaments; or, it may be, as emblems of the bubbles or bitterness of this life; whilst other garlands had only a solitary hour-glass hanging therein, as a more significant symbol of mortality.

“About forty years ago these garlands grew much out of repute, and were thought by many as very unbecoming decorations for so sacred a place as the church; and at the reparation or new beautifying several churches where I have been concerned, I was obliged, by order of the minister and churchwardens, to take the garlands down, and the inhabitants were strictly forbidden to hang up any more for the future. Yet notwithstanding, several people, unwilling to forsake their ancient and delightful custom, continued still the making of them, and they were carried at the funerals, as before, to the grave, and put therein upon the coffin over the face of the dead; this I have seen done in many places.”[287]

[280] See the _Every Day-Book_, on St. John’s eve, &c.

[281] Brand.

[282] In vol. i. p. 715.

[283] Statistical Account of Scotland.

[284] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

[285] Weever.

[286] Sir Thomas Brown’s Misc. Tracts, p. 29.

[287] Gentleman’s Magazine.

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~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXVII.

[From the “Gentleman of Venice,” a Tragi-Comedy by James Shirley, 1655.]

_Giovanni, of noble extraction, but brought up a Gardener, and ignorant of any greater birth, loves Bellaura, a Princess; and is beloved again._

_Bellaura. Giovanni._

_Bell._ How now, Giovanni; What, with a sword! You were not used to appear Thus arm’d. Your weapon is a spade, I take it. _Gio._ It did become my late profession, Madam: But I am changed-- _Bell._ Not to a soldier? _Gio._ It is a title, Madam, will much grace me; And with the best collection of my thoughts I have ambition to the wars. _Bell._ You have? _Gio._ O ’tis a brave profession and rewards All loss we meet, with double weight in glory; A calling, Princes still are proud to own; And some do willingly forget their crowns, To be commanded. ’Tis the spring of all We here entitle fame to; Emperors, And all degrees of honours, owing all Their names to this employment; in her vast And circular embraces holding Kings, And making them; and yet so kind as not To exclude such private things as I, who may Learn and commence in her great arts.--My life Hath been too useless to my self and country; ’Tis time I should employ it, to deserve A name within their registry, that bring The wealth, the harvest, home of well-bought honour. _Bell._ Yet I can see Through all this revolution, Giovanni, ’Tis something else has wrought this violent change. Pray let me be of counsel with your thoughts, And know the serious motive; come, be clear. I am no enemy, and can assist Where I allow the cause. _Gio._ You may be angry, Madam, and chide it as a saucy pride In me to name or look at honour; nor Can I but know what small addition Is my unskilful arm to aid a country. _Bell._ I may therefore justly suspect there is Something of other force, that moves you to The wars. Enlarge my knowledge with the secret. _Gio._ At this command I open my heart. Madam, I must confess there is another cause, Which I dare not in my obedience Obscure, since you will call it forth; and yet I know you will laugh at me-- _Bell._ It would ill Become my breeding, Giovanni-- _Gio._ Then, Know, Madam, I am in love. _Bell._ In love with whom? _Gio._ With one I dare not name, she is so much Above my birth and fortunes. _Bell._ I commend Your flight. But does she know it? _Gio._ I durst never Appear with so much boldness to discover My heart’s so great ambition; it is here still A strange and busy guest. _Bell._ And you think absence May cure this wound-- _Gio._ Or death-- _Bell._ I may presume You think she’s fair-- _Gio._ I dare as soon question your beauty, Madam, The only ornament and star of Venice, Pardon the bold comparison; yet there is Something in you, resembles my great Mistress. She blushes--(_aside_). Such very beams disperseth her bright eye, Powerful to restore decrepit nature; But when she frowns, and changes from her sweet Aspect, (as in my fears I see you now, Offended at my boldness), she does blast Poor Giovanni thus, and thus I wither At heart, and wish myself a thing lost in My own forgotten dust.

C. L.

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JAMES THOMSON.

A volume, entitled the “English Gentleman’s Library Manual,” contains the following remarkable anecdotes respecting the author of “The Seasons.”

MEMORANDA COMMUNICATED BY JAMES ROBERTSON, ESQ. OF RICHMOND, IN SURREY, LATE SURGEON TO THE HOUSEHOLD AT KEW, OCTOBER 17, 1791, TO THOMAS PARKE, ESQ. THE POET, AND BY HIM TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.

_Parke._ Have you any objection, sir, to my taking down memorandums to a conversation?

