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Memoirs of the Rev. Samuel Parr
Ch IX. 1816-1820

Ch. I. 1747-1752
Ch. II. 1752-1761
Ch. III. 1761-1765
Ch. IV. 1765-1766
Ch. V. 1767-1771
Ch. VI. 1771
Ch. VII. 1771-1776
Ch. VIII. 1771-1776
Ch. IX. 1776-1777
Ch. X. 1779-1786
Ch. XI. 1779-1786
Ch. XII. 1779-1786
Ch. XIII. 1780-1782
Ch. XIV. 1786-1789
Ch. XV. 1786-1790
Ch. XVI. 1776-1790
Ch. XVII. 1787
Ch. XVIII. 1789
Ch. XIX. 1790-1792
Ch. XX. 1791-1792
Ch. XXI. 1791-1796
Ch. XXII. 1794-1795
Ch. XXIII. 1794
Ch. XXIV. 1794-1800
Ch. XXV. 1794-1800
Ch. XXVI. 1800-1803
Ch. XXVII. 1801-1803
Ch. XXVIII. 1800-1807
Vol. II Contents
Ch I. 1800-1807
Ch II. 1807-1810
Ch III. 1809
Ch IV. 1809-1812
Ch V. 1810-1813
Ch VI. 1811-1815
Ch VII. 1812-1815
Ch VIII. 1816-1820
‣ Ch IX. 1816-1820
Ch X. 1816-1820
Ch XI. 1816-1820
Ch XII. 1816-1820
Ch XIII. 1816-1820
Ch XIV. 1819
Ch XV. 1820-1821
Ch XVI. 1816-1820
Ch XVII. 1820-1824
Ch XVIII. 1820-1824
Ch XIX. 1820-1824
Ch XX. 1820-1825
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Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
A.D. 1816—1820.
Dr. Parr’s conversations—His gaiety and affability of manner—His powers of wit—Encouragement of modest merit—Kind consideration for inferior intellect—His colloquial harangues—His contempt of assuming ignorance—Horror of profane ridicule—Dislike of punning—Occasional severity of censure.

With the convivial pleasures, in which he so much delighted, Dr. Parr never failed to intermingle those of the intellectual kind, by the exertion of the extraordinary colloquial powers, with which he was gifted. Sincere, frank, kind, cheerful, and social, to him no joys of life were greater than those of free, interesting, animated conversation; in which learning disdains not to relax its brow, and to associate with gaiety and mirth; and in which grave discussion refuses not to admit the enlivening influence of the amusing tale or the merry jest. “The vigour of my animal spirits,” he said of himself, “and the love I have for social intercourse, rarely permit me, when in company, to sit in sullen silence, or to keep a gloomy and watchful reserve, or to affect that pompous solemnity which some men assume, who wish the copiousness and solidity of their ideas to be estimated in a direct proportion to the paucity and feebleness of their words.”1

1 Reply to Combe, p. 71.

He was always, indeed, easy of access, prompt to reply, and forward to communicate. He told a story well; loved sportive wit; admired a spirited retort, even when directed against himself; and was always the first to catch the smile of pleasantry, and never the last to join in the roar of laughter.

When the company consisted of those only whom he knew and respected, and especially of those whose sentiments on the great subjects of religion and politics were congenial with his own; his conversation, released from all restraint, was truly delightful, and often highly instructive; abounding in acute and powerful observations, happily or forcibly expressed, in pleasing or striking illustration, in bold and brilliant repartee, and in well-drawn characters and curious anecdotes of distinguished men of his own or of former times. The topics were not always started by himself; he willingly followed at any time the lead of others; and taking up almost any subject suggested by them, he made it his own, and seldom failed to excite the admiration of all present, by the extent and accuracy of his information, and by the justness, the reasonableness, the strong sense, and often the deep reflection, which distinguished almost all his opinions. One,1 who was aided by his instructions in youth, and guided by his advice in maturer age, and who always listened to him with the profoundest attention, in a letter to the writer, thus describes the effect produced on his mind:—“There were times,

1 Joseph Parkes, Esq., author of “History of the Court of Chancery.”

when the wisdom of his conversation excited in me the idea of nothing less than the inspiration of which we read in certain holy books.”—“Et alta et divina quadam mente præditus.”

