Animus quod perdidit optat,
Atque in præterita se totus imagine versat.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Our Sexagenarian knew and saw Lord ⸺ much and often, both before and after he came to the title, the accession to which (whatever and however just may have been the imputation on his vanity) most assuredly was a vexation to him rather than a pleasure. The first introduction of the parties in question to each other, was at one of those evening parties, contemptuously denominated Blue Stocking Club. There was really nothing in these assemblies to provoke or justify contempt, for they in fact consisted of a considerable number of very accomplished persons of both sexes, and except that the entertainment was confined to conversation, with the occasional introduction of music, they were cheerful, interesting, and the vehicle of circulating much curious information on subjects of literature and science. The principal persons were Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Montague, Horace Walpole, Sir Charles Blagden, the Miss Baillies, Lady Louisa Macdonald, the Miss Berries, Lady Herries, Mrs. John Hunter, the two Messrs. Lysons, Mr. (now Sir Everard) Home, Aleppo Russel, and a great many other very considerable persons both as to rank and talent. One of the principal houses of resort for these meetings, was John Hunter’s, and the old Philosopher himself occasionally mingled with the party, and enjoyed the social conversation.
The first place, however, was, by a sort of common consent, whenever he appeared among them, which was very often, assigned to H⸺ W⸺. He well deserved the distinction, on such occasions at least. His resources of anecdote were inexhaustible; his mode of communicating what he knew, was easy, gracious, and elegant, as can be imagined. He was the last of the old school, after the death of the venerable Earl Bathurst, who, when he left the world, seems not to have had a surviving friend, to record his various talents and accomplishments. Yet Lord Bathurst was a nobleman of no ordinary attainments, of admirable taste, acute discernment, and great learning. When in the decline of life, and his sight began to fail him, his relation and chaplain, the present Bishop of Norwich, used to read the classics to him. The Bishop is known to be an excellent scholar, yet Lord Bathurst would every now and then stop him, and say, “Harry, you read that passage as if you did not understand it; let me hear you read it again.” He would then, with the greatest precision, explain any difficulty which might have occurred, and was pleased with the opportunity of communicating what he knew.
The reader, it is hoped, will excuse this digression in favour of a great and good man; but it is time to return to H⸺ W⸺.
As far as verbal communication went, or communication of what he retained in his memory, availed, all his stores were at the service of literary men, and many of our modern popular books owe much of their zest and interest to this sort of assistance received from Lord ⸺. Among others, Pennant’s London was very particularly indebted to his “Reminiscences.” The Messrs. Lysons will doubtless not deny their obligations of a similar kind, nor Mr. Nichols; nor would the late Mr. Gough, nor Michael Lort, nor Michael Tyson, nor a great many others. Further than such communication, with perhaps the exception of a scanty dinner at Strawberry-hill, there is no instance on record of his liberality having proceeded. He certainly was proud of being considered as a sort of patron of literature, and a friend to literary men, but he did not choose to purchase the pre-eminence at a higher price than a little flattery and praise, and a pudding neither over large nor over solid.
Here two anecdotes occur not to be forgotten. Upon one occasion, a gentleman of no small literary distinction, who had a sort of general invitation to his Villa, was induced by a fine summer morning to pay his respects to Lord O. On his arrival, he was kindly greeted, and invited to stay and dine. The invitation was accepted. The noble Lord rang his bell, and on the appearance of his Swiss, enquired what there was for dinner. “Hashed mutton, my Lord,” was the reply. “Let there be hashed mutton for two, as Mr. ⸺ is to dine with me.” In a very short time, the Swiss returned with a long face—“My Lord, there is only hashed mutton for one.” The visitor made his apologies, engaged to come again at a more favourable opportunity, and left T⸺m impransus.—N. B. His Lordship’s servants were always on board-wages.
The other anecdote is not much less whimsical, and this relates to the writer himself.
On his first invitation to dinner with his Lordship, he accompanied Mr. K. There were no other guests. The Sexagenarian presumed that he should for once enjoy the luxury of a splendid dinner, and prepared himself accordingly. Dinner was served, when to the poor author’s astonishment, one dish only smoked upon the noble board, and that too, as ill luck would have it, was a species of fish not very agreeable to the palate of the guest. He waited, however, in patience, and the fish was succeeded by a leg of mutton. Wae worth the man, who, in the pride and naughtiness of his heart, presumes to say any thing to the disparagement of a leg of mutton. The author, however, thought that he might have leg of mutton at home, and taking it for granted, that at a nobleman’s table, a second course would succeed, where there would be some tit-bit to pamper his appetite, he was very sparingly helped. Alas! nothing else made its appearance. “Well then,” exclaimed the disappointed visitor, “I must make up with cheese.” His Lordship did not eat cheese. So to the great amusement of his companion, the poor author returned hungry, disconcerted, and half angry. He was, however, regaled on his arrival in Russel-street with a roast duck.