In those letters W. undertakes to give a character of Porson, who, by the way, had always a contempt, which he was at little pains to conceal, for W.’s critical abilities. In this character, it is lamentable to say, there is more truth than could be wished; but when it is affirmed that Porson was dull in conversation, it may be maintained that W. knew nothing of the man. If it be true, as perhaps it may, that Porson never spent but one day at W.’s, it appears from his notes that our friend spent that day with him, and accompanied him thither. He well knew Porson’s sentiments of their host, and thought that he rather exerted himself more than usual on that day, and that the conversation on all sides was lively and interesting. Be that as it may, Porson could on no account be represented as dull. If he did not like his company, he would perhaps be silent; but whenever he did say any thing, they must have been dull hearers, who did not immediately discern rays of intelligence, acuteness, and information, whatever the subject introduced might be. It is extremely difficult to account for W.’s thus committing himself on the subject of Porson, and for his asserting what he must have been conscious at the time, it was in the power of so many persons living, to contradict and refute.
On the whole, perhaps, the biographical sketch which W. has given of himself is agreeable enough, for it can hardly be expected that an individual should exhibit a representation of his own infirmities and defects. Our friend certainly retained no particle of enmity against his memory, but there are memorandums before us, from which it appears that the venerable Sylvanus Urban, Gent. has at different times received letters from W. of which the spirit was to the full as harsh and acrimonious, as that which has been transcribed above.
Ω μῆτερ ικετευωσε μη πισειε μοι
Τας αἱματωπους και δρακοντωδεις κορας.
CHAPTER XV.
With respect to what follows in the pages immediately succeeding, he who undertook to select from, and place in something like order, the scraps and memorandums of the Sexagenarian, confesses that to him the whole is perfectly unintelligible.
But as it is not ill written, and certainly alludes both to some extraordinary personage and very particular events, it is inserted for the exercise of the sagacity of contemporaries, if any shall yet remain, who can break the sphinx’s head.
“How can I entirely pass over, or in what terms shall I reveal one of the most singular and extraordinary facts that ever occurred, but which in my time excited an universal fermentation in our university. A thousand feelings press upon my mind at the remembrance of it, each and all tending to restrain my pen from diffuse or circumstantial description. A star appeared in our horizon, brilliant as the sun of the morning;—in a dire moment, when every eye was expecting its increasing splendour, it suddenly sunk in night:—but the night was not eternal—the star rose again—it still illuminates our extensive sphere. I myself have repeatedly basked among its rays, and enjoyed its genial warmth.—The phænomenon exhibits one of those very rare instances, where the steady exertions of diligence, prudence, and circumspection, aided by talents, and directed by genius, rise superior to the enormous pressure of disgrace and contempt: where a secret and latent vitality lurks in the sap of the blighted rose tree, which being transplanted to a genial soil, a balmy air, duly watered and carefully watched, the principle of life slowly and gradually circulates and ascends, and the senses are finally charmed and delighted with fragrance and with beauty. I forbear to say more, but may in this place not improperly introduce the following anecdote.
“A young man of the college remarkable rather for his knowledge of dogs and horses, than for the brilliancy of his literary attainments, had incurred the displeasure of his tutor. He was sent for to the tutor’s apartment, and after much expostulation and remonstrance, a Spectator was put into his hands, the longest paper selected, and he was ordered, on pain of rustication, not to leave his rooms till he should have rendered it into Latin. On his return, in no very cheerful mood, he found in his rooms a friend. He immediately began his melancholy tale. “Here,” said he, “am I to be confined till the vacation, for it will take me at least till that time, to complete the abominable task of translating this eternal paper into Latin.” His friend desired him to compose himself, to sit down, take pen and paper, and write as he dictated. He did so, and in an inconceiveably short space of time the task was accomplished. He did not, however, venture to take it to the tutor till the day following, and very great astonishment was even then expressed at so early an execution of what had been imposed. The young man departed in high glee; but he had not long been gone, before he was hastily sent for again. “Young man,” said the tutor, “do not make bad worse, by telling me a falsehood. I well know that this exercise is not of your own composition; but I insist upon knowing who did it for you.” Thus on compulsion the name of the real author was of necessity revealed. The reader may guess the rest. It was an early effulgence of that same brilliant star, which set for a time to rise again with renewed and extended radiance.