“Though I have met many, if not most of my countrymen distinguished for literature or science,” says Dr. Gooch, “I have seldom heard any thing equal to, and never any thing more striking than his conversation. It was spirited—often vehement—it surpassed the rest of the company, more in quality than in quantity; for while it was sufficiently distinguished by the value of the thought, or the felicity of the expression, there was never that everlasting flow, which sometimes overlays and smothers conversation. When he said any thing striking, it was accompanied by a dictatorial manner, an uplifted arm, and a loud voice; but you could perceive an under expression of humour, as if he was conscious, and meant it to be understood, that it was a piece of acting. In his opinions, there was a simplicity, a common sense, a dislike of refinement and paradox, which I was not prepared for: they were the sentiments of a man of good sense, sometimes very simply, sometimes very strikingly expressed.”1

Before strangers he was often reserved; and though seldom silent, was cautious, on such occasions, in the choice both of his topics, and of the language which he employed in discussing them. “I do not allow myself,” said he, “to converse upon every subject to which I have attended, before every man whom I meet.”2—“I quite

Blackwood’s Mag. Oct. 1825. 2 Reply to Combe, p. 72.

shrink,” he writes to a friend, “from the very thought of joining the large and promiscuous company, to which you invite me. This kind of society I have found, by experience, to be extremely inconvenient and unpleasant; and it would oblige me to submit to multiplied restraints, which prudence instructs me, in such company, to put upon my conversation.” To another invitation, not perfectly agreeable to him, which came from a lady, he thus writes in reply, with good humour smiling through his anger:—“Dear
H—, You have more than forty times heard me express my reluctance to meet strangers; and you must have frequently seen the inquietude I felt in their presence. However, I will come; and unless you, by your attempts at logic or at eloquence, put me into bad humour, I shall make a silent one, or a stupid one, of your party; or, if things go wrong, a bowing, and a soft-tongued, and a swift-removing guest. Dear H—, thou hast a demon, and art half-mad and quite bad; and so, farewell! Believe me, your angry friend, S. Parr.”—“To Mrs. ——, with Dr. Parr’s frowns.”

His learning, which was poured forth, so promptly and so copiously when required, Dr. Parr never suffered, on ordinary occasions, to appear at all; and the littleness of pedantry is, in no degree, to be imputed to him, in conversation at least, whatever may be said of his writings. He has been accused of speaking with too much complacency of himself; but such instances of vanity, never very frequent nor very obtrusive, may easily be pardoned in one, who could not be
unconscious of his own talents and acquirements; and who was perpetually receiving the tribute of their praise from writers of the greatest name, and from visitors and correspondents of the highest rank. Indeed, when he spoke of his learning, it was always as a claim, universally admitted; and to which, therefore, it was entirely unnecessary to assert his pretensions. There were, besides, a sincerity and a frankness in his very nature, which seemed to scorn disguise, and to spurn at the common restraints of propriety and decorum. Whatever emotions were strongly excited within, he was sure to express, especially when surrounded by his friends, with all the simplicity and openheartedness of a child; and, no doubt, he sometimes gave utterance, too inconsiderately, though not often very offensively, to the exultings of self-estimation, which most men endeavour to conceal from others, though all acknowledge to themselves. But if he did occasionally speak of his own powers of mind, and of his stores of intellectual wealth; at other times, throwing a glance over the vast field of human inquiry, he would say, with unaffected humility, that what he knew was nothing compared with what he knew not. When receiving the compliments, which his literary celebrity so often called forth, he has frequently declared, that it was not, so much, on that account that he valued himself, as on his solicitude to carry the high moral principles, which he admired, into the conduct of life.

He has been charged with the fault of talking too much, and leaving no room for others to speak.
But this is not much to be wondered at, and little to be complained of; when it is considered that those who gathered round him came for the very purpose of hearing him converse, and were seldom disposed to talk more than was necessary to keep the stream of conversation full and flowing.

If his manner, acquired in the long exercise of scholastic authority, was too dictatorial, yet it was not often over-bearing; and there was not an atom in his temper either of harshness, or of moroseness, or of contemptuousness. He rarely employed the keenness of his wit, or the caustic powers of his language for the purposes of annoyance; and he was seldom provoked to angry severity, and yet more rarely to scornful derision, except by presuming ignorance, by prating dulness, or, above all, by censorious bigotry. “I am far more addicted,” he said of himself,1 “to anger than to contempt. But if my censures are severe, I hope that my commendations are more frequent, and no less forcible. I am sure, too, that I have much oftener had reason to repent of my precipitation in praise, than of my injustice in reproach. Against the babble of conceited sciolists—against the clamours of saucy pretenders—against the decisions of pompous and officious dogmatists, I do indulge contempt.” When such he met, then, indeed, he did not spare; nor rested till he had laid his adversary prostrate, or compelled him to submissive silence.