_Robertson._ Not in the least, I will procure you pen, ink, and paper immediately.

I understand, sir, you knew Thomson long?

I became acquainted with him in the year 1726, when he published his poem of Winter. He lived opposite to me, in Lancaster-court, in the Strand. I went to the East Indies soon after, which caused a chasm in our acquaintance; but, on my return, our intimacy was strengthened, and continued to the hour of his death. I do not know any man, living or dead, I ever esteemed more highly, and he was attached to me. I had once a complaint of a consumptive nature, which confined me much at home, and he was so good as to come often from Kew-lane to sit with me.

Did you know Amanda?

Know her? Yes, sir, I married her sister. Amanda was a Miss Young, daughter to captain Gilbert Young, of the Gulyhill family, in Dumfriesshire, and was married afterwards to admiral Campbell. She was a fine sensible woman, and poor Thomson was desperately in love with her. Mr. Gilbert Young, her nephew, left my house this very morning. Thomson, indeed, was never wealthy enough to marry.

Mr. Collins, the brewer, has told me, that he was so heedless in his money concerns, that in paying him a bill for beer, he gave him two bank notes rolled together instead of one. Collins did not perceive the mistake till he got home, and when he returned the note Thomson appeared perfectly indifferent about the matter, and said he had enough to go on without it! Mr. Robertson smiled at this anecdote, and said it was like him.

He was not, I believe, one of the weeping philosophers. He was no Heraclitus?

No, he was not, indeed. I remember his being stopped once between London and Richmond, and robbed of his watch, and when I expressed my regret for his loss, “Pshaw, damn it,” said he, “I am glad they took it from me, ’twas never good for any thing.”

Was he national in his affections?

He had no prejudices whatever; he was the most liberal of men in all his sentiments.

I have been told that he used to associate with parson Cromer, and some other convivials, at the Old Orange Tree, in Kew-lane?

Relaxation of any kind was to him frequently desirable, and he could conform to any company. He was benevolent and social, both in his writings and in his life; as his friend, Dr. Armstrong, said on another occasion, he practised what he preached. Lord L.’s character of him as an author was perfectly just, that in his last moments he had no cause to wish any thing blotted he had ever written.

I hear he kept very late hours?

No, sir, very early; he was always up at sunrise, but then he had never been in bed.

Did you ever correspond with him?

Very seldom. We were so much together there was little opportunity or occasion for it.

You do not happen to have any reliques of his hand-writing?

I don’t think I have; but when I get my breath a little better I will look among my papers to try if I can find any.

The kind old gentleman was warmed with the subject, and even set forward to his escritoire in the pursuit, but returned only with a letter from the late Dr. Armstrong, which he flattered himself contained something relative to Thomson. In this he was mistaken. It was a rhapsody of thanks in return for being presented with a large bottle of spirits; but it was well worth an airing. This, said Mr. R., will show you the intimate terms I was upon with Johnny Armstrong, who wrote that beautiful poem, the “Art of Preserving the Health.” He was a very ingenious and excellent man.

Did you know Dr. Patrick Murdoch, who wrote Thomson’s Life?

Ay, very well, and esteemed him. Pattie, as I always called him, had a good heart.

Pope, as I have heard, used often to visit Thomson?

Yes, frequently. Pope has sometimes said, Thomson, I’ll walk to the end of your garden, and then set off to the bottom of Kew-foot-lane and back. Pope, sir, courted Thomson, and Thomson was always admitted to Pope whether he had company or not; but Pope had a jealousy of every eminent writer; he was a viper that gnawed the file.

Was Pope a great talker?

Pope, when he liked his company, was a very agreeable man. He was fond of adulation, and when he had any dislike was a most bitter satirist.

Thomson, I think, was very intimate with David Mallet, the editor of Bolingbroke?

Sir, that person’s name was properly “Malloch;” but I used to call him “Moloch” in our festive moments, and Thomson enjoyed the jest. Sir, he had not Thomson’s heart; he was not sound at the core; he made a cat’s-paw of Thomson, and I did not like the man on that account.

Thomson had two cousins or nephews, who were gardeners, did they live with him?

No, they did not live with him, they lived upon him. He was so generous a man, that if he had but two eggs he would have given them both away.

Were you acquainted with Mr. Gray, who lived at Richmond Hill?

Yes, I knew a John Gray, who was a victualler. He purchased Thomson’s collection of prints and drawings after his decease, but I believe purely out of ostentation.

You must have had great influence over him, sir, from several circumstances you have mentioned, but wish to be suppressed?

