The circumstances of his death are but imperfectly known. No one was more likely to fall a premature victim to too great anxiety, and it was conjectured that too large a share of it, accelerated his withdrawing himself from the society he loved. Be this as it may: a few months since, was advertised to be sold by auction, at the rooms of a popular auctioneer, under a fictitious name, his well chosen library. Among the books were some manuscripts, which it was thought the family ought to have preserved. One in particular, was a very large Common-place-book, from the examination of which it was evident, that at some period of his life or other, he had meditated the composition of Memoirs of his literary life, with anecdotes of all the distinguished personages, with whom he had lived on terms of greater or less familiarity. But all was confusion; there was nothing like arrangement. In one place, “Anecdotes of Bishop ⸺,” in another, “Particulars of my Interview with the Lord Chancellor.” In the very middle of the volume, “A Narrative of my Boyish Days till I went to the University.” This last, as far as it goes, seems the only portion of the manuscript, in which any thing like chronological order was observed.
In the hurry of the sale, by some accident or other, this Common-place-book was disregarded, which may in some degree be accounted for from the following circumstance:—Our friend wrote a miserable hand; the rapidity to which he accustomed himself, made his manuscript almost illegible. On this subject he would often tell many facetious stories of himself and his printer. On one occasion he was grievously tormented by a devil, at the moment of his being helped to a second slice of venison, (for he loved good eating) who came with two large sheets of copy to beg that he would put dots to his i’s. At another time, he was seriously remonstrated with by his printer, a very worthy and primitive sort of man, for being the cause of more profane swearing in the printing-office, than is usually heard at Billingsgate.—“Sir,” exclaimed the honest printer, “the moment copy from you is divided among the compositors, volley succeeds volley, as rapidly and as loudly as in one of Lord Nelson’s victories.” Our friend shook his head, but he was incorrigible. To return to the auction. Several of the company took this said Common-place-book into their hands, but as instantly laid it down again in despair. One person indeed rather maliciously asked if it was Arabic. At length it was put up; nobody bade a sixpence, till a sly old man from one corner of the room who having known the author, recognized his hand writing exclaimed, “I will give a dollar for the chance of making out something.” It is superfluous to say, that there was no competition. The old gentleman carried off his bargain without molestation or envy. It was a long time before he could make an iota of his purchase, nor would he perhaps at all, if accident had not thrown him in the way of our friend the printer. This good man recollected, with no small delight, the Shibboleth (if such a term may be used to an autograph) of his old but tormenting acquaintance. They accordingly put their heads together, and the Reader is here presented with the result of their joint but continued labour. Labour indeed it might be called, for Porson would sooner have unravelled an Ethiopic inscription, than they were by much exertion, able to decypher a sheet of this abominable manuscript. They succeeded at length.
It is by no means intended on their parts to vouch for the entire authenticity of every fact, and anecdote, and circumstance, which these pages unfold. They however profess, and the printer more particularly, such a general confidence in the veracity of their old acquaintance, as to believe that there is no intentional misrepresentation, nor any thing set down in malice. Above all, the most remote idea of inflicting a wound on any person, who may survive to see some slight designation of themselves, is earnestly and emphatically disclaimed.
Exultat levitate puer.
CHAPTER II.
The only part of the manuscript, at all Egotistical, is the narrative of boyish days, which has the appearance of being drawn up for the amusement of some intimate friend. It commences thus:—
“I will give the earliest information of myself, that I can remember; and as I have no motive for misrepresentation, the accuracy of my narrative need not be questioned.
One of the earliest things I recollect of myself is, that I had a certain pruriency of parts, which induced my friends to suppose, that there was something in me, beyond the ordinary level of boys of my age. I fear, however, that the harvest did not correspond with the promise of the spring; or rather, perhaps, that the partiality of parents and relatives, was in the first instance delusive. This, however, was not their fault, for they certainly bestowed upon me the best education, which their means and opportunities afforded. Of the first schools to which I was put, I remember very little; I fear that I did not learn much: at length I was told that I was to go to a Latin school. I retain the strong impression, that this intelligence electrified my whole frame. A train was laid to my ambition, and I already conceived myself at the very summit of literary honour and distinction. But I was bitterly disappointed; my instructor knew nothing of the matter: he began at the wrong end, and I was plunged into the midst of a crabbed Latin author, without even knowing my accidence, for a time, however, I kept blundering on; conscious to myself, that I was making no progress, and having credit with my master for a large portion of dulness. How long this misuse of valuable hours might have continued, I cannot say; not improbably till I had arrived at the dignity of pounding a mortar, spreading plasters, and compounding medicines. Accident at length removed me to a wider, a fairer, and more promising field. I must however do myself the justice of declaring, that on since looking round me, in a circle not extremely limited, I have never been able to recognize any of the individuals, in whose society I dogs-eared the Colloquies of Corderius, and bewildered myself in the Fables of Phædrus.
An opportunity presented itself of removing me to a remote province, where good education, good air, and kind treatment, came recommended under the sanction of a desireable economy. My hopes expanded, and my ardour increased. I loved my parents, dearly loved them; but I had a certain portion of ambition, which stimulated me to the attempt of rising above the situation in which circumstances had placed me, and I had discernment enough to see, that this could not be done by remaining where I was. I left home therefore with many golden and flattering dreams, and I arrived at the place of my destination, when the Midsummer vacation was about half expended. I had an imposing sprightliness of manner, and a conciliating good humour. The first obtained me a credit which I did not deserve, the latter procured the kindness which as a stranger, I wanted. On being questioned as to what I had read, it appeared that I was seemingly familiar with various books, which intimate a considerable advancement in knowledge. The master predicted that I should be a feather in his cap; my dame was certain that I should cut a figure.