But in all other cases, he was kind and condescending even to men of the humblest intellect. He delighted to discover, and to bring into notice,

1 Reply to Combe, p. 20.

modest worth; and always applauded generously, and sometimes lavishly, what he thought worthy of praise. Instead of exposing, it was much oftener observed that he patiently corrected, the mistakes of the ill-informed, or the ill-judging; and so far from taking advantage of the hesitation or confusion by which some men of good sense, in explaining their ideas, embarrass themselves, or perplex and distress others, he would come promptly to their aid, seize instantly their meaning, and clothe it in clear and intelligible language, with some such prefatory words as these—“This is what you mean;” or, “Now, you should put it thus.”1

In the same spirit of kind consideration for others, when he saw a man, perhaps, of strong sense and of real worth, but of few words, hard pressed by another in conversation, he would fly, in the moment of difficulty, to his relief. As an instance, it is related that when Mr. C——, a man sparingly endued with diction, was pushed in argument beyond his strength, by the celebrated Sir James Mackintosh, Dr. Parr interposed, and rescued the weaker from the grasp of the stronger adversary. “Ah!” said Sir James, “it was a rescue, like that of Virgil’s Æneas by a cloud; but it was a cloud of words.” On another occasion, when the same powerful disputant was engaged in a colloquial contest, to which he was more than equal. Dr. Parr again interposed; observing, “Friend I—cannot talk you down, Jemmy; but he can think you down, Jemmy.”

His stores of biographical and literary anecdotes

1 New Monthly Mag. May, 1826.

were abundant; and, in relating them, dialogue and narrative were agreeably blended, in a manner peculiarly his own. Though he delighted most in the easy careless flow of unrestrained conversation; yet sometimes his discourse would take the form of a set harangue, extended to considerable length, and delivered with oratorical effect. Of this an instance occurs to the writer’s recollection. He was dining some years ago at Hatton, in company with several clergymen; and among them was an Irish dignitary, who talked long and loudly of “our excellent church,” of “our venerable establishment;” in whose fair face, it should seem, he could discover “neither spot nor wrinkle, nor any such thing.”

Having suffered him to run the whole length of his line, with no other interruption but a smile, now and then, of pity, or a frown, sometimes, of displeasure, Dr. Parr rose at length from his seat; and, after puffing in clouds for a moment or two, laid down his pipe—then resting one arm on the table, and enforcing all he said, by the ponderous movements of the other, he broke out into a vehement declamation on the state of the church—painting in glaring colours the grievances under which “it was sick, though, he hoped, not dying”—especially in the unequal distribution of its revenues—in the mysticism of some parts of its creed—in the absurdity of some of its articles—in the servile spirit, too prevalent both among its higher and lower clergy—and in their obstinate resistance to the most reasonable and desirable improvements. He insisted that the church was
fast losing ground, both in the esteem of the more reflecting part, and in the affections of the great body of the community. “Unitarians,” said he, “multiply and calmly persevere. Methodists multiply, and rage and swagger. High churchmen hate both and abuse both; and deny the necessity of reforming themselves.”—“The church is in danger. I own it,” said he, “but let them look to it who have brought it on; and who will not adopt the only method for saving us.”—“Reform,” cried he, roaring out with a voice that literally thundered, and assuming an attitude which seemed to defy all contradiction—“Reform! I say, is the only safety for our church. As sure as the uprooted tree must bend, or the tower undermined must bow—so surely our church must fall, unless it be refixed in the good opinion of the people.” Then turning to the reverend dignitary, “Sir,” said he, “I give you your choice—reform? or ruin?”—“and mark my words, within twenty years, that choice, which ever it be, must take effect.” He concluded with giving as a toast, “The Church of England and Ireland! may it be delivered from all its enemies, and from undistinguishing admirers and extravagant encomiasts—of all its enemies the worst!”

That Dr. Parr was highly and sometimes fiercely indignant, when encountered by ignorance, talking with the confidence of knowledge, or folly aping the air of wisdom, must be known to all who have heard of him. The following instances are within the recollection of many of his friends.

