COLLEGE LIFE CONTINUED.
Under the Professor’s guidance and instruction, considerable progress was made in mathematical and philosophical studies; and that this must have been done, appeared from his always speaking of his pupil’s advancement in terms of strong approbation, and with the assurance on his part, that he entertained no doubt of his arriving at the highest honours. This, however, did not actually happen. His heart was not in these studies; he had a constant hankering after the classics and belles lettres, and again and again detected himself in the depth of old English literature, when he should have been preparing himself for the Professor’s lectures. The book which first gave him a taste for old English writers, the poets more particularly, was “Percy’s Reliques,” which he read over and over again with inconceivable satisfaction.
He was proceeding quietly and happily in this path, when an incident occurred, which disturbed him not a little. He was called upon in his turn, to compose and repeat a declamation in the chapel, and a prize of books was at this precise period, bequeathed by a former master of the college, to the best declamation of the year. This was a great stimulus, and roused all his energies. But his mortification was undescribable, when sitting down to compose on the given subject, he found he could make nothing of it. The mind, it is true, was crowded with ideas, illustrations, characters, anecdotes, but he was unable to combine and arrange them. It was still worse when he attempted to express them in Latin. He could make Latin verse readily, and with some degree of elegance. He had indeed written themes, made translations from various English authors; but the thing was totally different: a regular composition of several pages first to be digested, and afterwards recited, seemed to present difficulties invincible. To make bad worse, he had brought with him to college something of a reputation for classical attainment, and at examination first, and afterwards at the ordinary college lectures, he certainly did not lose the footing he had gained. But original composition was a very distinct matter, and more particularly in Latin. The time was limited, the last day came, and he had made very little progress. He however put something together, and with the help of a little self-command, and a tolerably good manner and modulation of voice, he got through better than he expected. He was, however, abashed and ashamed to put the composition into the hands of the tutor, which it was customary to do. It was very indifferent, and at best but English Latin. It must be unnecessary to say, that the declamation prize was not gained this year, but it was the next.
“Here let me speak the truth.—(Loquitur protempore Sexagenarius.)—I never encountered any literary difficulty in the whole course of my studies greater than that of a proficiency in writing Latin, properly so called. For alas! though I did obtain the prize in the subsequent competition of my brother under-graduates, I think that at this time I should be afraid and ashamed to peruse the successful essay. It must have been from a mere relative superiority, and from no intrinsic merit in the composition itself. It is very singular, but very true, I could read the language with sufficient facility; I could speak it with a sort of fluency, and in my Act, and other exercises of the School, was complimented for this very talent by the Moderator, who was an approved scholar, and was afterwards the author of a popular tract on Greek and Latin metres. Yet I could not catch the idiom—the rhythm was English. At a subsequent period I was more successful, and at length I could write it habitually, with correct and real Latinity. But in the interval, a circumstance occurred which I will candidly relate.
I have written more than one Harveian Oration for different members of the college, who were my friends. I was present at the delivery of the first which I wrote, and so, unluckily, was Sir William Fordyce, a most excellent scholar. When it was finished, several of the members complimented my friend on the composition; but I had the mortification of hearing Sir William whisper a stander-by, that it was good English Latin. What he said was perfectly true. My next essay was better.”
Perhaps it should in strict propriety have been related, that the writer of these memoranda concerning himself, did not proceed to the university wholly unacquainted with mathematical learning, and in justice a tribute of respect should have been paid to one who well deserved it.
There were a number of tradesmen of the middle rank, or rather somewhat below it, who formed a society for their mutual improvement and assistance in knowledge. The very idea implies them to be what they actually were, men of considerable talents; indeed, as well as can be remembered, there was not one among them, who does not deserve a separate memoir. Humble and limited as their education must have necessarily been, the very meanest of them had some knowledge of the classics, or had made some proficiency in mathematics and philosophy. It were to be wished, that more particulars could be obtained concerning them. One was the most extraordinary and eccentric character that ever lived, to whom some slight allusion has been made before. He had been apprentice to a cooper, a private soldier, a journey-man-weaver, and a writer to an attorney; yet he was a very good Latin scholar, and had attained no contemptible proficiency in Greek; but he was an excellent mathematician, and of no mean acquirements in philosophical knowledge. As his income was of course exceedingly scanty, he made the experiment upon how little he could actually subsist, in case of necessity; and strange as it may seem, he made something less than a halfpenny a day suffice. He bought a farthing’s worth of potatoes, and a farthing’s worth of salt, and he saved from each day of both, what proved sufficient for his dinner on Sunday.
This, however, was not the person who assisted the Sexagenarian. The name of his friend was Peter B⸺y. He was what is called a Throwster, of which no further explanation can here be given, than by saying that his occupation was, to prepare the yarn for the weaver. His situation was of the humblest kind, but never was there a more acute, intelligent, or able man. His knowledge of mathematics was surprizing; but how he obtained it, nobody could imagine. He was perfectly self-taught, or at least had no better instruction than a common charity-school supplied; and what he might have obtained both of acquirements and celebrity, with the advantages of education, and under more favourable circumstances of local situation, it is not easy to ascertain. Be this as it may, it was impossible not to admire the precision and clearness of his mode of instructing; and the Sexagenarian left him, after spending an hour in the day with him for two or three months, as well acquainted with Euclid and simple equations as it was necessary to be. No mention would have been made of this person, whose memory much deserves respect, but for his mental endowments. He had, however, even after he had passed the middle age of life, most extraordinary agility. He could do, what few other persons would ever attempt. He used to take a few steps, and putting one of his feet against the wall, would turn the other over it, so as to make a complete revolution of his body. He performed many similar feats of activity.
It is not known that any specimens of his talents were printed, except in the Ladies’ Diary, to which he was a frequent contributor; and to which, if the reader will refer, if he shall have the opportunity, he will, from about the years 1768 to 1780, have sufficient demonstration, that this venerable and early instructor of our friend, merits the tribute of respect which is here paid him.
Parce venturis, tibi mors paramur,
Sis licet segnis, properamus ipsi.