Without ostentation or vanity, sir, I really very often have wondered how I came to have so much, and the rest of his friends wondered too; for I do say it most sincerely, that I never could find out what made Thomson and many of these geniuses so partial to me as they appeared.

Then, sir, I suspect you are the only one who could not make the discovery?

Sir, I was not fishing for a compliment, I do assure you.

If you had, sir, I should not have snatched so eagerly at your bait.

I suppose you attended Thomson in a medical as well as in a social capacity?

Yes, Armstrong and myself were with him till his last moments. I was in the room with him when he died. A putrid fever carried him off in less than a week. He seemed to me to be desirous not to live, and I had reason to think that my sister-in-law was the occasion of this. He could not bear the thoughts of her being married to another.

Pray did you attend his funeral?

Indeed I did, and a real funeral it was to me, as Quin said when he spoke the prologue to “Coriolanus”--“I was in truth no actor there.”

Did you hear Quin speak that prologue, sir?

Yes, I could not have been absent.

Were you the only intimate friend who paid the last tribute of respect to Thomson’s remains?

No, sir, Quin attended, and Mallet, and another friend, whose name I do not recollect. He was interred in the north-west corner of Richmond church, just where the christening pew now stands. I pointed out the place to the sexton’s widow, that she might show it to strangers.

Did you know Andrew Millar, the bookseller?

I knew him well. He took a box near Thomson’s, in Kew-lane, to keep in with him as an author who might be profitable to him. Andrew was a good-natured man, and not an unpleasant companion, but he was a little contracted in mind by his business, and had the dross of a bookseller about him.

Did you know Paterson?

Yes. Paterson had been clerk to a counting-house in the city, went for some time abroad, and on his return was amanuensis to Thomson, was his deputy as surveyor-general to the Leeward Islands, and succeeded him in that office, but he did not live long to enjoy it, I believe not more than two years.

Collins, the poet, and Hammond, author of the “Love Elegies,” visited Thomson?

Yes. Ah! poor Collins, he had much genius, but half mad. Hammond was a gentleman, and a very pleasant man. Yet Thomson, I remember, one day called him a burnished butterfly. Quin, the comedian, was a sincere friend of Thomson; he was naturally a most humane and friendly man, and only put on the brute when he thought it was expected from him by those who gave him credit for the character.

Was the anecdote of Quin and Thomson true?

Yes, I believe it was.

Boswell surmised that Thomson was a much coarser man than is commonly allowed?

Sir, Thomson was neither a _petit-maître_ nor a boor; he had simplicity without rudeness, and a cultivated manner without being courtly. He had a great aversion to letter-writing, and did not attempt much of prose composition of any kind. His time for composition was generally at the dead of night, and was much in his summer-house, which, together with every memorial of his residence, is carefully preserved by the honourable Mrs. Boscawen.

Did you know, sir, of any other attachments of Thomson’s, except that to his Amanda?

No, I believe he was more truly attached to my little wife and her sister than to any one else, next to Amanda. Mr. H., of Bangor, said he was once asked to dinner by Thomson, but could not attend. One of his friends, who was there, told him that there was a general stipulation agreed on by the whole company, that there should be no hard drinking. Thomson acquiesced, only requiring that each man should drink his bottle. The terms were accepted unconditionally, and when the cloth was removed, a three-quart bottle was set before each of his guests. Thomson had much of this kind of agreeable humour. Mr. Aikman, the painter, and Dr. De la Cour, a physician and ingenious writer, were intimate and beloved friends of Thomson. Mr. Aikman was a gentleman of competent estate, and was always friendly to Thomson.

Sir, I cordially thank you for this kindness, in suffering yourself to be teased with interrogations; and when lord Buchan’s tablet on the grave of the poet shall be imposed in Richmond church, I shall hope to see you tripping across the green to take a peep at it.

Sir, if I can crawl across for such a gratification, I shall certainly do it.

We then twice shook hands and parted. Intelligent old gentleman! Little was I aware that his lengthened eve of life was so very near its close! He was taken seriously ill a few hours after I left him, Monday, October 24, and on the Friday following he died, and was buried on Saturday, the 4th of November, by the south side of Richmond church.

Mors ultima linea rerum est.

(Signed) T. P.

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QUIPOES.

The Peruvians had a method of expressing their meaning by narrow knotted ribands of various colours, which they called “Quipoes:” a certain number of knots of one colour, divided by so many of another, expressed particular meanings; and served these simple and innocent people in place of the art of writing.

P.

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SPANISH MYSTERIES.