He was insisting upon the importance of discipline, established on a wise system, and enforced
with a steady hand, in schools, in colleges, in the navy, in the army—when he was suddenly and somewhat rudely interrupted by a young officer, who had just received his commission, and was not a little proud of his blushing honours. “What, sir,” said he, “do you mean to apply that word discipline to the officers of the army! It may be well enough for the privates.”—“Yes, sir, I do,” was the stern reply; “it is discipline makes the scholar—it is discipline makes the soldier—it is discipline makes the gentleman—and the want of discipline has made you—what you are.” To another young man, by whom he had been much annoyed, he said, “Sir, your tongue goes to work before your brain; and when your brain does work, it generates nothing but error and absurdity.” To a third, who was one of bold and forward, but ill-supported pretensions, he said, “B—, you have read little—thought less—and know nothing.”

It happened in a large company that the question was proposed to him, and urgently pressed upon him, why he had not published more?—or something more worthy of his fame? The expressions of surprise and regret, which went round the company, he bore with perfect good humour; till at length a young scholar, jestingly, perhaps, but somewhat pertly, called to him—“Suppose, Dr. Parr, you and I were to write a book together?”—“Young man,” he replied, “if all were to be written in that book which I do know, and which you do not know, it would be a very large book indeed!”


Even ladies were not spared, who incurred his displeasure, either by pertinacious adherence to the wrong in opinion, or by deficiency of attention to the right and the amiable in conduct. To one, who had violated, as he thought, some of the little rules of propriety, he said—“Madam, your father was a gentleman, and I thought that his daughter might have been a lady.” To another, who had held out in argument against him, not very powerfully, and rather too perseveringly, and who had closed the debate by saying—“Well! Dr. Parr, I still maintain my opinion;” he replied—“Madam, you may, if you please, retain your opinion, but you cannot maintain it.” To another, who had also ventured to oppose him, with more warmth of temper than cogency of reasoning, and who afterwards apologised for herself, by saying, “that it is the privilege of women to talk nonsense.”—“No, madam,” replied Dr. Parr, “it is not their privilege, but their infirmity. Ducks would walk if they could; but nature suffers them only to waddle.”

Though a decided and ardent politician, Dr. Parr was seldom betrayed into the injustice of denying the real merits of those, to whom he was opposed; or of rejecting the fair palliations, of which their political delinquencies may, in many cases, admit: yet he was sometimes severe in his remarks upon public men, and especially upon those, who, in deserting their party, incur the suspicion of base dereliction of principle, even in despite of their own claim of acting from honest change of opinion.


Of a living senator of high powers and attainments, who had been guilty of some great errors, both in his public and private conduct, he said, “He is one of the most intellectual of God’s creatures; but one half of his mind is employed in giving effect to his villany, and the other half in finding a shelter for it.”—Describing the eloquence of a great orator and statesman, now no more, he said, “It was at best but a plausible and popular eloquence, which glitters with puerile points, which swells with tumid insignificance, which carries its bombast almost to frenzy, and mistakes the rash for the sublime.”—Of another orator, still more recently deceased, undoubtedly the greatest of his time, Dr. Parr thought—that his style of speaking marked, too much, on some occasions, the declaimer from the schools, and, on others, the wrangler from the bar: and lamenting over his eloquence, when too often employed, as it once was, in giving speciousness to error, and the semblance of justice to wrong, he said to a friend—“Sir, his speeches are froth—sometimes sugared froth—sometimes peppered froth; but froth always!”

If there was one offence, more than another, which excited in Dr. Parr’s mind feelings of disgust and disdain, it was petulant remark, or indecent wit, or vulgar abuse, directed towards religious subjects. He would listen, with candid attention, to calm and sober reasoning, even though pointed against the most sacred principles of natural or revealed religion; but with no patience could he bear “the effrontery of the libertine, the
arrogance of the scoffer, or the impiety of the blasphemer.” How he felt upon such occasions, he has himself told in the following passage:—

“I have met with several persons, who were ready enough to confess, and even eager to avow and defend, their infidelity. I must acknowledge that their language, in my presence, at least, was decorous; and that their aim, as it appeared to me, was rather to vanquish by disputation, than to insult by profaneness. The yell of blasphemy never assailed my ears from more than one human voice, and that voice has long been silenced by death. Firmly, but not in the gall of bitterness, I bestowed upon the defender the discipline he deserved, for a most unprovoked outrage; and I have often thought it was well that a table stood between us; for he had the grim visage of a ruffian; and his hands, I know, had been imbued in the blood of a fellow-creature. Ειδως αύτν το ονομα, says an old writer, ουχ επιμνησθήσομαι. But I am glad he was not an Englishman.”1

Once being in company with a young man of noble family, of much kindness of temper, and excellence of general character, but who had suffered himself, in an unguarded moment, to indulge his pleasantry at the expense of his better feelings, and had proposed to him, with an air of laughing levity, that question—“whether he thought, the cross on the back of the ass was really occasioned by our Saviour’s riding on that animal into Jerusalem?”—Dr. Parr instantly replied, with knit brow and raised voice—“Mr. S. D., it would be

1 Spital Sermon, p. 91.

well if you had a little more of the cross, and a little less of the ass!”

Some years ago, Dr. Parr was passing a few days with an old pupil, an eminent barrister, at his house in Staffordshire, when it happened that another visiting inmate was the celebrated H. C., Esq., a brother barrister. One day, a large company were invited to dinner, consisting, amongst others, of several neighbouring clergymen; of whom one was fresh from college, just initiated into holy orders, and strangely ignorant, or strangely forgetful of the little proprieties which regulate social intercourse, at least in the higher circles. This young ecclesiastic, whether conceitedly, for the purpose of display, or unseasonably, if with a view of gaining information, proposed to Dr. Parr question after question, on subjects of theology, much to the offence of the great divine, who exceedingly disliked the introduction of such topics in mixed companies, at festival entertainments. Not, however, deterred by the evident displeasure, with which his questions were received, or rather repulsed, he still persisted; and, among other inquiries, pressed, with peculiar earnestness, for an answer to the following:—“Whether Mahomet had ever seen the Christian Scriptures?” “Sir,” answered Dr. Parr, coldly and tauntingly, “I have not the pleasure of Mahomet’s acquaintance.”—“But,” resumed the querist, “Dr. Parr, do you think that Mahomet had seen only a false gospel, and the epistle falsely ascribed to Barnabas?”—“Sir, I have not the honour of knowing Mr. Barnabas either,” re-
plied Dr. Parr, with increased sternness of accent and manner. But, nothing daunted even by this rebuff, the young inquisitive returned once more to the charge:—“Excuse me, Dr. Parr; but let me ask you, do you think that Mahomet had ever seen a true gospel or not?”—“Sir,” answered Dr. Parr, greatly irritated, “if you will draw my teeth, why, then, to save my dinner, I must say that I think Mahomet had never seen a true gospel.”—“And pray,” said Mr. C., who had been looking on, watching, perhaps, with a little spiteful pleasure the old lion, vexed and chafed by the teazing buzz of the insect, calling out from the corner of the table where he sat—“And pray, Dr. Parr, did you ever see a true gospel?”

Unprepared for this new and sudden attack, Dr. Parr seemed for a moment confounded; and the attention of the whole company was anxiously directed towards him. But soon recovering himself, and rising from his seat, with an imposing air of dignity, and with a commanding voice of authority, he spoke thus:—“H. C., if you had ever seen a true gospel, you could not have understood the learned language in which it is written; and if you had seen that true gospel, and could have understood that learned language, you could not have comprehended the sublime character it delineates, or the pure morals it inculcates; and if you could have read that true gospel, and comprehended that sublime character, and those pure morals; yet, to shelter your own bad propensities and habits, you would have struggled hard to prove the character a fiction, and the morals a falsehood!”
It scarcely need be added, that all present were struck with mingled awe and admiration; the bold assailant was abashed, and sunk into silence, from which, during the evening, he could not recover; and after indulging in his usual deep potations, he was carried off senseless to his bed.

The following anecdote is told by one of Dr. Parr’s pupils:—Of flippancy of remark on religious subjects he was highly impatient. He once, in my hearing, rebuked Mr. F——, a barrister, in good set terms. This gentleman had somewhat inconsiderately observed, that it was human authority which had put the seal of authenticity on the books of Scriptures; and that the councils of Trent and Nice had decided which were apocryphal, and which were not so. Dr. Parr with some difficulty heard him to the end of his sentence; when, after a most ominous puff from his pipe, he addressed him nearly in these words: “Mr. Frith, or Mr. Forth, or Mr. Froth—excuse me if I forget your name—I have not the honour of your acquaintance; and the specimen you have just given of your theological knowledge does not make me highly ambitious of it. Sir, give me leave to tell you, that you are as far from correct chronology in your remark, as you are from right reasoning. These two councils, which sat at widely remote periods of time, had nothing to do with the distinction of books, as at present received into our church. It arose from the consent of the early Christians, and is built upon the authority of the ancient fathers. You have given an opinion upon a subject which you ought not to have approached;
and have betrayed ignorance without modesty, and pedantry without learning. Leave these matters to maturer knowledge and sounder understandings. This advice I honestly give you. In the words of
Lucretius I will enforce it:
Ne mea dona, tibi studio disposta fideli,
Intellecta priusquam sint, contempta relinquas.”1

Of all the species of wit, punning was one which Dr. Parr disliked, and in which he seldom indulged; and yet some instances of it have been related. Reaching a book from a high shelf in his library, two other books came tumbling down; of which one, a critical work of Lambert Bos, fell upon the other, which was a volume of Hume, “See!” said he, “what has happened—procumbit humi bos.”—On another occasion, sitting in his room, suffering under the effects of a slight cold, when too strong a current was let in upon him, he cried out, “Stop! stop! that is too much. I am at present only par levibus ventis.” At another time, a gentleman having asked him to subscribe to Dr. Busby’s translation of Lucretius, he declined to do so, saying it would cost too much money; it would indeed be “Lucretius carus.”

Speaking of this play upon words, he said that it betrays an intrinsic poverty in the language which easily admits it; and that the richest language, the Greek, was the least susceptible of it. That language was, he remarked, so copious, as to supply words for almost every shade or variety of thought, so as not often to require the use of the same word in different senses. Not, he added,

1 Luc. lib. i. 1. 47.

that there are no Greek puns. There are many, he said, in Aristæus, and some in
Aristophanes. He instanced one in Ælian, which he thought tolerable. A loquacious traveller had been talking much of himself, and had tired every one present with his accounts of countries which he had traversed, and of places which he had visited, when a Grecian lady interposed, by observing that though he had just come from the Hellespont, there was one place, however, on that coast, in which it was plain he had never been. “What is that?” he demanded eagerly; “Sigæum”1 was the answer; and the equivoque silenced him.2

If he was not displeased with this instance of an ancient, the following instance of a modern Greek pun extorted from him applause. He had been engaged in a warm debate with “his acute and learned friend,” as he describes him, Mr. Payne Knight, who gained a considerable advantage over him, and said something by which he was so irritated, that he exclaimed, “Sir, this is not fair argument: it is downright impudence.”—“True, Doctor,” said Mr. Knight, “the Greek word for it is Παρρησία.” In an instant, all his ill-humour disappeared. He was not only appeased, but delighted; and shaking his antagonist by the hand, cried out, “A fair retort! Sir, I forgive you! I forgive you!” and then laughed heartily.3

From the dignity of literary or other important discussions, he was never unwilling, especially on

1 In the Greek σιγη, which signifies silence.

2 New Monthly Mag. Dec. 1826.

3 Ibid. Aug. 1826.

joining the ladies in the drawing-room, to descend to the level of ordinary conversation, on any little topics of the day or the place; delighting every one by the kindness and affability of his manner, and communicating to all the effects of his own gaiety and good-humour. Even on children he often bestowed his attention, and was glad to amuse and interest them, by some striking remark or pleasing story. He had a custom of sometimes taking them in his arms, and pronouncing over them a sort of benediction, apparently accompanied by a mental prayer, as if in their behalf.

The following note in reply to a much-esteemed friend, who often invited him to enjoy the pleasures of a social pipe, in a room of his house, of which he was fond, shows how much he was pleased with easy unrestrained interchange of thoughts on any or all the little occurrences of common and daily life:—

“My friend,—What you said to me about the smoking-cell vibrated to my very heart, as worthy of the kindness which, for many years, and upon many subjects, you had professed, and you had felt, and you had practically manifested towards myself. Yes, into the little room, of which you spoke so courteously, I will come: talk unreservedly, cheerfully, and abundantly upon any thing or nothing; and fumigate the ceiling, from the hot, and copious, and fragrant exhalations of my pipe.”

The gay delight with which he always met company, and his desire that all should truly enjoy themselves, on such occasions, appear in the following note of invitation to a friend:—


“Dear Mrs. Edwards,—Do your duty on Monday. Bring your husband to dinner. Listen to Dr. B— about good, sound orthodoxy; to Mr. M— about the virtues of jalap and Leamington waters; to Mr. K— about the mysteries of oriental mythology, theology, and theogony; and to Dr. Parr, thin B—, and Jack B—, about any thing or nothing. You may also talk scandal or love, or both, with seven-petticoated bipeds. Farewell.—S. P.”